So he crept up the hill, carefully. Listening for the screams he sometimes heard at night. But on this morning, everything was silent. It gave him the nerve to continue.
The tunnel opening was dark. Almost black. The only hint of light was somewhere up ahead, cast by a single bulb that hung from the ceiling. He listened for voices but heard none. The cave was quiet, peaceful. The only sound was the occasional crunch of stone under his feet—and even that was just a whisper. The lone thing that stood out to him was the smell. The air was thick with it, filled with the putrid odor that reminded him of a hunting trip he once took with his dad.
The first chamber was unlike anything he had ever seen. Much of the floor and some of the walls were dripping with blood. Not smeared with it, but actually leaking it. Like the earth had been gashed and was starting to bleed. He walked over to the closest wall and touched it. Ran his lingers through it. The light was faint, yet bright enough to prove he wasn’t imagining it.
His hand was now crimson. His face was now pale.
That was the moment he heard the voice. Initially, he thought he was just spooked by the liquid that covered his hand. Then he heard a second one. And a third. Voices emerging from the depths of the cave. Panicked, he turned to run outside but slipped on the slick floor. Soon his skin and clothes were covered in red—a color that saved his life.
He scampered to the far corner of the cave and curled into a tiny ball, partially hidden by a crevice in the rock, partially camouflaged by the blood. In the faint light, he was nearly invisible to the naked eye, especially since no one was looking for him. If they had been, they would have found him immediately. No doubt about it. The chamber was small and they were trained soldiers, but at that moment they assumed they were alone. It wasn’t until much later when they saw his footsteps that they realized their facility had been breached and their secret had been spilled. That’s when they were forced to invade the nearby village and kill everyone they found.
To them, their mission was too important to be derailed by sympathy.
From the back corner, Yong-Su saw four men as they approached the table and chair that were anchored to the middle of the floor. Each of them carried a small box. Each box was filled with three plastic bags. Each bag was filled with blood. The men laughed and joked as they punctured the bags with their knives and squirted the blood everywhere for the second time that day. On the floor. On the ceiling. On the walls. Bag after bag, squeeze after squeeze, until the cave glistened like a ruby in the faint light of the bulb.
There was no violence or torture on that final morning. Just a bunch of clever men who faked their own murders with bags of their own blood, liquid that had been collected over several days and stored in the cave.
DNA evidence that would prove their deaths while actually giving them life.
Payne excused himself from the interview and met Jones in private, both of them stunned by what they’d just heard. For the past two days, they were under the impression that Trevor Schmidt and his crew had been murdered inside the cave. Butchered and brutalized by some unknown group that was trying to rescue a terrorist. But now, thanks to the testimony of an eight-year-old boy, they knew the truth about the cave. Not only was Schmidt alive, but his team was probably responsible for the massacre in the village.
One minute Payne wanted to avenge his friend’s death. Now he wanted to kill him.
Payne said, “Schmidt was already running a black op. No one knew where he was or what he was doing. So why in the hell would he fake his own death?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say to hide from the man he was working for.”
“Colonel Harrington?”
Jones nodded. “Think back to our time with the MANIACs. We were given a lot of latitude when it came to our missions. If we didn’t report on time, no big deal. They came to expect that from us to a certain extent. But deep down inside, we knew there was a line we couldn’t cross. And if we did, they’d send someone after us—whether we wanted them to or not.”
“And Schmidt’s death erased that line.”
“No more Harrington. No more checking in. He’s a free man to do whatever he wants.”
“Which ain’t a good thing.”
“No, it’s not. One of my instructors at the Academy told me soldiers should fight for freedom but they shouldn’t have it. I never knew what he meant until I went overseas mid saw what happened when no one was watching.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Structure is in place for a reason. Commanding officers are there for a reason. Without them, a soldier like Schmidt is capable of doing a lot of damage.”