Lieutenant Jack Calloway had survived war zones, covert operations, and near-impossible missions. But nothing had prepared him for this—captivity in a Somali prison, a crumbling compound near an airstrip in the middle of nowhere, where the sun baked the earth to a relentless 120 degrees.
His capture had been swift. An ambush during a classified reconnaissance mission left his team scattered—some dead, some captured, and some still unaccounted for. Now, he was here, locked in a sweltering cell where the air felt thick enough to choke on.
Every day, the guards came. They demanded information. He gave them nothing. They beat him. He endured.
But Jack knew one truth: You can always be rescued from prison. You can’t from a pine box.
And rescue was coming. It had to.
One night, as the oppressive heat barely lifted, a guard slipped him a note. A single line written in rough English:
“Truck comes Tuesday at 3 AM. Be ready.”
Jack studied it, his pulse steady despite the storm brewing inside him. A trap? A chance? He had played this game before—timing, patience, precision. One mistake, and he’d never leave this place.
For the next two days, he watched. The guards’ shifts. The patrol routes. The airport’s movements beyond the razor wire. Then, Tuesday arrived.
At 2:55 AM, he moved, silent as a shadow. The truck idled near the gate, dust swirling in its headlights. Two guards stood nearby—not the usual ones. Something felt… wrong.
Then, a voice behind him.
“You sure about this, Lieutenant?”
Jack turned. It was Ahmed, another prisoner—a former Somali soldier who had been rotting here even longer than Jack.
“You can always be rescued from prison,” Jack muttered. “You can’t from a pine box.”
Ahmed’s expression darkened. “Then don’t step inside one.”
Jack hesitated. A flicker of movement in the truck’s shadows—then he saw it. The muzzle of a rifle, barely visible through the slats.
He stepped back. A moment later, the guards grabbed another prisoner, shoving him toward the truck. The doors slammed. The engine roared to life.
A muffled gunshot rang out. Then silence.
Jack exhaled slowly. The note had been a setup. He had almost stepped into his own grave.
At sunrise, another note appeared beneath his cell door.
“Smart choice.”
Jack folded it, his mind already shifting to a new plan. He wasn’t getting out today. But he was getting out.
And when he did, there would be no pardon for the men who put him here.
Survival isn’t just about escaping—it’s about endurance, patience, and knowing when to strike. If you live through today, you still have a chance to change the outcome tomorrow.
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