Sam Wick Ultimate Boxset

by Chase Austin

  Seeing Basit, Wasim’s doubts and questions evaporated. He was one of the best in the business and Wasim knew that his presence meant only one thing. The Great Cleric had given his nod to get everything out of the hostage by any means necessary.

  Wasim could not help himself but admire how his mentor carried himself. Basit had an air of aloofness about him. His hair was bound in a short ponytail and his cropped beard was perfectly trimmed. He was a Pakistani Muslim, fluent in Urdu, Pashto, Arabic, Farsi, and English. He was dressed in a dark pathani suit, an outfit designed to deliver a sense of authority and influence. His eyes pierced the prisoner with a steely coldness. He had met the prisoner once before, eight hours ago, but this time it was different. His body language showed his determination to break the man.

  He had regulated every aspect of every moment of the prisoner’s captivity. Every sound, temperature variation, food portion, even the amount of liquid in his body had been meticulously monitored as per his instructions. The ultimate goal was that when the actual torture began, the subject was already on the verge of breaking and would start talking immediately. That saved both time and energy.

  The first phase was already in motion. The prisoner had been isolated and stripped of all sense of time and place. by subjecting him to complete sensory deprivation. He was in a state where he would welcome contact of any kind. The second phase was to throw the man a lifeline. Start a dialogue. And the third phase was to raise the tempo.

  The job needed a precise thoroughness, time and patience but those were luxuries Basit did not have in this case. He was on a tight schedule and that meant the information had to be extracted quickly and the body dumped.

  His orders were crystal clear—get him to talk A.S.A.P.

  Chapter 23

  Basit glanced at Wasim and detected an unspoken glee on the latter’s face. He knew his lieutenant was eager to get the action started. He had been twiddling his thumbs for some time now, getting restless all this while.

  He motioned towards the door separating the prisoner from them.

  Wasim nodded and gazed at the fatigued, chained prisoner. A slow smile played on his lips. He pushed the door open. Josh jerked his head slightly but showed no inclination to see who it was. Basit entered the room with one fighter and closed the door from inside. Wasim returned to his place behind the mirror. The show was about to start, and he had box seats.

  Josh Fletcher. A made-up name, most likely. They had checked his ID, and his story of being a journalist checked out, but Basit knew he was not what he seemed. The information he had received was rock solid. All he needed was to get Fletcher to accept that. It had to be done soon. If not, he was worried he would find himself on the wrong side of the cleric and Pakistan’s ISI.

  The reason was that without informing anyone at the ISI, Basit had ordered Wasim to grab Fletcher and bring him here. The seizure of two of his fighters by the CIA and a growing fear that the USA had begun to tighten its grip on the Afghanistan and Pakistan’s terror network had provoked him into acting without authorization. But the kidnapping of an American came with heavy risks. If things didn’t go as planned, he had effectively signed his own death warrant. If the word got out about this, all his achievements would be zilch. His contacts would scatter like cockroaches.

  His little adventure had gone too far in the last eight hours and he still had no concrete confession or even a shred of useful information. His meeting with the Great Cleric had also not gone well. Even though he had agreed to support Basit by not letting this information slip into the Islamabad power corridors for the next twelve hours, it came with a rider. Basit had to get the hostage to confess his CIA roots in those twelve hours.

  The words from the Great Cleric reverberated in his head: “You do not want to test my patience. If you don’t have what it takes to get the information, then I can ask Razzaq to take over.”

  Basit could not let that happen. He studied the prisoner, thinking hard about how to get to the point as soon as possible.

  A good cop, bad cop technique might work. On the right person, the results could be satisfactory. But Josh Fletcher didn’t seem to fall in that category.

  Basit looked at the glass where he knew Wasim was standing, watching intently, studying his every move. His protégé, his right hand. Now he had to take control of this botched operation in the next few minutes in front of his student to show him how it was done. The time for foreplay was over. He turned back to the prisoner and at that moment, he was ready.

  Chapter 24

  Josh was numb. He had no idea how long he had been in that room. All he knew that no one was coming to save him. He suspected that his own colleagues had set him up. From the day he had signed up for this job he had known this day would eventually come. The only thing he regretted was that he could not let the world know what he now knew about his fellow CIA agents. Despite everything, he was certain of one thing—his abductors were not getting anything out from him. His cover was that of a journalist, and he had to stick to that till they either believed him or killed him.

  His story and his credentials were his only hope. He was a journalist. He was in Afghanistan for stories on how the common man was coping in a war-torn nation. This gave him an excuse to visit places where no one dared to go, and his press ID card got him through most obstacles he encountered.

  Though the recent hours were fuzzy in his mind, his recollection of his capture was vivid. Peter, another CIA agent in Afghanistan, had called him to a dilapidated house in Helmand. He was near the place when an open Toyota stopped near him. Two gunmen jumped out of the vehicle and started asking questions. He had faced such questions from the day he had landed in this country, and initially he was not worried. But these people who had accosted him seemed to be looking for something specific in his answers. Something damning. They rummaged through his bag and dumped its contents on the ground. He told himself that the key was to keep his calm. He didn’t have to feign the fear he felt, but that was only natural for an innocent journalist who wasn’t adept at facing men with AK-47s. But the men were adamant in their belief that he was not a journalist. The more Josh threw his credentials and his articles on the CNN website at them, the more determined they became to prove him wrong.

  Then, he played the final card he had, he asked them to call his boss at the CNN. He gave them the number and the email, knowing they would not call, but even if they did, his story would pass muster. He stared at them for a minute but got no response. They seemed confused at the offer. His broken Pashto, combined with hand gestures, was almost successful in getting him out of the trap, but then another Toyota screeched to a halt at the curb and before he could make a move, they dragged him into it. His mouth was gagged, his hands cuffed, and his head covered with a black hood. He had apparently passed out, and when he opened his eyes, he was in a semi-dark room, sitting on a broken chair, his hands cuffed behind his back. Over the next few hours, he was tortured and beaten, even as he battled a raging thirst.

  He sensed that his endgame was near. He was going to die in this dank cell.

  Chapter 25

  Basit watched as Josh buckled over in the chair and crashed to the ground. He hit the concrete deck hard but didn’t try to get up. Basit had seen people in this hopeless situation innumerable times. He knew the prisoner’s condition was futile.

  Basit signaled one of the two men standing in opposite corners of the room to straighten the hostage up and to remove the cuffs.

  The fighter threw a glass of water at the prisoner’s face and pulled him into a sitting position on the chair. Josh came to his senses and found his hands free. He rubbed his wrists, first the right and then the left, where the cuffs had been a few seconds ago. He looked up at his interrogator.

  Basit handed him a glass of water which Josh accepted with no change in his expression.

  The Taliban minion went back to his position in the corner. The other one was already in position.

  “Josh,” Basit said in
understandable English, “I want to start this all over again.”

  Josh glared at his interrogator with inflamed eyes and parroted his lines again, “I am telling the truth. I am a journalist with CNN, you can call my boss and confirm it.”

  Basit took a deep breath and his words came out in a measured tone, “I told you I want to start over again. You need to think about your options very carefully. The way I see it, your country has left you to die. It’s been twenty-four hours, and no one is looking for you. You are not missed by anyone.” He paused again. The timeline was a lie, but he knew Josh had no way of knowing. They had kept him sedated for the most part of his captivity, and in that underground room there was no sense of time.

  Josh remained silent, trying to call the bluff of his interrogator. He knew that in any abduction the first twenty-four hours carried the best chance of rescue. Had it really been a day since he had been taken? He suspected Basit was lying, but had no way of knowing.

  “You know your country’s policy—they say do not negotiate with people like us. That means only one thing—they disowned you the moment you were captured.” He signaled to one of his men, who exited the room. When he came back, he was pushing a table on wheels. Josh glanced at it. Alligator clips attached to a battery. He knew what those meant, but he didn’t know if he was ready.

  “I am telling you,” Josh was firm, “I have nothing to offer you. Damn it, I am just a bloody journalist.” He emphasized the word journalist.

  “You still think they will come for you.” Basit laughed hard, very hard. It was an act, but he was an expert and everyone watching him was convinced the thought had really amused him.

  Josh knew reacting was useless. It was a rhetorical question. He glanced at the clips from the corner of his eyes. Basit saw no fear in his eyes. He wasn’t a journalist. Journalists fear alligator clips.

  “Okay Mr. Fletcher, if you want to play games with me, I’ll play along too. Let’s be clear, though, all this can be made to stop if you choose. It’s you who is making me do it.” Basit picked up the clips.

  The two minions in the room stepped forward. Basit looked at the mirror and, on his cue, a third man entered the room. Two of them held Josh down by his arms while the third held his legs in a firm grip, immobilizing him completely from neck down.

  Chapter 26

  Wick looked at the sky again, and then at the door. The three men outside stood in a triangular formation—two in front, one behind—which indicated some level of training.

  Wick had no idea how many more men were inside. All he had was an element of surprise on his side and he wanted to keep it that way. These men had no inkling that he was there. Their confidence would be their Achilles’ heel.

  “Eddie, I’m going in. Your turn now,” he whispered.

  Eddie checked Wick’s position through the lens. He was creeping closer to the door. The three gunmen paid him no heed. They weren’t expecting any surprises. Not from a shepherd anyway.

  Wick was one of the few people whom Eddie trusted to do this kind of job. His confidence was because of two things. First, Wick, like himself, put his life on the line, never shying away from getting his hands dirty in the field. Second, Eddie had seen him in action, and he was efficient, ruthlessly efficient. In fact, he was the best Eddie had ever seen in this trade.

  Wick knew Eddie would do his job. Belying his macho call sign ‘Bear’, Eddie was barely five-foot-four and weighed just about one hundred and fifty pounds, but what he lacked in size he made up for in talent. He was one of the best snipers in open spaces and even better in urban conditions. And with that reputation came respect. Other fighters tended to give snipers a wide berth. Their survival instincts told them it wasn’t a good idea to mess with someone who could shoot you dead from a thousand yards.

  “Great. I was beginning to wonder when we would get this thing rolling,” he said into his mike.

  “Start the countdown on my mark,” Wick whispered.

  Eddie packed a dip. Loaded bullets in the wrist-sheath. Marshaled his breath again.

  He heard Wick’s voice in the earpiece. “Three, two, one, mark.”

  Time slowed as he lowered his eye to the lens. He pulled the trigger. The bullet leaped from the barrel, cracking like a whip. The .300 round hurled forward, glinting as it entered the flesh of the man standing one step back in the triangle of guards.

  Chapter 27

  The room echoed with Josh’s screams. The electric charge ran through the alligator clips to his testicles and to then through his entire body.

  Wasim smiled, watching from outside. Basit was just as relentless as he had imagined.

  “Mr. Fletcher, I know this might be uncomfortable for you, but my God has given me the permission to send Kafirs to their hell. Being a religious man, I have to do what he wants from me.” Basit tilted his head, talking to Josh over his incessant screams. “Are you not a religious person, Mr. Fletcher? Don’t you have any sympathy for the people killed by your government? I ask you again, very politely, help me help you.”

  Josh barely had time to catch his breath before another round of current seared through his body.

  “I’m sure you understand that you have left me with no other option,” continued a sneering Basit. “No one is coming to save you. Why do you want to die in this chamber for men who have betrayed you and a country that has forgotten you?” There was no malice in his voice as he said this, merely regret.

  Another round of current wracked Josh’s body.

  Josh wandered in and out of consciousness, his mind straying to his home and Natalie, his wife. She was waiting for him, her husband, who was in the most dangerous country in the world, especially for an American citizen.

  “Why do you have to take this project?” Natalie had demanded when he had told her he would be away for two months on an assignment near the Af-Pak border. “CNN can send someone else. You’re just back from Iraq and now this.” She had been on the verge of crying, her blue eyes filled with concern for him.

  Josh lifted his head and stared past the bright light at his interrogator. His eyes were pleading. “Please talk to my boss,” he gasped. “Ask them. They will tell you I am just a low-key journalist.”

  Basit shook his head. “Your superiors have forsaken you. You are nothing but a plague to them. They claim to know nothing about what you’ve been up to.”

  “You are lying,” spat Fletcher.

  This was exactly what Basit was after. Mood swings, uncontrollable and sudden. Desperate and pleading one second, angry and antagonistic the next. He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have been very patient with you, and all you do in return is feed me more lies and insults.”

  “I am telling you the truth!” Josh said it far too quickly.

  Basit gave him an almost caring look. “Will you tell your God that I have been good to you?” He pushed the switch once again. Josh’s body shivered violently.

  The storm was closing in. Josh two-stepped Natalie around the dance floor to George Michael’s romantic “Careless Whispers.” He looked youthful and dapper, and she was flush with grace and optimism. Both had always wanted a quiet wedding. And today they basked in each other’s embrace.

  Chapter 28

  The bullet hit the left eye of the man standing one step back among the three fighters. His deadweight hit the wall behind with a dull thud.

  The man standing to his right turned first. By the time he could figure out what had happened, his colleague was already dead. He whirled around, his grip tightening on his gun, his finger trigger-ready. Unhesitant to kill the enemy.

  Eddie adjusted the crosshairs over his next target. Another blast of sand. Another crack of the whip. The .300 round sped forward, eager to meet its target.

  It hit the left side of its victim’s skull, even as the man was getting ready to fire. He hit the dirt, spewing blood. The only man left looked left and right, trying desperately to locate the shooter. He saw a figure approaching him, and his
instinct was to drop his cell phone and raise his gun.

  Wick was now sprinting, his Berretta out. Two 9mm bullets left the silenced barrel and found the center of his target’s forehead. The third fighter died on the spot with shock in his eyes. He hadn’t even got a chance to lift his gun.

  Three men down in less than fifteen seconds and not a sound to warn the others inside.

  Chapter 29

  Basit would not back down. Not now that he had sensed an opening. The man would talk, and soon.

  “Let me ask you, Josh, would you like to see your family?

  Josh was exhausted and in extreme pain. His gaze dropped to the floor, and he tried to think straight. He didn’t want to pursue any conversation with his tormentor.