by Chase Austin
“My men have been kind to you since you’ve been here. You think they cannot break you?” Basit grabbed Fletcher’s jaw and forced his face towards him.
Josh stared into Basit’s eyes and recognized a sense of satisfaction. Basit was not done with Josh. Far from it. If Josh thought this was the end, he was very wrong. This was just the beginning.
“You think we are weak. We cannot break your CIA training. You are wrong. From now on, things change. You can lie to me no more. You insult me no more with your phony stories. From here on, things are going to get messy.”
“I am telling you the truth,” Josh screamed and stretched out to touch his interrogator’s arm.
Basit caught him midway and pressed a nerve. Josh’s screams magnified. His eyes pleaded with Basit to leave him alone. Finally, Basit released his wrist and left the room. His men followed him out.
Chapter 30
Basit came out of the room. He knew that making someone wait in dread, wondering what would come next, was as effective a means of torture as anything physical. He waited outside the room, watching Josh in silence, letting the tension build. Wasim stood a step behind, looking at him in admiration.
For a few minutes, Josh remained still. And then he slowly began to unravel. Over the next five minutes, he shook violently, cried and looked around desperately for a way to escape. The transformation happened rapidly. His panicky movements rocked the chair and he lost his balance again, hitting the floor hard. He tried to crawl to the safety of the nearest corner. But he had no strength. He was in deep pain and his lower body was almost useless.
Basit knew the shocks had done their job—half of Fletcher’s body was numb and some of his body parts may never work again, and yet he was still alive. Basit had not hit him, he had not even touched him. The only thing he had done was to attach the clips to his gonads, and they had done everything else.
Josh grew more and more troubled by the second, dragging his lifeless naked body on the floor, seeking whatever safety he could find in that small room. The door opened again and Basit came back in. The look on Josh’s face was of sheer horror.
Basit snarled looking at Josh, “I have given you enough time. Now, I will ask only one question and if you lie...” he gestured towards his companions, “they will break your bones, one at a time, a bone for every lie.”
Josh looked at them in terror. He knew Basit was not bluffing.
“Who do you work for?”
“CNN.”
Basit nodded at one of the men, who held Josh’s arm down on the seat of the wrecked chair. The other raised his heavy boot and came down hard on it. With a loud snap, the arm was broken. Josh screamed.
“Who do you work for?”
“Please...” Josh gasped. “No... please...”
Basit put his boot on top of the broken arm and pressed down. Josh screamed in agony.
Basit snarled, “I’m not taking my foot off until you answer me!”
Josh kept screaming.
“Who do you work for?”
“CNN! CNN!” The man’s face was covered in sweat and contorted in anguish.
“I told you not to lie to me,” Basit said, speaking slowly, menacingly.
“I swear I’m telling you the truth!” Josh gasped.
Another signal and, this time, it was the other arm. The pain shot up a hundred-fold. Tears flooded Josh’s eyes and ran down his face. His head was throbbing. His arms lay limp and bleeding at his sides. He tried to crawl away, using his face and chest to move forward. Anything to get away from the butchers.
Basit drew a letter-sized manila envelope from his back pocket and retrieved a photo from it. He threw it on the floor beside Josh. “Does she look familiar?” And he began to roll up his sleeves.
Josh looked at the photo through bleary eyes. He knew who the person in the picture was, but he also knew it was perilous to accept that. He shook his head weakly.
Chapter 31
A powerful blast of hot wind hit Wick, smacking his flowing outfit against his body. Wick lowered his head and squinted through the sand and dust but didn’t slacken his pace. The third guard had barely hit the ground when he was at the door. A hundred yards covered in seconds. The sun was setting in the west. Ballooning clouds crowded the evening sky.
Wick knew Eddie was watching his every move. The assurance that someone had his back was enough for him to take the plunge. His run ended at the closed door. He stood amidst three dead bodies, his back against the wall. Looking in Eddie’s direction, he gave a thumbs-up sign. Wick understood that those two shots by Eddie were nothing short of a miracle. Without those impossible shots, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. And now it was his turn.
Leaning against the mud wall, Wick closed his eyes for a moment. He focused on his breathing, visualizing what was to come.
Enter the bunker. Use the blade. No sound. He opened his eyes and tapped his coat, feeling the reassuring bulges of the Ka-Bar and the three Beretta magazines. His chest tightened at the thought of what he was about to do. A little anxiety is always good.
Wick had no idea how many people he would find inside. He was going in completely blind. His life rested on his skills and his luck. Nothing else mattered.
“I’m going in. The connection might not be so good inside so stay put and wait for thirty minutes before making a move.” Wick said to Eddie. He shrugged off his coat and took out the Ka-Bar.
Eddie checked his watch, then whispered. “Best of luck, brother. I’ll be here.”
Wick grinned hearing his voice and then slowly pulled the door open. From the crack, he saw stairs descending into the darkness. He checked the time, took a deep breath, and glanced once in Eddie’s direction before disappearing inside the hut.
Chapter 32
The stairs went straight down, then took a sharp left turn. It was semi-dark, and Wick paused for a moment to adjust his vision. He listened hard for footsteps. Nothing. There was no movement on the stairs. Once his vision had adjusted, he descended the stairs, careful not to make any sound. Heels first, toes next.
The cramped space gave him little space to maneuver should someone come upon him. He had no option but to cover the distance as fast as he could without making a noise. At the bend, he stopped, listening for any sound from the other side. Nothing. He then took out a tiny cam attached to a foldable wire to a small round screen. Dropping to a squat at the last step of the stairs, he slowly extended the cam to check the other side of the bend. Six more steps, and then a concrete floor that could be seen only in patches, mostly where it was cracked and jutted upward. The rest of the floor was covered with a matted layer of sand and dirt.
Wick took a moment to examine his surroundings, then walked through the corridor to the first door. It was shut. He put his ear against it. Silence. He carefully twisted the handle anticlockwise. The door opened, without creaking. Wick leaned in and checked the room.
Clear.
To his right, ten feet ahead, he saw light spilling into the hallway from an open room. Wick paused and wiped his palms. Took a step. Tested the floor. No sound. He marched ahead, staying close to the wall. He halted an arm’s length shy of the lighted room. Took a deep breath.
His grip on the Ka-Bar tightened. He had learned to use it in missions with the Joint Task Force 2. It was a weapon useful for self-defense and in knife fights. The grip fitted the hand so perfectly that it was very difficult to disarm anyone holding one.
He peeked inside. Two men seated side by side, their backs towards the door, their rifles carelessly propped against the wall. Wick slipped in noiselessly to see a wall lined with several screens showing CCTV footage from within the facility. He peered at the screen. It was Josh, the man from the file. Crawling and bleeding on the floor. Looking for a way out. The screens were muted but Wick could see that Josh was screaming in pain.
Wick looked sideways and took a long silent step into the room. Paused. Held his breath. Reversed the knife in his hand, blade outward. Raised h
is arm, cocked it behind the first militant’s head and closed the loop with a snap. The knife buried itself six inches deep in the back of terrorist’s neck.
The terrorist’s body went rigid in response to the unanticipated assault. He arched his back and his mouth opened wide to let loose a scream of agony, but Wick was too quick, too well trained in the art of efficient killing. His free hand moved from the militant's shoulder to his mouth, stifling the cry. He quickly drew the knife out.
The other terrorist turned at the slight sound, but Wick’s hand was already in motion. The terrorist pushed himself away from the table, half-rising. Wick watched him calculate the distance between himself and his rifle. The man looked unsure about the best manner to salvage the situation but finally, he went for the gun.
Wick’s knuckles hardened, and he sidestepped to give himself more room to take an accurate swing. The man blinked, and Wick landed his left punch on his Adam’s apple. The terrorist’s hand recoiled back and grabbed his neck, gagging. With his right hand, Wick swung the Ka-Bar, and it hit the jugular vein through the man’s fingers. Blood leaked from the puncture. The gag now turned into silent screams.
Wick cut his throat, ear to ear. Then he turned back and cut the first soldier’s throat, too. Just in case. Blood soaked the tabletop, dripping to the floor. It didn’t spurt, just leaked. Wick squatted and wiped the blade clean on the dead soldier’s shirt.
Chapter 33
They never knew what hit them. Wick ejected the magazines from the two assault rifles and hid them behind the TV screens. He checked the screens. One showed an armed man assaulting Josh who was on the ground. Even as he watched, the man almost casually broke Josh’s right leg with his boot. The prisoner’s agony could be felt even through the silent screen.
The scene would have been disturbing to anyone, but its effect on Wick was especially profound. His face had taken on a very strange look, eyes narrowed into slits, jaw tight, sweat on his forehead. It seemed almost as if he were metamorphosing into someone else.
Wick shook his head several times, muttering expletives under his breath, his teeth clenched. A fierce battle raged within him. The logical side of his brain told him he must save Josh by sticking to the plan. He knew it was his sane voice, the one he should listen to, yet there was another voice in his head that was telling him something entirely different.
He forced himself to calm down. All his professional training had taught him he should stay on course and continue to hunt down the enemy one by one without revealing his presence. His job was to make Basit talk, get Josh out alive and blow up the facility.
Four people in the room along with Josh. Two dead bodies here and three outside. This meant Wick knew about nine positions. What about the rest? His survival depended on finding them before they found him.
He exited the room, closing the door gently behind him. The corridor was still deserted. He crept to the next room; it was empty. He continued carefully down the corridor. Suddenly, a fighter in military fatigues stepped out into the hallway right in front of him. The man froze momentarily in shock, finding a stranger in the corridor. Before his hand could go to the Kalashnikov strung across his shoulder, Wick’s Ka-Bar rose and sliced down, jabbing the man in the throat. Wick buried the blade deep in his neck and jerked it left, severing the windpipe while stepping aside to avoid the spray of blood. He caught the semi-dead body by the shirt as it fell and dragged it back into the room the man had just come out of. It was a weapons store, with a table and chair at the center. Wick bent down and clamped the man’s head between his hands, twisted it left and then jerked it right. The neck broke with a snap that was loud but not loud enough to worry about. Still, Wick froze, listening hard for approaching footsteps. Sixty seconds later, a movement in the corridor caught his attention and he withdrew his Beretta and swung it in that direction. He moved slowly towards the door, letting the sound of the footsteps come closer. The militant walked down the corridor like he was in no hurry. He crossed the armory room. Wick, from his crouched sitting position in the shadows, saw the distinct outline of a man with a Kalashnikov strung across his body armor. The man’s back was towards him. Wick waited for him to approach. He put his Beretta on the ground very carefully and got to his feet. His blade was back in his hand. At the threshold of the room, he stopped and looked at the other side of the corridor. They were alone. Closing the distance between him and the militant, he quickly got into position.
The militant sensed his presence and whirled around. His eyes met Wick even as the blade pierced his soft belly. The militant’s hands grabbed Wick’s attacking hand. His mouth opened to scream but Wick’s free hand covered his mouth tightly shoving him against the wall. The man squirmed, pinned against the wall, but Wick turned the knife’s handle first clockwise, then anticlockwise, and then withdrew it. The man instinctively covered the knife wound with both hands. His legs gave way, but Wick kept him pinned against the wall. The militant raised his right leg and started banging the wall behind to call for help.
Wick’s hand rose to his prey’s neck and severed his right jugular vein, spraying blood.
It had an immediate impact on the man who stopped wriggling. A shudder went through him and then his lifeless body collapsed forward on Wick.
Wick quickly dragged the body into the same room where a minute ago he had hidden the other dead militant. He picked up his Berretta from the floor and stepped out of the room, pivoting to the opposite side of the corridor, his eyes scanning the area.
There!
Another militant lurked at the far end of the corridor. And, like his fallen friend, he hadn’t seen Wick. But his head was cocked. He had possibly heard a noise. The man knew something was amiss but was still unsure what it was. The militant was looking for movement and Wick intended to give him what he wanted. He took out his second blade. His knife-wielding hand suddenly lashed out. The blade shot through the air. The militant heard the whooshing sound, but before he could determine the source, the Ka-bar blade dug hard into his left cheek. The man’s head jerked backwards, and he stumbled. Dropping his gun, he instinctively pressed both palms against the left side of his face to alleviate the pain. That’s when he heard footsteps approaching. From the corner of his eye, he saw a silhouette approaching him. The man needed help. He tried opening his mouth but couldn’t. The effort caused the knife to dig further into his face. All he could manage was a feeble gagging sound. The second Ka-Bar in Wick’s right hand arrived a second later and with one snap it pierced his Adam’s apple.
His arms went stiff. His body fell against door behind. The door banged hard against the wall. Dead before Wick blinked.
One more down.
Wick paused and listened, strangely there wasn’t any movement in the corridor. No one was coming for him, at least not yet. But he knew someone would, soon. The door had made quite a noise.
He dragged the body of the dead militant back into the room from where he had come and set it on the chair in a sitting position, head on the table. Anyone glancing in from the corridor would see a man grabbing a quick shuteye. Wick then sandwiched himself between the door and wall. He slowed down his breathing to a minimum, calming his mind. He left the door open, the feeble light from the room, spilling into the corridor.
He heard soft footsteps approaching.
A door not far from him opened. A man was in the corridor but on the opposite side, away from where Wick was. Wick concentrated on his footsteps. The soft sound was measured, as if the man was scoping the area in a hunched position. The steps stopped at the threshold of the room. Wick could hear him breathing on the other side of the door. So, the man on the other side could probably also hear Wick. He slowed his breathing. Wick had unknowingly put himself in a very precarious situation. And he was in no position to respond. Even a junked AK-47 could easily tear down a hundred such wooden doors. If it came to that it had only one ending—Wick’s death. His life right then was hanging on a very thin thread of luck.
The mili
tant stayed at the door for a few seconds longer, gazing at his colleague. The dim light was making it difficult to ascertain anything.
“Aslam! You okay?”
Aslam didn’t respond. The militant rushed towards the table. Wick saw the back of his new target, AK-47 in his right hand. He slowly came out from the shadows and positioned himself right behind his new target. And then he did something unexpected.
“Everything okay?” he asked his target in Arabic.
“Aslam is dead,” the man responded, turning around, his gun still slack at his side. As soon as he turned fully, Wick’s hands shot upwards and two Ka-Bars pierced the man’s soft skin between his Adam’s apple and his jaws on both sides. The upward thrust of the Cro-van steel blades was such that the militant was momentarily in the air. His body shivered violently, then went limp. Wick slowly lowered him onto the table behind him, careful not to make a sound.
