by James Hunt
Martinez screamed just as a boot from one of the other men kicked him right across the face. An intense white flash left his head rattling and his ear throbbing with a high pitched ringing. Within moments, he was hoisted up by multiple masked men and carried across the room in a frenzy. His vision was blurry again and his senses disoriented. They tossed him flat on the doctor’s table—hard. Blood spurted from his mouth like a sprinkler.
Some of the men backed away as hands grabbed both his arms and legs, holding him down and fastening the leather straps at each end. He screamed out in anger, trying to move, but they had him fastened, arms at his sides and legs bound at each ankle. They tightened straps over his chest and stomach, and he could hardly breathe. Movement was impossible. He had been rendering him defenseless and at their mercy.
The hard metal surface of the table seemed to dig into his back, as if he were lying on spikes. The men dispersed, leaving only Kareem standing over him, staring down, curious. The ceiling light cast a shadow on Kareem’s face, and for a moment, he just examined Martinez as if he were a science project.
“That’s one way to speed up the process,” Kareem said with a smile. “We weren’t going to jump right to this, but you seem to be in one big hurry. So let’s begin…” He paused and then held up Martinez’s knife, taunting him. “It’s always the hardest at the beginning, but then the body does this thing. It tries to suppress the pain and numb the body by releasing endorphins.”
“Listen to me!” Martinez said, cutting in. The side of his face was badly swollen from the kick and he could hardly speak. “I don’t care about this place or you. I was looking for drug traffickers.”
He had already determined that they weren’t cartel. They were, in fact, the very terror cell he was looking for. But he had screwed up. They weren’t supposed to catch him. He had been so careful, or had he?
“Whatever reason you have for being here, we are going to get to,” Kareem began.
Martinez jerked his body, testing the straps and trying to gauge whether it might be possible to loosen them and break free.
Out of the corner of his good eye, he saw two men from the corner of the room begin to push the wheel table in his direction, displaying instruments of pain and torture.
Kareem leaned in. “Let me tell you a little about myself. I went to school in Jordan to become a surgeon.” He turned to the table as the two masked men parked it and walked away.
Kareem set Martinez’s knife on the cart and picked up an X-Acto knife about the size of a writing pen. “I had a promising career ahead of me. But then war broke out back home. Civil war, they called it. And I had to return from school at the behest of my family.”
He ran the knife down Martinez’s chest. “Your government got involved. They backed the rebels. My people. We hated Assad and wanted him gone. But what the U.S. didn’t understand—or maybe they did—was that Assad was at war with the Islamic State. That’s why we wanted him gone.”
“Please. Kareem, listen to me. You don’t want to do this,” Martinez pleaded.
Kareem brought the knife back up and pushed it against his chin. “I’ve heard many men scream, and I’ve heard many men beg.” He pressed the tip into Martinez’s neck as Martinez struggled to prevent himself from shaking. “I’ve lost count of how many I’ve cut up and mutilated as they lay screaming until their last conscious breath drained away. As an executioner for ISIS, sometimes I have had to keep men alive as long as possible so they can feel every last moment of pain.”
Martinez couldn’t hold back any longer. “Stop this!”
Kareem gave him an indulgent smile. He pulled the knife away and tossed it onto the cart. He then studied the other instruments, trying to make up his mind. His eyes stopped at the power drill. He couldn’t think of any better way to send his message.
“Ah, here we go.” He held up the blue cordless power drill, admiring the four-inch, blood-stained silver drill bit. “Americans like their power tools.” He pulled the trigger and held the drill close to his ear listening to the whirring sound of the motor and glancing at the spin of the drill bit.
He lowered the drill, slowly bringing it closer to Martinez’s face. Martinez jerked his head, but there was no escape. The drill was moving steadily toward his eye. He closed them both, squeezing tight. Then the sound of the drill stopped, and when he opened his eyes again, Kareem was hovering over him, looking down and smiling
“Del Rio, you said?”
“Yes.” Martinez’s heart was beating so fast that he felt like it was going to explode.
“The same Del Rio where we lost our truck?”
“Yes,” Martinez said.
“And you had something to do with that?”
Martinez didn’t respond. Either answer could get him a drill in the eye or somewhere just as painful. In his moment of hesitation, Kareem brought the drill to the thick of his shoulder, pulled the trigger, and drove it through his flesh—all the way until it hit bone.
Martinez screamed from an intensity of pain he had never experienced in his life. He had no idea such pain was possible. The drill continued to tear into his arm as Kareem pushed it farther in with glee. Blood gushed from the open, ravaged wound, and at the height of his anguish, Kareem yanked the drill out, and to Martinez’s horror, presented him with bits of his own flesh still clinging to the tip of the drill. He was gasping and weeping with pain.
“Where,” said Kareem, “are those endorphins when we need them most?” He laughed with a calm cruelty, and began to wipe the drill clean before turning back to Martinez. “I want the names of who was there. My boss told me that we’re looking for two federal agents. A man and a woman. I’m guessing you’re the man, so who’s your bitch partner?”
Drenched in sweat, Martinez looked around in a state of delirium. He thought of Gloria and the boys. If he could just see them again…
Kareem lowered the drill and leaned against the table, inches from Martinez’s face, speaking as though he were a confidant. “Jorge Martinez. This is not going to end well for you if you keep withholding information.” He raised two fingers in the air. “You have two choices here. Tell me what I want to know and die quickly, without pain, or keep stalling and have the longest, most painful death you could ever imagine.” He paused and leaned in even closer, talking not above a whisper. “I can go as long as you can. My most stubborn patient lasted for seventy-two hours.”
Martinez’s petrified silence only encouraged Kareem more. He brought the drill back up. “You know why we are here?” He paused, waiting for an answer. “No? Well, your stupid government brought us here. They brought us here by the thousands. Can you believe that?” He shook his head and laughed. “We applied for refugee status. All of us! Not a woman or child among us!” He calmed down and caught his breath. “Wouldn’t you know it, we’re war refugees!”
He turned the drill back on and brought it to a different spot along Martinez’s arm.
“Sarah!” Martinez shouted. “Sarah Jones!”
Kareem stopped and studied Martinez’s pale, terrified face. “Not convinced…” Without turning it on, he placed the bit against Martinez’s arm, and pushed it in slightly. “Is the suspense killing you?” he asked, “or should I do that?”
Then he pulled the trigger and drilled through Martinez’s soft flesh, right at the bicep. Martinez screamed until his voice went hoarse. Then the drill came out, leaving a quarter-inch hole and a trail of dark blood leaking down his arm.
“Stop screaming or you will wake the dead,” Kareem joked. “Now, try again,” Kareem said. “I want her name. You can lie, risk it if you want. See if I don’t catch on.” He then brought the drill right to Martinez’s left eye. “Tell me another lie, and this is gonna go right in. Just enough to pop your little pupil into goo.”
Martinez closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears. Aside from primal fear, he felt confused and disoriented. Had he any chance to escape?
“Five seconds,” Kareem said, causally.
“Angela!” Martinez shouted.
Kareem kept his finger at the ready, caressing the trigger. “Angela who?”
“Angela Gannon. Border Patrol Agent Angela Gannon!” Martinez’s voice echoed throughout the room, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that the drill was no longer there. Seeming convinced, Kareem set it aside and grabbed a pair of pliers. “That time I believe you.”
He stopped and signaled one of his men over as Martinez began to fade in and out of consciousness. Kareem spoke quickly to the man in Arabic, saying the name Angela Gannon several times. The masked man nodded and then left the room as though he had been dispatched to deliver a message. Once the man was gone, all of Kareem’s attention was back on Martinez.
“There’s some more questions I have for you, and then we’ll be done.” He held up a pair of rusty pliers to the light, flashing his perpetual smile. “But first… I’m going to have to ask you to open wide.”
He pushed Martinez’s head down, squeezing his nose shut. Martinez shut his mouth and tried his best to resist, but breathing was getting more difficult by the second. The moment his mouth opened, gasping for breath, Kareem went in with the pliers squeezing them against his front teeth. Martinez pleaded with him to stop, but Kareem was far too determined.
Suddenly a rumbling could be heard outside—something large and alarming. He pulled the pliers away from Martinez’s mouth and stood frozen listening. He spoke quietly and with urgency to his men. No one, it seemed, knew what was going on.
“It’s him,” one of the masked men shouted, pointing at Martinez. “He brought more of them here!”
Martinez tried to look around to understand what was going on, but the men seemed in a panic. He could hear the noise as well: whopping helicopter rotors with an engine that sounded as though it was descending fast.
“Call headquarters!” Kareem shouted. “Tell them everything this man told us. We have to act now!”
The men scrambled and ran out of the room with Kareem following in a panic and leaving Martinez with the most immense sense of relief he had ever felt in his life.
Wolves to Slaughter
With the compound in view, the FBI helicopter touched down near their set coordinates. The quick plunge startled Angela, and she gripped the seat but the FBI team, night-vision goggles affixed to their helmets, seemed calm and ready as could be.
The red light inside the helicopter only made it more difficult to see anything within their dark cabin. They landed with a tremendous shake that nearly tossed Angela out of her seat. Next to her, Sutherland wasted no time. He adjusted his night-vision goggles, stood up, and opened the door, calling to the team, “Let’s move out!”
Lynch and Hopper rose, but Thaxton remained seated, ready and waiting as she had been in their previous raid. Angela grabbed her night-vision goggles and unbuckled her seat belt, moving toward the door and looking for the spare vest. Hooper and Lynch jumped out. As she moved to the door, Sutherland blocked her way.
“You stay here with the assistant director. If we need you, we’ll let you know.”
Surprised, her mouth dropped open. “He’s my partner!”
“We don’t know who or what’s in there at the moment, if anyone! If there are people inside, they certainly know we’re here.”
Angela went for her pistol and pulled it from her side holster. “I know how to use this.”
Sutherland shook his head. “Negative. You sit tight. This won’t take long.”
She turned to the director who was busy monitoring the laptop resting on her legs. Sutherland jumped out and shut the door before she could respond. Thaxton looked up at Angela and shrugged then patted the spot next to her.
“Have a seat, Agent Gannon.”
Angela huffed and sat down, as the helicopter’s rotors continued to spin. She held the night vision goggles to her eyes and looked over the pilot’s shoulder beyond the windshield where she could see the FBI team racing toward a large, square compound. An all-encompassing tarp supported by several poles covered it entirely.
“We can watch it all on here,” Thaxton said pointing to the screen.
Angela glanced at the screen to see three open windows displaying live video feeds from the agents’ helmet cam. She had not even been aware they were wearing cameras. The images showed the compound getting closer as they moved to one side, looking for an entrance. There were no entrances and, from the looks of it, no doors.
As much as she wanted to watch, she felt deeply conflicted about having to wait behind. Thaxton noticed her silence and turned to her, speaking close to her ear. “I’m going to level with you. Captain Martinez may be a little over his head here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Angela snapped. She then realized who she was talking to. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Thaxton waved her off. “What I mean is that our mutual friend may have fallen in with the wrong group.”
Angela looked at her, stunned. “What? The terrorists?”
“No,” Thaxton said. “Not the kind you may be thinking of. These are homegrown vigilantes, and the government wants to clamp down on them. I’m sure you’ve heard of them in your profession.”
Angela shook her head.
“The South Texas Border Recon. Call themselves the Outlaws,” Thaxton continued. Noticing Angela’s skepticism, she elaborated. “I’m not talking good ol’ American boys. These guys are dangerous.” She held her hands ten inches apart from each other. “We’ve got a file on them this thick. Administration wants them stopped.”
“And Captain Martinez?” Angela said in disbelief.
“We’re hoping that he’ll lead us to them.”
“But the address?” Angela said. “That man, Mahmoud. He said this was an ISIS location.”
“Look around where you’re at,” Thaxton said, trying to talk over the engine. “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Angela glanced at the screen. The team had circled to the other side of the building, stopping at a metal door sealed shut. One of the agents attached a digital cube-like device on the door and then set a timer on it, crouching for cover.
Angela stood up, ready to give the assistant director a piece of her mind and damn the consequences. “Is ISIS in that building or not? Who in the hell are we looking for?”
Thaxton remained calm and collected as always and then spoke, barely raising her voice. “We don’t know just yet. This location was not on our radar before. It’s the first we’ve heard of it. Either way, we’re going to set up camp and wait for Captain Martinez and his border recon team.”
“And then what?” Angela shouted. “Arrest him?”
“With you here, that may not be necessary,” Thaxton said as her eyes went back to the screen.
Angela stood frozen. She felt sick inside, like someone had punched her in the gut. The entire mission was a crapshoot, based on the assumption that the FBI could intercept Captain Martinez. Thaxton showed little, if at all, concern about a terror cell. Astoundingly, her priorities seemed skewed far in the other direction.
Angela scanned the helicopter and saw a bulletproof vest lying on the floor at the end of Thaxton’s seat. She walked to the end of the seat, and grabbed the vest, hoisting it over her head and onto her shoulders.
Her quick movements gained Thaxton’s otherwise distracted attention. “What are you doing?”
Suddenly, a brief explosion lit up the side of the compound like a firecracker. Angela ran to the door, pulled the handle, and swung it open.
“Get back here!” Thaxton shouted.
Angela jumped out and slammed the door behind her. She sprinted off without looking back. Something was going on, and she wasn’t going to allow herself to be used any longer. She was well aware that Thaxton was running after her, but she had already gained a sizeable lead. Whatever the FBI was up to, she planned to be right there with them. Her partner needed her.
***
Kareem ran out of the room behind his panicked men and into the o
therwise empty hall where ten other sleeper cell operatives flew off cots, startled awake by the commotions.
“Get up, you lazy goats! We have to leave. Now!” Kareem shouted.
“No!” said a bald man with a light shade of stubble on his face. He grabbed the AK-47 from under his cot and pulled the charging handle back. “We must stay and fight.” He stood defiant in his thin, baggy white pants and matching white top. The other men scrambled around, unsure of what to do.
“That is not the plan!” Kareem shouted back.
The men got the message and moved quickly to a corner room that looked to be little more than a closet. “Salah told us if we were to be found to destroy any sensitive documents and leave. This place is compromised. We have to go underground and escape while we can.”
The other men stood half awake and uncertain of what to do.
The bald man hurried toward Kareem with his rifle pointed upward. “What do you think Salah will do to us if we run, brother? He will make an example of us, like all the others.”
“Then that is Allah’s will. Stay here and you will die,” Kareem said. “Grab your things. Escape while you still can!” He then pointed to the room where Captain Martinez was being held. “First there was one American. Now there are more. It’s over if we stay. If they capture us, they will surely torture us for information.”
The men seemed convinced as they grabbed their packs and rifles and ran toward the escape room. The bald man, however, remained in place.
Kareem narrowed his eyes at the man and shook his head. “You’re going to ruin our entire operation with this foolishness, Salazar.”
“I’m not scared of the Americans,” the bald man said. “Let them come.”
A loud burst erupted at the end of the hall, sending Kareem to the floor on his chest. After an instantaneous flash, they could see smoke seeping into the room.
“They’ve breached the door!” Kareem said, jumping up. “Run!”
