The Shadow Dancers

by Angus McLean

  The cycle continued, the same pattern being used interspersed with a few kicks and knees, and by the time Moore had got through the Auckland and North Harbour teams of 1994, he was on the third round.

  As he was being pushed to the cold wet floor again he heard Katie being lifted and moved away. A door opened and shut. Silence fell, aside from the shuffling feet of the man standing over him and the sound of his own breathing.

  The hood had become his world. He assessed his captors again. Some knowledge and experience, yes. Professional, no. Dangerous, absolutely. He wondered what they were doing with or to Katie. He guessed they had picked her as the weaker of the two, and being a female she was certainly more vulnerable to a bunch of male thugs.

  Kneeling in the stress position for the fourth time, his body locked up in painful knots, Moore came to some conclusions about their captors. They were not Police, nor were they intelligence services. These guys were either organised crime thugs, terrorists, or private contractors of some sort.

  If they were terrorists, it was only a matter of time before the orange jumpsuits came out. If they were any of the other options, there must be an interrogation coming at some stage.

  If that was ever their intention, his captors were taking their time. He lost count of how many cycles of stress positions he went through, finally giving up at fourteen. He decided to just go with it. There was nothing he could do to stop it, so it seemed like a better idea to just roll with it, compartmentalise each cycle into a box and work through until the cycle began again.

  Thoughts of Danni forced their way into his head and he angrily banished them. No point thinking about her right now, unless she was bursting in the door with an Armalite in her hand.

  Moore fell asleep at some stage, a fitful, painful slumber of sorts. Just enough to relax slightly without feeling rested. He was woken for another round of stress positions, man-handling, a few kicks and punches and unintelligible shouting in his ear.

  He had no idea how long it all went on for but guessed it had to be close to a day. Time had lost all meaning to him. All that existed was the hood, his physical pain and the captors. His mouth tasted like a sun-baked gravel pit and his tongue felt thick and heavy. His stomach was achingly empty, and for some reason all he could think of was Turkish Delight. He didn’t even like Turkish fucking Delight.

  ‘Water,’ he croaked to the man he knew was behind him, not needing to put it on much at all.

  He had been kneeling with his head hung forward for what he figured was close to twenty minutes. His knees were beyond pain and his back muscles were so tight and stiff they barely seemed capable of moving.

  ‘Silence.’

  Moore took a slow breath through his nose, mentally flicking a switch. He’d had enough.

  ‘Water,’ he repeated.

  ‘I say silent.’ The man’s tone was more forceful now.

  ‘I say water,’ Moore retorted thickly.

  He heard the man’s feet shift, coming round in front of him now. He heard the rustle of clothing and knew what was coming.

  Warm piss splashed over his hood, dribbling down his face and chin. He screwed his eyes shut and clamped his lips tight. He wasn’t quite desperate enough yet to drink the guy’s piss.

  The man chuckled to himself.

  ‘Water,’ he said with a thick accent.

  His clothing rustled again as he tucked himself in and moved away.

  Moore kept his eyes shut and refocussed himself. Obviously this guy was just a sadist, so there was no point playing the sympathy card.

  He knew that best practice in hostage situations was to try and glean intel while delaying the kidnappers’ action as long as possible, and hoping the rescuers would hurry up and get there while planning your own escape. But this was different. There was no rescue team standing by, and escape options seemed limited at best just now.

  Fuck them, he decided. It was time to take the offensive.

  ‘I want to talk to your boss,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Get me the boss.’

  ‘I say shut up.’

  The guy shoved him flat on his face with a heel between the shoulder blades.

  Moore fought to breathe.

  ‘Get me the boss, arsehole.’

  He could smell the man leaning in close over him.

  ‘I am boss,’ he snarled.

  ‘You’re just the monkey,’ Moore told him, ‘get me the zookeeper.’

  ‘You fuck you!’

  The guy landed a decent punch to the side of Moore’s head.

  The door opened and a second voice sounded. The man over Moore replied and the other voice said something short and sharp. The door closed again and Moore sensed the man stepping back.

  ‘The boss,’ Moore insisted. ‘Go get him, dickhead.’

  The man’s cigarette breath wafted into Moore’s face.

  ‘Boss come soon. Then you know.’ He chuckled. ‘You know.’

  ‘I know you hit like a fuckin’ limp-wristed cock sucker,’ Moore replied.

  ‘Fuck you!’

  The guy was angry now, snorting like a bull as he launched into a frenzied assault, his fists raining down on Moore’s head and torso.

  The door opened again and there was a shout then running feet. The punches stopped when the newcomer got to them and there was an angry exchange of Turkish between the two men.

  Moore lay there, catching his breath and trying to clear his head. The boy had some weight behind those hits and he was hurting, but it had been worth it. He now knew more about these guys, and information was power. With information he could plan.

  He heard angry feet stomping off and the door closed. Another voice sounded, this one older and obviously better educated.

  ‘You are still alive, yes?’

  ‘Barely,’ Moore said. ‘Thanks, you’re a good man. He’s an animal.’

  ‘You shouldn’t provoke him,’ the man said. ‘He does not like you being rude to him.’

  ‘I want to speak to your boss, when can I do that?’

  The man was silent for a moment as if weighing his answer. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘It will be soon.’

  ‘Could I please have a drink? I think he broke my nose.’

  ‘No, no drink.’

  ‘I need some water please, he really hurt me.’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘Will this look good for your boss, us all beaten to shit? It won’t look good on the cameras.’

  ‘You don’t worry about that. There is no need.’

  Moore digested that. It wasn’t good. He tried again. ‘When is he coming here, your big chief wallah-wallah?’

  ‘Big what?’

  ‘Your boss. When can I speak to him?’

  ‘Soon, I say soon.’ The man gave a small chuckle. ‘He is very keen to talk to you too.’

  ‘I bet he is. We have a lot to talk about. He needs to know what we have to say, and I don’t think he’ll like it.’

  The man was silent for a moment. ‘Why you say that? He won’t like it?’

  ‘I’ll tell him when he gets here. I’m sick of talking to the bottom feeders.’

  ‘Now you are rude. Maybe I get my friend back in here.’

  Moore managed a snort. ‘He said you need him to do the dirty work for you.’

  ‘I think it time for you to shut up for a minute.’

  ‘What’s your big chief’s name then? If I’m going to get killed here I should at least know his name.’

  ‘You are scared. You should be scared.’ The man crouched down beside him. ‘You talk to him, it is the last conversation you have in your life.’

  ‘So tell me his name then. Or are you too scared I’m going to escape and tell everyone?’

  The man snorted. ‘I am scared of nothing. I believe in Allah, the one true prophet. He is leading us to glory against the infidels of the west.’

  Moore gave another snort of derision, but his mind was racing. ‘Can you stop breathing on me please
, your breath smells like an old man’s cock.’

  There was a flurry of movement as the man stood and booted him in the side. ‘Your juvenile insults mean nothing to me, spy. You will soon be leaving this world.’

  ‘So will you, you fuckin’ retard. Is your mother still alive?’

  There was a pause. ‘Why? Why you ask this of my mother? It is not your concern.’

  ‘Is she in Allah’s Paradise or not? It’s not a difficult question; yes or no?’

  No pause now, and the unseen man’s tone was proud when he spoke. ‘She is indeed in Paradise, awaiting me to come join her.’

  ‘Good. She must be missing you fucking her in the mouth. Now go get the boss, you dirty goat fucker. I’m sick of talking to you.’

  ‘Infidel! You will suffer for your sins!’

  The man moved away, pausing only to stamp twice on Moore’s back, good and hard, before moving away.

  The door opened and banged closed again. Moore took a slow breath and wondered how he managed to make friends so easily.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  He began to scrape the side of his face against the wet concrete.

  The rough surface gained traction on the cotton at the same time as it began to graze his skin. He ignored the pain and focussed on wriggling, shaking his head to loosen up the hood. It wasn’t secured under his chin, and after what felt like a lifetime he had it halfway up his face. He could see ambient light now.

  He worked harder, dragging the hood against the floor and shaking his head. He pushed up to his knees and bent over, feeling the hood beginning to flap a bit now as he shook his head as vigorously as his aching neck allowed.

  He rolled onto his back, awkwardly moving his bound hands to the side, and bent forward, bringing his knees up together in a crunch. He got the loose end of the hood between his knees and pulled it off in one go.

  He rolled to the side and then up, breathing hard with the exertion. His face stung but he could see now and breathe properly. He was in a concrete block room, maybe fifteen square metres, with a steel door on the far wall and a small barred window above it.

  He was alone and couldn’t hear any sounds beyond the walls.

  He took a quick assessment of his body, which was easy-everything hurt, nothing broken.

  He snorted and spat snot, then moved to the wall, searching the surface for any kind of irregularity, any edge that he could use on the plastic flexi-cuffs. He knew guys who could manoeuvre their bound hands over their legs to the front, but they were all skinny little racing sardines, not members of the Hundred Club with hips almost as wide as their shoulders.

  Finally he found a small ridge of unevenness where the bricklayer had failed to clean up a dribble of excess cement between two bricks at about knee height.

  Moore knelt down and backed up to it, feeling around until he had the right spot then setting to work. The kidnappers had put a cuff round each wrist then linked them with a third in the middle, giving some flexibility. They were wide cuffs though and it would take some doing to get free.

  Rubbing the linking cuff steadily up and down, Moore tried to avoid losing any more skin but it was impossible. He focussed on blocking out the pain and just getting the job done. The sooner he got his hands free the sooner he could have a crack at getting out of here. There was no way he was lying down for these bastards.

  Their intentions were clear.

  His shoulders and arms ached with the effort and he had to keep stopping to rest and let the circulation return to his muscles. Mentally counting the minutes, Moore had got to eight when he heard footsteps approaching outside the door.

  More than one set, maybe two, and some kind of stumbling, dragging sound. Muted conversation between the men.

  Moore went for it on the ridge, scraping at it like a man possessed, knowing he had only seconds. He could feel the cuff coming apart but he knew in his heart it wouldn’t be soon enough.

  He had the sudden, horrible thought that he’d blown it for them both, signed their death warrants by trying to escape.

  But no, he knew they were dead anyway, so he carried on, scraping like crazy, straining his arms apart to try and break the plastic bonding. His hands and wrists were grazed and blood was running freely. Sweat ran down his brow and neck. Every drop that got within reach of his tongue was lapped up and recycled.

  He was nearly there.

  The footsteps halted and there was the sound of the door handle being turned.

  Moore pushed up to his feet, giving up on the flexi-cuffs and bounding over to the door, his bare feet soundless on the concrete floor. He stood to the side, still straining at the cuffs behind his back, knowing they were nearly there. His fingertips could feel the big rip, only a few millimetres to go until he was free.

  The door started to open.

  These fuckers were going to interrogate them and kill them. They’d be two more Western infidels in orange jumpsuits, beheaded on an internet video for all to see, all for the glory of a bunch of religious zealots who couldn’t play nicely with others.

  Fuck them, he wasn’t going down easy.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The door opened wider and a shaft of light fell in. Katie was pushed across the threshold, coming from Moore’s right.

  Moore’s arms quivered with the effort behind his back.

  A hand on Katie’s arm, an arm covered by a cheap shirt, a foot. Barely half a metre away from him now.

  The cuff was tearing, as slow as a glacier melting, and the man was right there. There was no time now.

  The man took a step into the room and his mate was right behind him. Moore launched forward.

  His right foot smashed into the side of the first guy’s left knee, ripping it apart as he drove through with full force. The guy cried out and started to go down, clutching at his knee. Katie jerked and turned her hooded head in his direction as if sensing him there. He could see her white T-shirt was rumpled and bloodied.

  The second guy was still moving forward, as his brain processed what was happening. As he came across Moore’s vision he started to turn. He was bigger than the first guy and had a folding stock AK slung casually over his right shoulder, away from Moore. He was also dressed in cheap casual wear.

  Moore went for a knee strike on him too but the guy saw it coming and pulled away, bending down to try and block the kick. Moore went for Plan B instead, feigning with another low kick. The guy tried to grab it while fumbling for his weapon, and Moore planted his foot solidly, snapping his upper body forward.

  His forehead smashed into the guy’s temple and knocked him sideways. As the guy stumbled Moore came in again, landing a solid side kick now to the inside of his right knee, buckling it and helping send him to the floor.

  The first guy was wailing and rolling on the floor. He didn’t have a visible weapon, so Moore focussed on the second guy, who was struggling to his feet. The AK was off his shoulder now but he had it by the sling-a piece of clothesline by the looks of it.

  Moore slammed his right foot into the guy’s face, his heel landing square on the chin and snapping his head back. He crashed into the doorframe and let out a choking gasp. Moore was on him now, stamping down with all his weight, landing strikes to his balls, his guts, his chest and up to the face again.

  The guy was wheezing and seemed to have forgotten all about his AK. Moore didn’t let up. If this guy got up they were in serious shit.

  He stomped again, smashing his heel into the guy’s face, a second time, a third, each blow causing the guy to slump lower to the floor. Blood was flowing from a broken nose and split lips and his eyes were unfocussed.

  Moore was breathing hard and totally zoned in on the guy. He heard something behind him and threw a quick glance around. The first guy was still clutching his knee with one hand but was trying to draw a pistol from under his shirt with the other.

  Moore diverted momentarily, kicking him fair in the balls and making him squeal. He let go of the pistol and grabbed for his
jewels instead. Moore hammered a foot into his face and heard a dull crack as his head impacted the ground, before turning back to the second guy. He could see he was out of the game now, but as long as he was alive he was still a threat.

  With total focus and cold blooded ruthlessness, Moore lined him up and stomped straight on his windpipe. There was a gargling sound and the guy’s tongue hung out, his eyes bugging as he weakly tried to grab at his throat.

  Moore stepped back, knowing the guy only had seconds to live before his oxygen ran out and he choked to death.

  He breathed hard, sucking in lungful’s of air.

  The first guy was out cold or dead-either way, he wasn’t moving. The second one was twitching and gurgling. Moore waited a few more seconds then the second man went limp. His hands flopped to the floor. He had a sheathed knife on his belt, a dagger of some sort.

  Moore got down on his knees and twisted around, getting his fingers on the knife and tugging it free. He fumbled with it, his shaking hands managing to drop it twice before he got a good grip at the right angle and slipped it into the tear he’d already made in the flexi-cuffs.

  He sawed steadily and in a few seconds the bond broke. He shifted his arms, rolling his shoulders to get the blood flowing again.

  He turned to Katie, seeing she had moved off to the side and was standing rock steady, obviously listening intently.

  ‘Katie,’ he hissed. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Rob? What the fuck just happened? Are you okay?’

  ‘Yep, turn round and I’ll get you free.’

  She jumped when he touched her but she complied, awkwardly lifting her arms to give him room to move. He cut through her flexi-cuffs and lifted her hood off. He could see blood and grazes on her face.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, getting the tip of the blade under the plastic round her wrist and sawing off first one cuff then the other.

  She nodded while she rubbed at her wrists. ‘Here, give me that.’ She took the knife and set to work on his cuffs. ‘Those dirty fuckers.’

  ‘Did they…’ he fumbled, unsure how to ask. ‘Are you okay, really?’

  She nodded again, removing the second cuff. ‘Yeah. I thought they were going to rape me. That one,’ she jabbed a finger at the second man Moore had killed, ‘he had a crack in here, tried to finger me and grabbed my tits.’