A fist slammed into my stomach, and I reeled back in surprise, dropping my gun. Quickly I retaliated, kicking up with my leg. My foot collided with soft flesh with the force of a jackhammer, and my assailant dropped like a rock. He was a strong, well-built man wearing forest camo and light tactical gear, and he wasn't alone. More soldiers bled out of the forest, some of them holding knives and guns, others fighting bare-handed. How had they snuck up on us? I'd been stupid, I thought with disgust. If I hadn't been so distracted worrying about Coulson, I'd have heard them coming. That sounded like something Hand would do.

Three more soldiers came running at me, two of them brandishing knives. I took a deep breath and plunged into the fray, letting my instincts take over. This was much better; I was in my element now. My limbs executed kicks and punches with lethal grace, and there was nothing but the next strike. I spared Agent Hand a glance and was surprised to see that she was holding her own. An arm around my throat brought me back to the action, and I tucked my chin and dropped my weight, hitting the ground with catlike agility. I rolled over on my side and kicked out the soldier's knee, hearing the joint disarticulate with a sickening pop. I sprang to my feet and whirled around with a back elbow strike, hitting another soldier squarely in the temple. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hand fighting with a knife she must have stolen.

I whirled around and caught another man in the stomach with my knee. He doubled over, clutching his abdomen. An especially beefy soldier with about eight inches and a hundred pounds on me came charging, then stopped abruptly, falling forward with a knife in his back.

"Thank me later," Hand shouted, and whirled around with a spinning left hook.

The click of a gun safety being removed stopped us in our tracks. I looked up and found myself staring down the barrel of an Uzi. Shit. I slowly held up my hands and put them behind my head. I glanced at Hand and saw her do the same thing. Then there was a muffled thump, like the sound of a gun with a silencer, but higher pitched, and she dropped like a rock. Another thump, and I felt something slam into my ribs and spread warmth through my chest. I was barely aware of my body hitting the ground.

When I came to, I was lying flat on my back on a cold cement floor. I opened my eyes, which were so dry the lids stuck together. I blinked a few times, longing for my eye drops. I was in a stone room, a dungeon, really. It was about twelve by ten, with a small window near the ceiling. The window was Plexiglas reinforced with wire; there was no chance of breaking it. The door was on the wall farthest from me; it was reinforced steel with a deadbolt lock holding it in place, if I wasn't mistaken. There was a small slot in the door, presumably for meal trays. The room smelled like a combination of damp earth and mildew, and I wrinkled my nose. What little light there was came through the window, which was encrusted with dirt.

I saw Hand lying on the floor a few feet away from me, still unconscious. I figured I'd have a while to sort things out before she woke up; I metabolize everything, including tranquilizer bullets, at a faster rate than normal. If I had everything under control by the time she came to, she would be less freaked out and my life would be easier.

I took stock. Our gear was gone, I noticed, but we still had our clothes on. It was a positive sign if I'd ever seen one. Not as positive as, say, a spare .38 lying around, or a broken window, but I knew what no clothes would mean. Even the new Melinda shuddered at the thought. We were still together, which was another plus. I'd done a stint in solitary confinement outside Sarajevo last year and didn't care to repeat the experience. And the scrape on my calf didn't look infected, which was another small mercy.

I tried to sit up. Immediately my head started to pound. Whatever I'd been hit with was still wearing off. I swallowed and took a deep breath, trying not to be sick. I propped myself up against the wall opposite the window, wincing at the stiffness in my muscles and joints. My vision slipped in and out of focus like a bad camera lens. What the hell had they shot us with? Valium 10? Thorazine? Agent Duvall's moonshine?

As soon as my head cleared enough to maintain a coherent stream of consciousness again, I began analyzing the situation in more detail. I hadn't heard any helicopters or ATV's before we'd been ambushed, so we'd probably been transported here by truck, which, considering the hostility of the terrain, meant we couldn't be too far from where we'd been staked out. The men who'd ambushed us had worn BDU's, probably military surplus, with no identifying logos or insignias. But judging by the improvised way they had fought, they probably weren't the private security goons we were waiting for. Most likely they belonged to one of too many tribal factions fighting for control of the area. The recon teams had told us the area was clear, but idiots are everywhere.

As soon as I felt well enough, I stood up and began stretching my legs. I reached up to the ceiling, then touched my toes. My back cracked, stiff from being on the floor for so long. I began pacing the perimeter of the cell, scrutinizing it for anything I'd missed, anything that could allow us to escape. I found none.

Eventually I abandoned my pacing and sat down against the wall to wait for Hand to wake up. After half an hour or so, I saw her finger twitch. This was followed by a low moan, and an opening of the eyes. She reached up and rubbed her forehead. "Wha' happened?" she asked, slurring badly.

"They tranqued us," I said. Then, feeling she needed some reassurance, "Everything's going to be okay." I tried to make it sound sincere, but it came out wooden, and I don't think she believed me. I wished the old Melinda were here. She was good at comforting people. Always ready with the right words of reassurance, always smiling, quick to hug.

"Where are we?" Hand asked, trying to sit up. She quickly abandoned the endeavor, no doubt experiencing the same aftereffects I had earlier.

"Some sort of prison. Probably not too far from where we were captured."

"Captured …" she let her voice trail off and swallowed hard. "Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah. You?"

She blinked a few times. "Lost my contacts and I feel like hell."

"It's the tranquilizer. It'll wear off soon."

"So what do we do now?" Good, I thought. She was thinking like an agent and, above all, not freaking out.

"Gather as much intel as possible and wait for an opportunity to escape or contact our team," I instructed."

"Good." A horrified expression came over her face, and she said, "Are they going to torture us?"

"Probably," I replied, immediately regretting my honesty.

"Oh, God …" She sat up and hugged herself. "Oh, God, please, no." So much for thinking like an agent and not freaking out. We weren't even being interrogated yet, much less tortured, and she was already falling apart. I closed my eyes and began counting to ten in every language I spoke. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco.

"How the hell can you be so calm? We're about to be brutally tortured!" Ichi, ni, san, shi, go. "We have to get out of here!" Her voice was rising to a hysterical pitch. Wahed, ethnayn, thalaatha, arba'ah, khamsah. She walked over to where I was seated and shook me by the shoulders. Abandoning my counting, I swiftly rose to my feet, grabbing her wrists and holding them as far above her head as I could reach, which was not far.

"Listen to me, Hand," I snapped. "This isn't the time or the place. You're an agent of SHIELD; act like one." I released her arms, and she let them fall limply to her sides.

Just then, there was the sound of a key in a lock, and the heavy steel door to our cell opened with a horrendous squealing sound. Our captors obviously hadn't heard of WD-40. I tried to get a glimpse of whoever had opened it, but the hallway was too dark.

"Hello, Agent May, Agent Hand," a menacing voice from the shadows said. "Shall we begin?"