The Protector （Game of Chance, #1）
Susan Stoker
Prologue
Jackson “JJ” Justice closed his eyes and breathed shallowly through his nose, praying the pain would lessen. But it was a futile prayer. Their captors delighted in causing as much agony as they could.
Opening his eyes, JJ squinted to see his best friends and teammates chained to the walls around him. Riggs “Chappy” Chapman had his head resting against the cinder block wall and his eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep, JJ knew that without a doubt. No one slept in this hellhole. Not really.
Kendric “Bob” Evans was next to Chappy, staring over at their fourth teammate with grave concern.
Turning his attention to Callum “Cal” Redmon, JJ frowned. He had just been brought back to their cell after a “session” with their captors, and he didn’t look good at all. The assholes holding them hostage were thrilled when they’d realized his identity. Cal was an actual prince.
And as Cal had often said, the title itself was actually more exciting than reality, considering a couple dozen of his relatives would have to be killed or die before he came anywhere close to becoming king.
But that didn’t matter to the terrorists. They’d focused on Cal almost from the second the team had all been dragged unconscious into this cell. Currently, he was dripping from too many cuts on his body to count. He wore only a pair of boxers, making it easy to see just how horrible his latest torture session had been.
Their captors had focused on marring Cal’s formerly pristine flesh, using knives, cigarettes, and who the hell knew what else to carve into his skin. They used their fists on his face but preferred various torture implements for the rest of his body.
The men who’d captured them didn’t have an ounce of compassion, of course. When they’d tortured JJ, they’d laughed and jeered with every punch as their knives sliced into his skin. To their jailers, he and his teammates were less than human.
Looking around at his best friends, the three men who were literally his reason for continuing to fight to stay alive, JJ made an easy decision.
“When we get out of here, I’m done,” he said fervently. His voice was low so as not to alert their captors that they were awake and talking. He knew keeping the four of them chained in the same room—so each could see the torture the others were enduring—was part of the sick mind game the assholes were playing.
Little did they know, keeping them together only strengthened his team rather than making them weaker.
When no one spoke, JJ went on. “I’m serious. We all knew this mission was doomed from the very start. We didn’t have the backup we should’ve, the intel was practically nonexistent, and when we expressed our concerns, we were told to shut up and follow orders.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “And look where those orders got us. I’m done. I’m out. I didn’t sign up for this. To fight for my country, yes. But to sit in my own shit, getting beaten, having to watch my friends get tortured . . . and on top of it all, being filmed for the insurgents’ agenda? No. Just fuckin’ no.”
JJ had never wanted to be the leader of their group. As the oldest, and not one who suffered fools easily, he kind of fell into the role. But he’d screwed up. He should’ve been firmer in his insistence that this mission was destined to fail. Should’ve pushed for more intelligence before they entered the country.
While he had no doubt the US government was working to get them released, everyone knew the policy was not to negotiate with terrorists. They were likely on their own until they could find a way to escape—which wasn’t looking very promising—or one of their fellow Special Forces teams came in to bust them out.
“If you’re out, I’m out too,” Bob said with a grimace. “If you think I’m staying in without you, you’re insane.”
“Well, I’m not staying without either of you guys,” Chappy agreed. His words were garbled from the last beating he’d received, but his support for getting out of the military was heard loud and clear.
The three men looked over at Cal.
He took a deep breath and immediately grimaced at the pain it caused. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and the man the media had once called “Prettymon” looked anything but at the moment. The terrorists had left their mark on his flesh. If he lived through this—if any of them lived through their captivity—he’d have visible reminders of his torture every time he looked in a mirror.
“What’ll we do then?” Cal asked. His words were slow and slurring, making him hard to understand.