❗Hold up… this is Chapter 9.
Unless you’re the kind of thrill-seeker who reads the last page of a mystery first (you monster), you might want to backtrack.
👉 [Click here to start at Chapter 1] — where the real madness begins.
Otherwise, carry on… but don’t say I didn’t warn you when things stop making sense and someone you’ve never met suddenly dies.
Written by Thomas Mai
© Copyright held by Thomas Mai
Chapter 9 – Brokeback Mountain
The sound of an AK-47 shattered the illusion of safety, looking down James could see about twenty or so determined figures moving like ants across the rugged terrain, chasing him, pointing up toward him, and encouraging each other. The advantage was his—for the moment.
James wasn’t worried, not yet. The AK-47’s reputation preceded it: robust, deadly, but unreliable when shot from afar. James knew this; a knowledge forged from years of service. He’d seen these rifles in the hands of friends and foes alike, and had witnessed their lack of accuracy from long ranges like this.
“Let them shoot, and waste their bullets” James muttered to himself, breathless but resolute. “I need to get to higher ground.”
The heat was relentless, the sun showing no mercy. The humidity hung thick in the air, stifling. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the sky remained empty of clouds. James needed to find shade soon, but so did his pursuers. Maybe there’d be relief at the top—a patch of shade, a hint of a breeze?
He scrambled upward, muscles burning, mind focused. The mountain was his ally, its sheer faces and treacherous paths a barrier no vehicle could conquer. He pressed on, the echo of shouts and gunfire spurring him higher, faster.
Rounds continued to pepper the mountainside, a futile expenditure of ammo and hope. James smirked at the thought—every wasted shot was a second bought, a step closer to survival.
Muscles aching and lungs screaming for air, James Harrington’s hands grappled with the rocky incline, his bleeding fingers and hands finding grip on the jagged edges. The local attire, now torn and grimy, clung to his sweat-drenched back as he hoisted himself up yet another foot. His heart hammered against his ribcage.
James paused, chest heaving, and pressed his cheek against the cool mountainside. The weight of his own body felt like an anchor pulling him down, and he cursed the lavish lifestyle that had softened his once-hardened Marine physique. Pain lanced through his side—a stitch threatening to unravel his very will to move.
“Move, dammit,” he hissed, forcing himself through the cramp. Weakness wasn’t an option—not now. But his body rebelled, ignoring his commands. “Do this to survive, do this for Jocelyn, you promised” Only through sheer willpower, laser focus, and the raw instinct to survive did he manage to push his body into action again.
Gritting his teeth, he forced his limbs into action once more, clawing upward with renewed desperation. With every pull, with every scrape of his sandals against the mountain, he climbed not only to escape pursuit but to defy the fast food on the campaign trail and the endless lunches with allies, and foes across numerous town hall meetings.
Finally allowing himself a moment, James glanced below. Through the haze of exhaustion, he made out the shapes of his pursuers. They were still far enough below, but the sight of them sent a shiver down his spine. He noted their progress, and their persistence, and understood the depth of his peril.
His gaze flickered, catching the reflection of sunlight off cars winding their way around the mountain. There were at least ten vehicles, perhaps more, all heading in different directions – circling the mountain, maybe there was another way up the mountain? The cars were a strategic plan to prevent his escape.
“Time to climb,” he breathed out, commanding his body to climb again. Exhausted, he set his sights on the peak above. Every second counted, every movement was calculated.
James shifted his focus upward, tearing off pieces of his clothing to wrap around his scratched, bruised, and bloodied hands. He gripped new holds, his feet pushing off with every ounce of strength he could muster. With a surge of determination, he climbed higher
It was mid-morning in Somalia, and the sun burned so fiercely you could boil an egg on a stone. The humidity clung to the air, making it hard to breathe. Sweat poured from James’ body, evaporating as quickly as it formed, and dehydration was setting in fast.
Muscles straining and lungs burning under the hot humid Somali sun, James Harrington clambered up the rugged face of the mountain. He stole a glance downward, where the jagged terrain served as both his savior and tormentor. Below, most of his pursuers were also struggling and had stopped to catch their breath.
“Great, I am not the only one out of shape.”
“Think, James, think,” he muttered under his breath. The words were a lifeline, a mantra to keep the panic at bay. But reality’s cruel bite intruded as two figures separated from the struggling pack below, their ascent swift and sure, not stopping to catch their breath. The advantage of being young and lean.
James sipped some water to soothe his dry parched throat. Crash-landed in unfriendly territory, sporting bruises like badges, he had little more than survival essentials—a couple of bottles of water, some sandwiches, and an AK-47 with eighteen bullets. And he had never fired an AK-47 before.
He paused, breath heavy, as the weight of his situation settled on his shoulders. Alone, outmatched, and outgunned by a country that wanted him captured at any cost. In this moment of stillness, he felt the full measure of his title: President of the United States, now the most wanted man in Somalia.
No help would come—not soon enough. No John Parker to guide him, no Marines on the horizon. Just him, his wits, and the will to survive. With Jocelyn’s image etched into his heart, he vowed silently, “I will make it home, this is not where I die, I will NOT be captured”
The two relentless shadows were drawing nearer, their determination as palpable as the heat rising from the rocks.
“Focus,” James commanded himself, his gaze lifting to the summit above. That peak was freedom, or at least a chance at it. He couldn’t afford hesitation, couldn’t succumb to the vice grip of fear.
“Adapt!” he muttered under his breath, echoing the Marine Corps mantra that had carried him through countless life-or-death moments. The two young pursuers, agile and unwavering, were closing in—eager hounds on the scent of their quarry.
“Improvise!” James found a rock, its surface weathered and solid against the chaos of his predicament. He lowered himself into a kneeling position, steadying his shaking hands on the hot stone. Through the AK-47’s scope, the world narrowed down to the sight of two figures darting up the mountain. Inhaling deeply, he centered himself, recalling the discipline required for precision under pressure.
The first shot shattered the silence, the recoil jarring his shoulder and throwing the bullet wide. Biting back a curse, James recalibrated, his training supplanting any lingering doubt. “Seventeen bullets,” he whispered, a stark reminder of the scant ammunition between him and oblivion.
A vision of Jocelyn flashed before him, her strength fueling his resolve. “I promised her,” he breathed out, the words a solemn vow. He squeezed the trigger again, this time with deadly accuracy. The leading figure collapsed mid-stride, gravity carrying the body downward—a life extinguished in the blink of an eye.
“Hide, don’t look,” he cautioned himself as the second man hesitated, a fatal error that James capitalized on. Another burst from the rifle, and the young pursuer tumbled backward, joining his comrade in a macabre dance down the mountainside. “Fifteen bullets. Overcome!”
Below him, pandemonium reigned. The men scattered, their shouts piercing the air as they unleashed a barrage of bullets that carved up the dirt and stone around him. They weren’t advancing now, buying James precious seconds.
With grim determination, he pushed onwards, his focus singular: reach the summit. Each step was agony, his muscles screaming in protest, but the thought of seeing Jocelyn again propelled him forward. He couldn’t afford to look back; the mountain demanded his full attention.
James hauled himself over a particularly treacherous ledge, feet scrabbling for purchase. There was a moment where he teetered on the brink, heart thundering in his chest before he regained balance and pressed on. Every second counted.
Finally, the ground began to level out, and James threw himself onto the rocky plateau at the top, rolling to a stop. He was invisible for now, shielded by boulders and the sheer drop behind him. He peeked over the edge, the pursuers now mere dots below, their progress slowed by his deadly intervention.
“Five minutes,” he whispered to himself, before collapsing at the top. James closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep from pure exhaustion.
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