“Soldier, take the handcuffs off, please,” Forrest said to one of his Special Ops guys.
“Yes sir.” The soldier did what Forrest requested.
Forrest put his arm around Gilchrist.
“Please, come with me.”
Some of Forrest’s people began to follow, but he waved them off. He had a firm grip on Gilchrist’s arm and led the terrorist off the road into the woods.
“Where’re you taking me?” Gilchrist asked as they walked through the pines.
“To hell,” Forrest replied.
The two men walked about a hundred yards and stopped.
“I’m going to ask you again, what is the other team’s target?” Forrest calmly asked.
“And fuck you again.”
Forrest pulled his non-issue .45-caliber Glock 21 from the holster.
“You piece of shit,” Gilchrist sneered. “You won’t do anything to me. There’re witnesses. You’ll go to jail. This is torture. You’re just . . .”
Before Gilchrist could finish his sentence with the word “bluffing,” Forrest almost blew off Gilchrist’s right ankle with his old .45.
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