by S L Shelton
A kick to my ribs sent me rolling sideways, far away from where the knife had dropped. All I could hear were grunts and the rustling of feet on the ground as the assault continued. For every blow I deflected, two more connected. I was running out of options and strength. Helplessness began to overwhelm me, a feeling that seemed all too familiar and yet at that moment, completely unacceptable.
No! I raged in my head. You are not going to take me.
A particularly violent kick to my gut sent me flying backward through the air, threatening to undermine my resolve. When I came down, I realized I was near Nick—he was only a couple of feet away; beneath me was something hard. At first, I thought it was a rock I could use as a weapon. However, as I wrapped my fingers around the object behind me, I felt the cold, smooth texture of machined metal.
Nick’s gun! I thought
As I rolled once more, my hand closed around the barrel. I lurched forward and up before striking the next man in the groin with the pistol grip.
At this point, I started to feel optimism flood my body, giving me a new burst of strength. I felt the tide had changed with the discovery of Nick’s SIG—but the celebration was short-lived. A fist connected with the side of my head and an arm slipped around my neck.
I reached up with the pistol and fired blindly over my shoulder; the pop and the flash dazed me for a second, but the arm released. I wasn't sure if I’d hit him or not, but the release was all the time I needed to turn and kick. He fell to the ground, cradling the side of his face.
Something heavy hit me from behind. My neck exploded in pain, and electricity coursed down my spine.
Another Taser, I realized.
The burning sensation came with the taste of metal in my mouth, and my teeth compressed so hard I thought they would break. I dropped to my knees and felt a bag slip over my head.
“No!” I screamed.
Even in the dark, I could see the red in my eyes. My hand shot up reflexively, found an exposed throat and grabbed it with my climber’s grip. A boot came down on my shoulder from the front. My other hand reached out and grabbed a groin.
A scream rose from the assailant in front of me as the boot slipped from my shoulder.
My fingers began to sink into flesh. Two hands were on mine, desperately trying to pry my fingers from the throat—then four hands, then six, prying and pulling at my fingers. As my hand slowly crushed the exposed throat, elbows and fists rained down on my head, but my fingers sank deeper. I continued to pull down with my hand until the throat I held was below me.
“Get him off!” someone yelled.
I reached out with my free hand, seeking more flesh to tear into, and it came to rest on someone’s inner leg; the tendon at the back of the knee flexed and contracted, trying to push me over. I pinched down hard, my thumb digging into the hamstring, and a scream pierced the darkness from above me.
Was that a woman? I thought. That sounded like a woman!
My elbow smashed into a body behind me. A dead weight fell across my back, but the bag pulled tighter over my head. I crushed down harder on the throat in my hand as in the background I could hear the whoop, whoop, whoop of a helicopter landing.
And then something hard touched my head.
Don’t let it—
My inner voice began to speak, but heat and a flash of blue and white light interrupted the message.
There’s a bag over my head…where did the light come from? I wondered as I felt my body betray me as I crumpled. Up! Bring me up! I’m not done fighting!
The command to my inner voice went unanswered as the heat turned into searing pain, which raced down through my ears, my neck, and my jaw. As my face smacked the cold ground, I realized someone had just Tased my head.
My last conscious thought echoed until the light faded to utter black.
Why won’t you get me up? I asked my other voice. All I heard was a high-pitched ringing in both my ears as the darkness swept up and pulled me into its cold embrace.
**
Time: Unknown—Location: Unknown
“Wake up!” someone yelled as water splashed my face.
The icy cold slap made me jerk my neck, reminding me immediately of all the injuries I had suffered. When? How long ago was that?
I didn’t know where I was or how long I had been unconscious, but I could tell I was no longer outside because I could hear the echo of the voice on the walls. Someone pulled the hood from my head and a powerful light blinded me—light so intense I felt it burning the insides of my eyes.
I tried to turn my head away from its source, but a punch to the side of my face and strong hands pulled my head back around.
“Eyes front,” a man yelled.
American. Possibly Northeastern.
I pressed my eyes closed, attempting to block the assault on my optic nerves, but even through my lids, it was nearly bright as midday.
“Open your eyes or I’ll slice your lids off,” he said as someone punched me again.
I forced my eyes open to slits, trying to get used to the blinding, painful glare in front of me.
“Open them!” he yelled again as the light was blocked momentarily, followed by a punch to my gut, forcing the air from my lungs.
I opened them and gasped, trying to force my lungs to take a breath, forcing some clarity into my mind.
Dark room, light in front of me, two men behind me holding my head, one man in front yelling at me—American, I thought, taking inventory of my situation. Hands tied to the arms of the chair, feet tied to the legs of the chair, no shirt… Do I have pants? YES! Pants, but no shoes.
“Your name?” the man asked calmly.
Injuries? I thought as I flexed subtly against my bonds. The aches were too numerous to count. Anything major?
I squinted to try to see the man beyond the light. As the blinding white began to subside, my eyes adjusted.
A few seconds ticked by as they waited for my answer—I used the respite to gasp air back into my lungs.
No life-threatening injuries, I concluded after taking a deep breath.
Then another person stepped between the light and me. The punch delivered to the side of my face rattled my senses, leaving the metallic taste of blood in my mouth and the smell of wet rust in my sinuses.
Four men, I thought as I spat blood onto the floor in front of me.
“Let me explain how this works,” the man said—so far, the only one who had said anything. “We’re going to ask you questions—”
Whack! Another punch crashed into my jaw.
“—and you are going to answer them—”
Whack! And another.
“It’s simple. We ask; you answer.”
Whack!
“Very simple. It couldn’t be easier to understand.”
Whack! The last one made me feel like my teeth had come loose on that side. I felt a stream of blood roll from my nose, down my lip, and then fall from my chin.
There were several seconds of silence.
“Maybe he forgot the question?” one of the men holding my head said jokingly.
Whack! To the jaw.
“Your name,” the main talker said again, eerily calm.
I looked up, trying once more to see past the light, and I could just make out the vaguest impression of a head covered in a black mask. Seeing his face wouldn’t do me any good—no microexpressions to read.
I continued to look in the direction of his head as he moved around behind the bright light. I could no longer see him, blinded once again, but I knew where he was… I could feel him.
The chair is metal, the floor is concrete, the ceiling is high, the men behind me have bathed recently, I thought, continuing the account of my surroundings.
Whack! To my nose.
The guy punching me has a sore wrist and can’t lock it on impact, I thought. Good for me… One of the guys I grabbed, probably. I’ll last longer that way—unless they do it in shifts.
“Name,” Talking Man said again, ba
rely above a whisper.
I could see a thin line of light on the floor behind him. A door.
Several seconds passed until he finally said, “Loosen him up a bit.”
I heard boots shuffle toward me followed by—one, two, three, four, five—punches to my face and head. I counted them as my cheek numbed and the pressure in my sinuses made me feel as if my eye would pop from its socket because there was no room left inside my head. The last two punches, delivered to my eye and brow, seemed to have a weakened resolve. I’m sorry. Is my face hurting your wrist?
My left eye began to close on its own—at least that’s what I thought until I realized it was the result of a thick stream of blood from somewhere above the lid.
“Shit,” someone muttered in the background. A woman! Four men and a woman.
A few seconds passed in silence before Talking Man scoffed, “Huh. You must like the rough stuff.”
Are you there? I asked my other voice. The reply came in the form of a sudden ringing in my right ear, a high-pitched tone as you sometimes hear when the silence of a quiet room produces its own false sounds.
“More?” came the voice of the one who had been punching me. I could now see he was wearing a mask as well.
“No,” Talking Man said. “Bring the bucket over.”
Punching Guy walked to the side, and then I heard metal scraping against the floor from behind as they dragged something toward me. The sound of water sloshing onto the concrete floor made my chest contract.
Shit! I thought. Well, at least I’ll finally get a drink.
I heard the sound of a plastic bucket knocking against the side of metal and water splashing over the edge as the bucket carrier moved closer to me.
“Tip him back,” Punching Guy said.
I was suddenly falling backward. I reflexively flailed with my legs as the chair tipped, but the ties around my ankles stopped me from kicking out.
“Towel,” Punchy Guy said.
I heard footsteps from the side and got a whiff of the woman before a towel stretched roughly over my face. The first few splashes landed on my forehead, but the wicking quickly brought the moisture to my nose and mouth. The more he sloshed water on me, the quicker the sensation of submersion developed. I inhaled the water into my mouth and swallowed gratefully despite the panic rising in my head.
But after a few more seconds, I couldn’t keep the water out of my mouth or my nose and my sinuses and the pressure built up. I blew out with all my breath, but they immediately filled it again—that’s when the real panic set in. My next breath sucked water.
I tried twisting away as the panic ran up my spine, thrashing as best I could, but they held firm as I pictured water filling my lungs. Several seconds passed as I struggled for a breath, trying to spit the water from my mouth while my nose and sinuses filled with fluid.
“Let’s try again,” Talking Man said.
The water stopped as they pushed me up again, letting my head crash forward when the front legs of the chair smacked the ground. I closed my throat to try to squeeze the water out before taking a breath, but I had no breath to blow out. Instead, I inhaled. The rattling in my chest told me I had water in my lungs. One raspy, gasping breath after another, I tried to clear the fluid and the panic from my body.
Gasping out a deep, bubbling breath, I coughed out as much water as I could before the two behind me grabbed my head again.
“Name,” Talking Man said quietly.
I coughed some more, retching up as much as I could from the upright position.
I heard the bucket hit the floor, the sound followed by another punch to the side of the face that wrenched my head from the hands behind me. A few seconds went by as I continued to cough, spitting blood and water on my chest.
In the middle of a deep breath, the hands grabbed my head again, twisting it up and forward. I snapped my neck to the side in anger, breaking the grip of the men who were holding it.
“Look…he’s feeling stronger,” he said. “Tip him back again.”
I heard the bucket knock and scrape against the concrete floor as I tipped backward in the chair again.
“Wait!” I yelled through my gurgling throat.
There was a pause in my backward momentum and I was set forward again.
“Your name,” Talking Man said softly, leaning in close enough for me to smell his breath.
Burgers… It’s close to either lunch or dinnertime.
I coughed again, taking a deep raspy breath before answering.
“Your name!” he yelled, not being very patient.
I cocked my head, stretching the tension out of my neck to look at him sideways. “My name is,” I muttered before taking another rattling breath, “John…and I am the Walrus.”
A grin spread across my sore mouth. Wham! Something hard hit the back of my head.
“Coo coo ca-choo, motherfucker,” one of them said as I started blacking out and the chair tipped backward.
It’s ‘goo goo, g’joob, you asshole, I thought as I slipped into sodden darkness.
two
A Plan
11:15 a.m. on Friday, September 10th—Navy Brig, Norfolk, Virginia
MARK GAINES was brought into an interview room and chained to his chair. There he sat alone for ten minutes, preparing himself for another couple of hours of complete silence as he refused to talk.
The injuries Scott Wolfe had inflicted on him had healed well over the past two months. He still had pain in his right cheek, and his sinuses still wheezed at night, but he had recovered for the most part. But every day, when he looked in the stainless steel mirror in his cell, the new crook in his formerly straight nose reminded him of the beating he had taken.
His agitation at that memory evaporated as the bolts on the outer door squeaked.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, he thought. Scott did what you would have done.
He was expecting to see his government-provided attorney walk in, but as the door swung open, he was shocked to see his former boss, Senior CIA Operative John Temple, dressed like a thousand-dollar-an-hour lawyer.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch… John—” Mark said in disbelief, but John quickly brought his finger up, stopping him abruptly.
John casually walked over to the camera in the corner and pulled the video feed cable loose from the device before walking back to the table. There, he placed his expensive-looking briefcase in the center and opened it.
“What the fu—” Mark began, but John silenced him once more, raising a finger.
John reached into his briefcase, pulled two levers, one on either side of the case, before opening the top of the case flat so that it was wide open in the center of the table. He looked up at Mark and smiled as he reached in with his finger and gently pressed a corner of the interior trim. The case and metal table it sat on began to vibrate at a very low frequency, barely perceptible to the ear, but the vibration was significant to the touch.
“What the hell is going on?” Mark asked, worried a robotic arm was going to spring from the case and snap his neck.
“Sorry,” John said as he sat down. “This is meant to be a private conversation, and I know Homeland has secondary listening devices in here.”
Mark leaned back in his chair and inspected the table, letting that information sink in before leaning forward again.
“I’ll ask again,” Mark said with a snarl on his face. “What the hell is going on?”
John smiled his standard “calm yourself and the master will speak”, grin. It frustrated Mark and sent a spike of anger up his neck, but he fought the urge to be belligerent and instead slipped mask a passive expression over his features.
“There isn’t much we can do on this side of the wall,” John began and softened his expression, “—I’m sorry about the conditions, by the way—but I wanted to let you know that the Justice Department isn’t giving up the fight on you.”
“My lawyer has already told me as much,” Mark said dismissively.
“Your lawyer, I’m afraid, is only telling you what Homeland Security is letting him tell you,” John said with a raised eyebrow, trying to tempt Mark into being more pliable with an offering of privileged information.
“Pfft,” Mark scoffed. “I guessed that much.”
John leaned forward and put his hand out on the table. “What we and the DOJ want to know is why Homeland has such a hard-on for you,” he said, “we” obviously referring to the CIA National Clandestine Service and the Department of Justice. “You’ve got someone on a hook over there at DHS, and they aren’t going to be happy until they can put you in a hole somewhere.”
“Like this place is the Hilton,” Mark replied with a bored tone.
“This place is the fucking Hilton compared to where you could end up,” John said, tapping his index finger on the metal surface of the table. “I’m not asking you to give up your secrets, Mark. I just need enough ammunition to help Justice shoot down the Homeland claim on you.”
Mark shook his head. He knew the stalemate between the Department of Justice and the Department of Homeland Security had kept him safe in the Portsmouth Naval Brig for more than a month—he also knew it wouldn’t last forever. Nevertheless, he wasn’t sure if he could trust John Temple either.
“What makes you think I’ve got anything on anyone?” Mark asked.
John leaned forward, bringing his shoulders in to indicate a secret was about to be revealed. “Because those account numbers are for payoffs,” he said in a lowered voice.
Mark’s chest contracted though he kept his expression impassable as solid stone.
Shit! Did someone get to Alisha? He feared for his only remaining co-conspirator—Alisha Gordon—in uncovering massive governmental and media payoffs from an unknown corporate source.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Mark said coolly.
John shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “The pages,” John said simply, “in your toy box in Burbank.”
