Where It Went Wrong

Somewhere, water was dripping. Her throat burned. She could no longer tell whether the sound was real or only a phantom, and there was a bleak absurdity in it—her own body, crying out in raw physical pain for the chance to stay alive.

Sophia could not understand why the military had not yet killed her. Failing that, she could not understand why they still had not used torture or threats to drag the whole of the operation out of her. She was Lieutenant Sophia Yu, who had taken countless spies and enemy soldiers on the forward edge of the line. What was coming was already plain to her.

That was why she had meant to kill herself the moment the operation succeeded. Major General William was dead because of it, and a host of other heavyweights had died alongside him. There had been no mistakes, and no gaps. The instant the operations team's message reached her, she had packed and prepared to leave for the safe house. She had already chosen the place where she would die, and every piece of the timing had locked into place.

Once proof surfaced that she had been a rebel spy, if her body were found at the right time and in the right place, the military would have no further cause to hunt the people tied to her.

Where did it go wrong?

Sophia turned the question over yet again—the same one she had asked herself dozens of times, hundreds. She replayed the day they took her, over and over.

When the operation was finished and she climbed into the jeep, she heard a noise. A faint one. She moved quickly, but by then it was already too late. The man who clamped her throat from behind drove a hand straight into her mouth and, with exacting precision, pulled the poison from the molar where she had hidden it.

Her airway closed, and her mind went dark with brutal speed. Before she blacked out completely she snapped one of his little fingers and raked her nails down his arm, and still the attacker did not let out so much as a groan. His strength never faltered. He was thoroughly trained. No scent remained in her memory, and no feature she could later name.

When she opened her eyes, she was here.

The moment she came to, Sophia took stock. A pitch-dark holding cell without a single window. A dim bulb burned on one wall, the same kind the military issued, and the heavy iron cuffs were military issue as well.

To keep her from killing herself, they had bound her mouth with cloth, spread both arms wide, and hung her from the ceiling in shackles. Her ankles were locked just as thoroughly into cuffs bolted to the floor. Sophia went rigid. She searched her mouth for the hidden poison, but the cloth blocking her made it nearly impossible—and even without the cloth, she would not have found it. She remembered with perfect clarity the moment the attacker had taken it from her.

The military's torture was vicious. The 5th Battalion's, in particular, was infamous. Pulling fingernails and toenails was only the start; they seared the flesh of the living and drew out their organs. However strong-willed a rebel or a revolutionary might be, cruelty of that order ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠made them sell out brothers and family as a matter of course.

Sophia drew a long breath. She had imagined a worst case like this. She felt her way back to the memory of her younger sister's face, and her own eyes went cold and hard. These people would get nothing out of her. They could tear away nails, organs, and flesh—so long as she refused to open her mouth, no one would learn a thing. That was not the problem.

What had the flaw been? The contact? Intelligence? Or another cuckoo? Five of them had been planted as cuckoos. Three belonged to other teams, so they could not have informed on her. That left one of the remaining two. Or both. Did Aiden know? If the contact had vanished, he would have a rough idea. If the contact was still in place, he would know in detail.

Her mind raced. She was not worried about the operations team Aiden led. The operation had already succeeded, so whether they had all died on site or lived through it was no longer her concern. She only hoped Ella, whom Aiden had been protecting, had made it safely back to base. By the timetable they had agreed on, there had been more than enough time to return, and time to spare after that.

On the day they brought her in, she spent all of it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thinking until her head felt ready to split, working through the situation and every inference she could draw. No one entered the room where she was held.

A full week passed that way. To keep from losing her sense of time she watched her body's rhythms and counted the seconds off on her fingers, but by the fourth day it was no longer easy. She had gone a week without food on operations before, yet this was different. Then, at least, she could search out water to drink. The strain on her mind, and her worry for her younger sister, Ella, wore her down quickly.

Perhaps Division had changed its methods. Rather than inflict pain outright, they would starve her and leave her alone until her will eroded. The sound of water grew louder. Sophia shook her head, fighting to keep her mind clear.

She no longer had the strength to stand, and the chains from the ceiling would not let ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her sit. After a week of hanging, her arms and shoulders had already gone numb. Then she heard footsteps. Head hanging, Sophia listened without the slightest movement, focusing sharply on whether those even steps could tell her anything.

"Who would've thought the great Lieutenant Sophia would end up like this."

The cell door had barely opened before a nasty voice turned mocking. Sophia let out a thin breath. She knew that voice. Captain Derek Smith. The sound alone told her he was thoroughly pleased with himself. He was plainly enjoying the sight of Lieutenant Sophia—who had spent so long deliberately ignoring him—dropped at his feet in a state like this. Inwardly, she sneered at the bastard.

Major General William had died at the completion ceremony for the Regimental Building, and as far as she knew the training director and the division's Command Sergeant Major were dead as well. That he still could not hide a private grudge, even now, was its own kind of opening. Sophia let herself hope this standoff might end quickly. The man in front of her was childish enough that a little provocation could make him kill her in a fit of temper.

She gave him nothing. Eyes on the floor, she counted. She had not even reached five before Derek closed in and yanked her up by the hair. His mean face filled her vision.

"Worn out already? Sophia? You're not this weak. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠What's the matter with you."

"Hard to say. It's not exactly a thrilling situation."

Sophia answered with a faint smile. Thirst had cracked her voice, and the cloth bound across her mouth slurred the words. Smith grinned, wide and smug. Fortunately, the meaning still carried. That mattered a great deal.

"I'm having a hell of a time. You know what they say? When they shoot a woman spy, she can't even stay on her feet. Pisses herself so bad it runs straight down between her legs."

Then or now, Derek Smith was a man who fouled the air the moment you had to trade words with him. From the day Sophia graduated the military academy and was posted to a platoon, he had kept up a steady stream of sexual harassment dressed as flirting. She let none of it show. She smiled, the way she always had.

"With something that small, you think you could make anyone piss herself? It'd only tickle."

There was exactly one good thing about having her identity exposed and being slammed to the floor with nowhere left to retreat. She could finally say to Derek everything she had ever wanted to say. Because of that goddamn chain of command, she had never once been able to talk back, even to his filthy little games, and the grudge had sat in her ever since. Dying with it spent left her feeling, if only a little, clean inside.

"You crazy bitch—do you have any idea what kind of spot you're in!?"

Derek went up in flames with an ease that was almost pathetic. Stupid, and not a shade short of what she had expected. At this point she was nearly grateful that the first man assigned to her cell had been Derek.

Sophia tipped her head.

"And what kind of spot is that?"

At a question calm enough to sound innocent, Derek sneered.

Derek's rough hand closed around one of her breasts. One of Sophia's eyes twitched, and beyond that she gave him nothing, turning the man's words over instead. Tony Brown. The cuckoo in the 1st Platoon. Aiden had told her, brimming with confidence, not to worry—and in the end, it seemed, his cover had been blown.