Chapter 16: Cross Fire At Church

"Well, we didn't find him here. That means he's still alive. They must have taken him captive to try and figure out where I am," Franklin concluded, his voice a mix of determination and concern.

Bach, struggling to piece together the violent events, furrowed his brow in confusion. "I don't understand. Didn't he poison them all?"

Franklin glanced back at the church, his mind racing through the possibilities. "I'm sure there were still several survivors. If this poison was potent, the first batch of soldiers that showed symptoms would have scared off the rest from drinking. We need to leave before they come back," he reasoned, piecing together the likely scenario from the clues left behind.

***

In the dense foliage near the charred remains of the church, Bach, Sumi, and Franklin crouched low in the underbrush, their breaths quiet and quick with apprehension. Through the branches, they watched a dozen soldiers marching around the burnt structure, their movements deliberate as they surveyed the area for clues.

Sumi's eyes widened as she spotted Goh among the soldiers, his hands tied and his body bruised, being dragged roughly by his captors. Franklin quickly placed a hand over her mouth, muffling any sound that might escape her lips.

"Shhhh, hey, hey! Listen... I have a plan. We'll get Goh back, but I need you guys to stay quiet and remain hidden here," Franklin whispered urgently, his eyes scanning the surrounding area for any sign that they might have been spotted.

Taking a deep breath, Sumi nodded, her fear momentarily calmed by Franklin's assured tone. She lifted her pinkie finger towards him, a gesture of trust and promise. Franklin wrapped his pinkie around hers, sealing the pact with a solemn nod.

Bach, however, was skeptical, his voice low and worried, "What will you do? We have no weapons, and they outnumber us."

Franklin's response was resigned yet hopeful, "Pray for a miracle."

He turned to leave, pushing the branches aside to make his way out of the bush. But just as he was about to step out, he paused and looked back at his companions, his face set with determination. In that moment, the weight of their situation was palpable—their friend in peril, the odds stacked against them, and the uncertainty of the outcome hanging over them like a dark cloud.

Franklin turned to Bach with a half-guilty, half-apologetic grin. "Oh, I hope you don't mind but... I'll be borrowing your weed and whiskey. I wouldn't expect to get them back... It'll be for a good cause though." His tone suggested a mix of jest and earnestness, acknowledging the gravity of the situation they were facing.

Bach, for his part, muttered a prayer under his breath. It wasn't for Franklin's success in the looming, dangerous task ahead, but rather for the safety of his cherished vices. His attachment to them was profound, though he knew in his heart the greater need at the moment was Franklin's.

Taking the borrowed items, Franklin cautiously made his way back to the vicinity of the church, moving stealthily from bush to bush. He was mere meters away from the soldiers now patrolling the area, their boots crunching softly against the broken twigs and scorched earth.

The soldiers, vigilant and tense, aimed their rifles into the woods, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. Their commander, a stern figure, barked orders with a palpable frustration. "Where is he?! Find him!" he commanded sharply.

"Sir, there's a trail leading into the woods," one soldier reported, hoping to have picked up a promising lead.

The commander, however, dismissed it with a scowl. "Ah you useless bag of tomato cans can't even tell that that is a false trail. I know Franklin. He has been trained to hide himself well. That trail will only lead you wandering in the forest for hours before you find his real location," he growled, his experience with such tactics giving him insight into Franklin's potential strategies.

As he spoke, the commander lit a cigar, taking a moment to deliberately puff the smoke into the face of the reporting soldier.

The soldier coughed, the smoke stinging his eyes and throat, but he nodded, understanding the futility of following the false lead. "Sir, we'll keep looking. They can't be far," he reassured his commander, determined to press on.

The commander shook his head, clearly unimpressed with the progress thus far. "Has the captive given any information yet?" he inquired, his tone sharp and demanding.

"No sir. He seems to be a veteran. A tough one to fold under our methods. I'm not sure he will be of much use to us," the soldier replied, his voice tinged with doubt over their ability to extract useful information from Goh.

Franklin, hidden just a few meters away, listened intently to the exchange, his heart racing as he grasped the gravity of the situation. Goh was still alive, but for how long, that remained uncertain. Franklin knew he had to act quickly if he was to orchestrate a rescue and avoid the fatal consequences of their captors' frustration.

As the commander's heel twisted the cigar into the earth, extinguishing it with a finality that mirrored his intentions, he barked out a chilling order. "Oh he will be. Bring him to me. Let me have a go at him."

Franklin, hidden in the foliage, felt a surge of panic as he heard the commander's command. His eyes darted around, searching for any advantage in the grim scenario unfolding before him. His gaze landed on a crate of supplies closely guarded by soldiers, on top of which sat a briefcase marked "classified." The crate also contained food, weapons, and other goods. Seeing an opportunity, Franklin stealthily approached the crates, silently removing a few items to make space for himself inside.

"Here he is sir. He's in rough shape. We've already beat him pretty badly," one of the soldiers announced as they brought Goh before the commander. Goh was thrown down at the commander's feet, his face swollen and bruised, his hands and feet bound. Yet, he maintained a defiant composure, glaring up at the commander with undiminished resolve.

The commander responded with a sadistic grin, squatting down to Goh's level. He reached out to slap Goh's bruised cheek, but Goh dodged the blow and spat in the commander's face.

From his hiding place inside the crate, Franklin watched the tense exchange through a small slit. His hand fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a match and a bottle of whiskey. He then extracted his wife's picture from his breast pocket, rolled it up, and tucked it into the bottle's top, preparing a makeshift Molotov cocktail.

"Bring me a shotgun," the commander ordered coldly, wiping the spit from his face without losing his composure. A soldier quickly handed him the weapon. The commander cocked the gun, took a step back, and aimed it directly at Goh's head.

"Where are they?!" he demanded, his voice echoing menacingly through the air.

Goh managed a laugh, a sound cut short by the blast of the shotgun to his left leg. The shot tore through Goh's leg, shredding it into chunks, completely detaching it from the knee down. The brutality of the act was stark and horrifying.

"Tourniquet his leg," the commander ordered immediately after, his voice devoid of emotion. The soldiers scrambled to obey, applying a makeshift tourniquet to Goh's mangled leg.

From his hidden vantage point, Franklin gripped the improvised Molotov tighter, his heart racing with fear and determination. He knew he had to act fast if he was to save Goh and escape the hellish scene unfolding before his eyes.