The inside of his mouth turned to sand-blown desert.
Taking a deep breath and cringing against the anticipated agony of his dislocated shoulders, he moved. Pain shrieked through him, but not the pain he’d expected.
What the hell? He hurt everywhere—not just his shoulders. His hands weren’t even bound behind his back.
Something had changed. But why? He’d been in this hell called Mahjidastan so long he’d lost count of the days. The predictability, the inevitability, had become as torturous as the pain and fear.
He carefully lifted his head, which hurt like a sonofabitch. Taking a cautious breath, he coughed.
Dirt, mildew, old wood—completely different from the stink of urine and camel dung he’d expected. This wasn’t Mahjidastan, the tiny disputed province in the region where Afghanistan, Pakistan and China joined.
He opened his eyes. Not easy. They were matted with dried blood and caked with dust. Blinking and wincing as he stretched his sore neck tendons, he lifted his head again, even more cautiously this time, and looked around.
Slowly, his brain gathered up his scattered, disorganized memories.
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