Spy # 13

Reckoning

First, second, third…twenty. The noise was deafening. The aluminum-colored phone continued to ring and vibrate on the wooden table, refusing to surrender despite the energy it had already released. Sadly, no one answered. It roared like a thunderstorm for a while, then finally fell silent.

The room was chilly, desolate, and heavy with gloom. It felt hollow, stripped of warmth and emotion. The lampshade stood patiently in one corner, casting a faint glimmer of light toward the man sitting in solitude.

At last, he stirred. He shifted his body slowly, moving back and forth before pausing to reach behind him for something unusual. He opened his eyes, wiped his hands, and reluctantly decided to stand up and switch on the light. He searched through his drawer, then moved to the cabinet, but what he sought was nowhere to be found. Near the object he had been looking for lay something previously unnoticed—not the ballpoint pen, nor the half-empty liquor bottle without its lid—but a small pistol resting beside his phone and the lampshade.

Abruptly, he picked it up and surveyed the room. He glanced at his wristwatch while gripping the pistol tightly in both hands.

The room belonged to Mr. Jason Standford. His Latin features enhanced his attractiveness, and his eagle-like eyes, framed by thick lashes, concealed dark pupils that seemed to see everything. His broad chest and muscular arms gave him a formidable presence. As a master sergeant in his battalion and a veteran of numerous trainings and grueling examinations, his strength reflected his commitment to defending the nation. Stationed at Camp Murray near Joint Base Lewis-McChord, southwest of Tacoma, he stood 5’10” with a solid, commanding build.

Seated on the sofa facing the table, he could not ignore the heaviness clouding his mind. He opened the drawer, pulled out a black outfit, and drifted into memories of the past.

He recalled the war that followed the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. His name had been listed among the members of the U.S. Air Force troop deployed overseas. At that time, he was considered a strong candidate for promotion, and being sent to combat was seen as a testament to his caliber as a soldier. He packed his duffel bag, prepared for whatever fate awaited him. As a soldier, he understood that in every deployment, one foot stood in the grave while the other clung to survival. Still, he believed in his duty and in his ability to serve his country.

It was a war that shattered peace and displayed raw dominance. The cries of innocent victims went unheard amid ideological conflict that seemed impossible to reconcile. The sun scorched the earth. Women in hijabs ran without direction, desperate for safety. American helicopters thundered across the skies of Afghanistan. It was a hopeless scene—no one wanted to surrender, yet no one knew when the battle would end. Blood stained the narrow alleyways where soldiers and civilians alike lay frozen. Armed militants roamed the streets, their weapons slung over their shoulders.

Jason remembered his own weakness after days without proper nourishment. Night gave way to day as he slowly touched his arms and head, checking for signs of life beneath his torn and dirt-covered uniform, ripped by a stray bullet. He had fallen into a dry well. His breathing echoed in the darkness. No one could hear him. Gathering stones and soil, he began planning his ascent, carefully testing each movement of his hands and feet.

Suddenly, a woman fell into the well while fleeing in terror. Fortunately, she landed on a pile of fallen leaves that softened her fall. Dazed but conscious, she quickly searched for a way to climb out—until she noticed Jason beside her.

Startled, she screamed, but Jason immediately covered her mouth and whispered, “Don’t shout. The terrorists might hear us.”

She glared at him, her brows furrowed in anger. “I want to get out of here. Let me go!” she cried.

Instead of acting immediately, they both sat in despair. Tears streamed down her dust-streaked face. Her white silk garment was damp and stained with dirt and debris. She avoided his question by pretending to adjust the camera hanging from her shoulder.

Her name was Jane Soriano, an intern journalist for an international news network, assigned to report on the war in Afghanistan and America’s involvement. Speaking in Filipino, she muttered, “Hindi kita maintindihan,” pretending not to understand him. Then she replied in English, “I think I should be the one asking you that. I’m here to report on the conflict. You’re an American soldier, aren’t you? Please—help me get out of here.”

Jason studied her carefully, his sharp gaze unwavering. An idea began to form—perhaps they could work together to escape.

He gestured toward her scarf.

“What?” she exclaimed. “You mean I have to undress? Please, not that. I know you’re a soldier away from your wife or girlfriend, but I’m not interested. I’m sorry for earlier, but please stop whatever you’re thinking.”

Jason’s patience snapped. “Stop! Are you crazy? Do you think I’d waste time on such nonsense? I need your scarf so we can use it to climb out.”

His voice was stern as he removed his fatigue shirt and tied it securely around a protruding rock. He began climbing, bracing his knee against the uneven stone wall. Jane trembled, realizing she had misunderstood him.

“Enough of this drama,” she muttered to herself.

“Wait! Don’t leave me here!” she pleaded.

Jason paused on the fourth layer of stacked rocks and looked down at her. Without speaking, he gave her a firm look—an unmistakable signal to follow his lead.