Days dragged into nights, an endless monotony, until he lost track of time, until he dared not think of anything other than the mechanical response of his body. But like a small, niggling worm, at the back of his mind was the reminder that he would not have to endure this long, that soon it would be over.

And then I will kill the man who put me here….

That memory was still vague, a tall, dark shadow half-hidden in a corner who Steve somehow knew was behind it all. An air of smug confidence had emanated from the man, catching his attention just before lights exploded behind his eyes and everything was plunged into darkness.

When he had awakened to the familiar nightmare of hell, he had known who was responsible for putting him there. In the days—weeks—that followed, the certainty grew.

I am here for a definite reason, and it has to do with the man in the cantina.

“You! Gringo!” The guard’s shout was accompanied by the stinging lash of his whip. Steve straightened, careful not to move too fast or the whip would only bite more deeply. “Gringo pig. Lucky for you that more men are needed outside, or you may soon begin to look like these others here, eh? Move faster!”

A flurry of activity was the only warning he had before he was taken, along with Juan, to the mouth of the mine. He winced against the sharp stab of light into eyes far too accustomed to the turbid shadows.

The guards were impatient, brutal, freely applying the lash to those who stumbled or didn’t move fast enough.

But then they were outside, where the air smelled of something besides musty air and creosote, and he dragged in a deep breath to fill his lungs. God! He was almost drunk with the feel of the sun on his face, warming his skin, burning his eyes. They stumbled along, still manacled at the legs, the chains a weighted constant clanking as they bent to the tasks of moving the ore cars along the gleaming lines of track.

It didn’t matter that they were forced to work from sunup to sundown as long as there was fresh, clean air to breathe, nor did it matter so much about the brutality of the guards. That could be borne.

He began, surreptitiously, to gauge the odds of escape.

Guards were posted on the rock walls that ringed the mine, others roved the work area. All were heavily armed, as if expecting trouble. Escape would be difficult, at best. Christ, it would be damn near impossible. While he worked, he scanned the area, marked the routine of the guards. It would take a miracle.

But the idea had taken root, and it sprouted and began to grow. All he needed was a diversion, something to distract the guards long enough for him to grab a weapon.