by Jack Carr
CHAPTER 52
Boundary County, Idaho
United States/Canadian Border
HE’D SEEN THE TECHNIQUE once before, and it had stayed with him. Having been attached to the CIA in the days when IEDs became a tactical weapon of strategic importance, Reece had witnessed the unleashing of the most aggressive elements of the U.S. intelligence apparatus. Though Americans were strictly prohibited from practicing the darkest arts of tactical interrogation, they could teach host-nation forces some of the more refined elicitation methods and then leave the room when partner force interrogators applied their most recent knowledge on the enemy. Reece knew the importance of maintaining the moral high ground in war. Sometimes that’s all that distinguished the good guys from the bad. If you abandoned the moral high ground, all was lost.
You’ve lost your way, Reece. Tell that to your wife and daughter.
Reece swung the med kit from his shoulder and looked at the man strapped naked to the leather chair in front of him. Reece and Liz had set the chair on a tarp to help contain the inevitable DNA. Riggers’ tape secured the prisoner’s legs, arms, and upper chest to the chair. A rope fixed in a noose was looped securely around his head and was tied to a beam running the length of the cabin. He wasn’t going anywhere.
The man was covered in ink. Almost every inch of his body was overwritten by intricate tattoos; saints, angels, skulls, and coffins covered his chest and back, a giant cathedral with multiple domes dominated the scene. A hooded executioner branded each shoulder and roses stood out from his forearms, one twisting around a dagger, the other wrapped in barbed wire.
Reece didn’t know much about Russian tattoos, but what he did know was that they signified the man before him had spent time in some of the toughest prisons on earth and survived.
While working for the CIA, Reece had learned techniques carefully designed to elicit responses from the most hardened Islamic terrorists. What he took away was that regardless of the technique, as an interrogator, you had to offer hope. Hope was the key. He wondered how it would work with a hardened bratva enforcer. He was about to find out.
Reece moved forward and felt the pulse at the man’s neck, slow and weak. He needed the Russian alive for at least an hour. Returning to the med kit, Reece took out an IV and a length of 550 cord. He threw the cord over the exposed beam that held the noose and attached it to the IV bag dangling just to the side of the Russian’s head. His veins stood out like pipes, probably due to the copious amounts of steroids that sustained his muscular physique. Reece stabbed the needle of the 18-gauge catheter into a vein running through the rose and dagger on his subject’s right arm. He pulled the hub, withdrawing the needle and leaving the plastic sheath in the vein. He then attached the tube and opened the IV spin valve to flood the tubing with fluid after taping it to the arm. He ran the bag wide open to replace the fluids necessary to stabilize the Russian for questioning. When the first bag had drained, Reece attached a second, watching an air bubble move down the tube.
“Enjoy your rest, my friend,” Reece whispered. “You’ll need all your strength for what’s coming.”
And so will I, Reece thought.
The Scoville scale measures heat in Scoville Heat Units, in this case specifically the heat of peppers, a heat that comes from the neuropeptide-releasing agent capsaicin, which they contain. Reece put on rubber gloves and clear eyeglasses from the med kit and dumped Jonathan’s red ghost peppers out on a cutting board in the small kitchen. Reece was after the capsaicin.
He had seen the process done in sterile conditions at the CIA over a series of days. Reece didn’t have days. He had hours. He was going to do what SEALs did best: improvise.
Preheating the oven to 350 degrees, he moved back to the cutting board and sliced the ghost peppers down the middle, removing the seeds and separating the white pith that contained the capsaicin. Careful not to touch his face, he put the pith on a baking sheet and threw it in the oven to dry it out.
Opening and closing cupboards, Reece found what he was looking for: a coffee grinder, French press, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Sinatra Select Not bad, Reece thought.
Five minutes later, Reece returned to the oven and removed his baking sheet. He then slid the dried pith into the hand grinder, which he cranked over a bowl, turning it into a coarse powder.
He then added four shots of Jack Daniel’s finest and began to stir. If time was not of the essence, he would have let it sit for a week or two in pure alcohol.
I hope this works.
When the consistency was that of slush, he poured it into the French press and pushed down on the strainer, leaving a hazy brownish solution of pure liquid.
Carefully, Reece filled a 60cc syringe with his concoction, remembering the CIA doctor who had taught him this technique all those years ago. When Reece had asked how hot it was the doctor had answered, “If you were eating a jalapeño pepper, it would measure about five thousand Scoville Heat Units. This solution has a Scoville Heat Unit measurement of over three million. It will burn them alive from the inside out, but without the fire.”
The Russian’s head was beginning to sway, signifying the fentanyl was wearing off.
Good.
Reece sealed his resolve and approached the man he hoped had answers.
Reece brought his leg up and slammed it down directly on the Russian’s broken leg, eliciting an animalistic scream.
Reece stepped behind him and tore the riggers’ tape from his eyes, then grabbed a chair from the small kitchen table and turned it around so that its back was facing his subject. He sat down, rubber gloves, eye protection, and syringe all clearly visible to the Russian, who blinked his eyes and slowly took in his surroundings.
“Hi,” Reece said as pleasantly as possible. “I’m James Reece. You tried to kill me and Raife Hastings earlier today. I have some questions for you.”
The Russian’s breathing was slow and labored. His head was restrained by the noose, but his eyes moved to his leg, then back to Reece.
In heavily accented English he responded, “My leg. Something for my leg.”
“Oh, don’t worry about your leg. That’s about to be the very least of your problems.” One of the first rules of interrogation was to only ask questions to which you already knew the answers. Reece started with what he already knew from his phone call with Vic Rodriguez. “Let’s start with an easy one: Who is Ivan Zharkov?”
“Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka, blyat!” the Russian spat, his muscles straining to break free of the tape that kept him securely in place.
Without a word, Reece stood and walked behind him and grabbed the noose, wrenching his head back and to the side, slamming his free hand onto his adversary’s face and prying his right eye open. With the syringe, Reece administered a drop of the capsaicin solution and stepped back.
The effect was immediate. The Russian’s eye turned an instantaneous red, and his mouth opened in a roar of agony from a level of pain he had never experienced, body thrashing as his hands desperately fought to break free of the tape that bound them to the chair. Had they been free he would have ripped his own eyeball from his head, the agony feeling like a blade pivoting through his eye from the deep recesses of his brain.
“That’s one drop, comrade,” Reece said. “I have this entire syringe and more where that came from. Let’s try that again; who is Ivan Zharkov?”
The Russian blinked, blood tears running down his face, his body doing its best to clear itself of this foreign invader. Then, taking a moment, he took in his antagonizer. This was James Reece. His target. He knew Ivan should have used a team from Wagner Group. He was a Bratok in the bratva. He hadn’t broken in Black Dolphin Prison and he certainly wouldn’t break for this American. Ivan Zharkov had gotten him out of that hellhole. The Pakhan would get him out of this one. He was almost a brigadier in the organization. He would not break.
“Cigarette?” the Russian asked.
“Nope. Those things will kill
you.”
The Russian looked at his tormentor. “Suka, blyat!” he said, attempting to spit at Reece.
“I was afraid you might say that. Don’t go anywhere,” Reece said, standing and returning to the med kit.
He’s not giving you a choice, Reece.
Reece closed his eyes and took a breath, seeing a vision of the Russian standing above a gagged and bound Katie, terror in her eyes.
Reece selected another 60cc syringe and filled it with tap water.
He then ripped open a Foley catheter bag from the kit and emptied its contents on the table.
Do it, Reece.
Reece opened the 14-gauge catheter and lubed it with the provided K-Y jelly. He then turned and marched back to his subject. Ignoring the stream of threats in Russian, Reece grabbed his prisoner’s penis with his gloved hand and threaded the catheter down his urethra. Unable to move, the Russian continued to thrash his head as much as the noose would allow. Reece applied pressure to his captive’s broken femur with his elbow and only stepped back when he saw yellow urine appear in the drainage bag. Reece then attached a 10cc syringe preloaded with saline to a side port, which blew up a small balloon, anchoring the system inside the bladder. Reece gave it a yank to ensure it was in place.
“You think you can make me talk, American? I used to rape guys like you in prison. I used to rape wives in front of husbands, daughters in front of fathers, and then chop them up in little pieces. You think you are tough, American? I think I’ll fuck that little blond bitch of yours right in front of you. How would you like that, you weak piece of shit.”
Reece kept his composure, unhooked the catheter bag, and attached the syringe filled with the capsaicin solution. He took another look at the bloodied mafia hit man in front of him and pushed in 5cc’s of pain.
Eight seconds later the Russian’s body contorted in agony as his bladder erupted in an uncontrollable spasm coupled with the most intense cramping imaginable. His body naturally attempted to curl up and vomit, but the noose and tape held him in place, vomit spewing from his nose and mouth, eyes bulging from his head.
Reece waited thirty seconds and then attached the syringe with water, flushing the capsaicin from the Russian’s system.
Reece stepped back, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.
“Maybe that first question was too difficult,” Reece said, disconnecting the clean syringe and reattaching the one with capsaicin. “Let’s try something easier. What’s your name?”
What harm could that do? Dimitry thought. Instead, all that came out between labored breaths, chunks of vomit still falling from his mouth, was “Fuck you.”
Reece didn’t hesitate. Depressing the plunger, he sent 15cc of his homemade mixture, three times the original dose, into the Russian’s bladder. Then he stepped back.
The results were horrific; the man’s neck strained against the noose as he began to foam at the mouth, choking, cramping, vomiting, emitting a visceral cry reserved for those in the throes of death.
Reece counted the seconds ticking by on his watch, giving a full minute this time before flushing the system again.
Then he waited as the animal became human, trying desperately to breathe.
Who was this American?
“I already know that Ivan Zharkov ordered the hit. I know he is the head of the Tambov Gang. I know you work for him. You won’t be betraying him. I’m already going to hunt him down and kill him. Nothing you say will change that. And, as you’ve probably figured out, you are not leaving here alive. What I need to know is why. If you can tell me that, I can offer you a quick death.”
His detainee paused in thought.
“James Reece. I studied you. I knew we needed a professional team, yet we almost killed you with a group of thugs. In the bratva we learn, too. They will come again. And this time they won’t just be after you and your friend. The next time they come, it will be professionals. You’ve insulted their honor now. That is something that bratva will not let, how do you say? Lie? They will kill you all, wives, children, especially children. The bratva doesn’t want to fight another generation. They might even fuck a few of your women to death and make you watch. They will come for you and they will kill every last one of you.”
Reece knew it was true. In his head he saw visions of the dead. There was only one way this ended, and it was up to Reece to finish it.
Reece slowly picked through the med kit until he found a connector from the IV kit and attached it to the syringe, which he then connected to the “Y” port on the IV drip.
“Last chance,” Reece said.
“Fuck you,” the Russian said without much enthusiasm.
He’s close.
Reece slightly depressed the plunger, releasing what he hoped was about 1cc of capsaicin into the IV drip and directly into the Russian’s bloodstream.
A bloodcurdling scream filled the cabin as every single pain receptor in the Russian’s body ignited at once. Like a bolt of lightning hitting brain, muscles, and organs, a pain worse than the previous two capsaicin exposures threatened to boil the Russian from the inside out. Intestinal fluids began to spew from his lungs while brain secretions worked their way into his nasal cavity and labyrinth of his inner ear. His heart felt like it was about to explode.
Via the bloodstream was the most painful delivery method for the solution, but it was also the most short-lived. A person would metabolize the 1cc solution in about thirty seconds to a minute depending on weight, composition, and body type.
Reece kept slowly injecting the serum as he sensed it was beginning to subside.
“What? I can’t hear you,” Reece said over the screams. “Only you can stop this. Ivan is as good as dead. Just tell me why he sent you, and I’ll end your pain.”
Sensing that the Russian’s body and brain were about to give out completely, Reece gave the man a moment of reprieve.
“Dimitry,” the man said, coming down from what felt like a blowtorch working every portion of his body and brain. “My name is Dimitry Mashkov.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard. Keep talking or I keep pushing this shit into your system.”
“Please, please…”
“It’s all up to you. Remember, Ivan Zharkov put you here.”
The Russian attempted to catch his breath. He wanted to die.
“I was a prisoner in penal colony number six for seven years. Do you know this place?”
“I can’t say I’m familiar.”
“It is the oldest prison in all of Russia. They call the prisoners, ‘the maniacs’—a fitting term, no? Terrorists, child molesters, serial killers, even cannibals. Life sentences only. No one gets out.”
“No one but you?”
“Da. Ivan Zharkov got me out and brought me back to the brotherhood. Promoted me. Phakan did not put me here. The one who betrayed us did. The only reason I am talking to you is so you can find the man who betrayed this mission.”
“How do you know someone betrayed it?”
“How do you Americans put it? This was not my first, uh, cattle drive? You avoided the ambush and now you are asking me about Ivan Zharkov a few hours later.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He worked his way up. He was a foot soldier, like me. In 1991, Russia became like your cowboy West, I think you say? He saw opportunity and is now one of the most powerful men in Russia.”
“Why would he want to kill me?”
Dimitry hesitated.
“Why!” Reece demanded, shaking the capsaicin syringe attached to the IV line.
“I think it has to do with the American.”
“The American?”
“A CIA man defected to Russia and now works for Zharkov.”
“What CIA man?” Reece asked with renewed interest.
“One I escorted from Argentina to Russia. He was an old Soviet mole, involved with the President Zubarev assassination.”
Son of a bitch, Reece thought. Oliver Grey.
“And who do
you think betrayed you?” Reece asked.
“Someone I should have killed long ago. Ivan’s son.”
“Son?”
“He has many, but the one who is most valuable to the organization is Aleksandr.”
“Why?”
“He’s a director in the SVR.”
“The SVR has ties to the mafia?” Reece asked, pretending he didn’t already have the information.
“This is Russia. The ‘bratva, intelligence, political triad’ is strong.”
“I want you to think long and hard about this one. Why would Aleksandr Zharkov call a contact at the CIA to sell you out moments before the attack?”
Reece watched as his detainee’s eyes flashed with recognition.
“Tell me.”
“It is said that Aleksandr is sick.”
“He’s dying?”
“No, sick, like how do you say, ‘crazy’?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Aleksandr is what I hear called ‘not right in head.’ He hunts humans.”
“What? Where?”
“He leases an island in the Russian Far East from the government. Medny Island. It is said he imports people from Africa, but this is only how do you say? Guess? But if Aleksandr called your CIA to warn you of the attack, then I want you to kill that suka. I know you can’t let me live. In exchange for this information I want you to kill Aleksandr Zharkov. Send him to me in the afterlife.”
“You have my word.”
Reece would have preferred to put a bullet in Dimitry’s head but that would have left DNA all over the former senator’s cabin. This was going to be hard enough to clean up as it was.
Depressing the syringe’s plunger, Reece pushed the remaining 30cc’s of solution into Dimitry’s veins, flooding his system with an overdose of capsaicin. The right side of his brain stroked immediately, the left side of his face dropping into paralysis as blood filled his retinas and brain, the red fluid attempting to escape from its dying host through his nose, mouth, and ears. Almost simultaneously, his bladder and bowels released a mess of bloody excrement. Seconds later his heart went into fibrillation, and Dimitry went to hell to wait for Aleksandr Zharkov.
