Excerpt of Raptor 6 by Ronie Kendig

Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Present Day He sucked in a hard breath. Fabric drew against his nostrils. Hot. Can’t breathe. No air! He thrashed, searching for freedom, for air. . . I’m going to die! At the thought, he jerked. Where am I? A bounce smacked his head against something hard. Metal. Captain Dean Watters groaned. Opened his eyes. But couldn’t see. The meaty rumble of an engine warned him he was in a vehicle. The tail of one by the roaring sound and steel digging into his shoulder. The way his breath coiled back at him told him he had a hood over his face. Mouth taped. Hands taped. Feet—he tested his leg— taped. Get out or die! Dean kicked. Tendons strained against his effort. Brakes squealed. Gravity shifted and tugged him. Rounding a corner. Again the engine roared. Where are they taking me? Where’s Z? Recollection swarmed him in a thick cloud of defeat. She’d walked out.Willingly. He couldn’t blame her.They’d been through the fires of hell and back since they were captured. The enemy had broken her. Gotten into her head and convinced her that helping them was the smart choice. A sudden lurch made him slide. Hands pawed at him as shouts erupted. He was lifted. . . . The truck bounced. Gravity pulled him left again—another corner. The truck must’ve turned. Then spinning. . . Still blind and bound, Dean felt himself flying. Through the air. Unrestrained. He tensed, no idea where he’d land. What he’d hit. Or in what. And he prayed—begged—God to let him live. He had to live. Had to find her. Down. . .down. . . Crack! He landed with a thud. White-hot fire shot through his shoulder and arm. He groaned around the tape over his mouth. Shoved aside the pain, reoriented himself. Brightness speared his eyes. Specks of light glittered through the thick fabric. He scrambled to his knees, desperate to know where they’d dumped him. A siren wailed. Shouts. He knew those sounds, the shouts. The base. His captors had thrown him at the gate of the base. Armed with that knowledge, he remained still. Anything to let those with the weapons know he wasn’t a threat. “Stay where you are! Hands in the air. Hands. In. The. Air!” The command came in English, Pashto, Dari, then Farsi. Boots shuffled closer, along with more shouts to get his arms up. One service member came very close. It took everything in Dean not to move. One wrong twitch, and they’d put him down like a sick dog. A beam of light struck him. So much like the light torture. The light vanished. “Dude’s tied up.” The voice was right over Dean. “Hold up.” “Careful,” came another voice. “He could be rigged.” Right. Why hadn’t Dean thought of that before? Am I? Mentally, he patted himself down but felt nothing strapped to him. Whoosh! Glaring white seared his corneas. He grimaced and ducked. Dean squinted rapidly, trying to force his eyes to readjust. A Marine frowned at him as several others gathered around, business ends of their weapons aimed at Dean’s head. The lead Marine pointed to the tape as if asking permission. Dean nodded and his body swayed. He jerked straight. Then his body pulled him backward. Dizzy. . .so dizzy. The Marine ripped off the tape. After a moment of prickling fire, Dean stretched his jaw. “Watters. . .” Breathe. “He needs water!” a grunt shouted. “No.” Dean shook his head. Wet his lips, which tasted of salt and blood. “Watters, Dean. . . Patrick. . .captain.” His vision was ghosting. “Four f–four—” His body surrendered.