Chase groaned as he rolled over. The intense cold had penetrated his drugged sleep and he awoke in some confusion, not sure where he was in the total darkness. Realising it must be the isolation hut, he pulled the blanket over his shoulders for warmth then began to explore the hut by touch. It didn't take long to find the hut empty except for the plastic bucket, the mattress and blanket. Even his boots were gone.
Pulling at the bucket's hard plastic handle, it broke away from the body with a snap, then Chase carefully examined the north-east corner of the hut. He had noticed a draught low to the floor which hopefully meant a gap in the wooden joinery. Finding a crack between two floorboards, Chase inserted the tip of the handle and began to pry up the boards, one nail at a time.
The nails were long and the timber was tongue and groove, so it was painstaking work. After a short space of time the handle began to warp under the pressure but Chase was determined and kept at it; he knew what would happen to him come day break. About the best he could hope for was a 'trial' followed by a quick bullet to the back of the head. But assuming they knew he was a federal agent, they could become so much more imaginative.
Checking his watch he saw it was after 3am, he hoped that would allow him the time needed. Once he finally got the first board loose, it was easier to get the leverage he needed for the next, but the plastic was fatigued, there was no strength left in it. Using the end of the first board worked but it was a slow, cumbersome process and the blanket had long been put aside as the sweat formed.
Trying to occupy his mind with thoughts other than his impending execution, he wondered how Becky was doing in DC. They had had a blazing row shortly before he left for LA as she didn't like the amount of time he spent on the job. She was furious when he told her he would be on loan to CTU LA for a six to eight week posting and he would be out of communication for the length of the assignment. She had threatened to move out of his apartment, but he had no idea what she had decided to do. He wondered if he'd live to find out.
His thoughts turned to the abducted young woman and he wondered who she was. The Major had been very pleased with her capture, but none of the men seemed to know the reason why. He hoped she got away okay.
Pulling up the third plank, Chase was cheered to see that with just one more floorboard removed he should be able to slip out through the crawl space. So intent on getting the last nail out, his body straining with the effort, he didn't even notice the door opening until the light switch outside the door was snapped on. By then it was too late as the gun muzzle pressed against the nape of his neck. Stopping, he placed his hands behind his back as instructed.
Snapping handcuffs onto his prisoner, ratcheting them tighter than necessary, Max leaned in and hissed into Chase's ear - "He knows who you are and he ain't pleased. You better hope for a quick death." Max and Fred backed off, motioning for him to proceed them.
Marched outside to the parade ground, lit bright by overhead halide lamps, Chase looked around the circle of men, men he had worked with closely over the last five weeks. Some he had even become friendly with, but this morning he saw nothing but condemnation in their eyes. The Major walked up and looked him over, "You're a sorry sonofabitch, but not half as sorry as you're going to be soon." Motioning to Fred and Max, he ordered, "Take him to First Aid and keep him secured, he'll be collected shortly."
Almost at the Aid post, as a last resort, Chase ran, sprinting for the cover of darkness and the nearby trees. Shots rang out around him but he didn't falter. As he reached the tree line he thought he might actually make it, but pain overtook him and his legs gave out. Crashing heavily to the ground, he lay unmoving as the Major sauntered over to where Jonathan crouched and checked the prisoner. Standing, Jonathon pulled a bottle of hand sanitiser from his pocket and began rinsing his hands. Shaking his head, he said, "He's dead."
The Major looked at the body with blood pooling at its side, then he kicked it in his anger. "Well, get rid of it," he fumed. "He's a federal agent and we can't have his death linked to us."
He returned to his office wondering how the hell he would explain this to the Tailor. He knew someone would be made to suffer over this and he hoped it wouldn't be him.