by W. J. Lundy
The man let out an exaggerated yelp. “Stop, stop,” the man yelled.
“Good, you’re awake. And you speak English,” Tommy said.
“Why do you attack me? Why did you do this to me?”
“No time for games. We already know what you were up to, now tell me about the money.” He started slowly, hoping to gain more about the organization, paving the way for information on the location of the women.
The man again lowered his head and sat quietly.
“Fine, if it’s going to be like that, we can do things that way also,” Tommy said as he took a step toward the man and tightened the flex cuffs.
The man yelped again before laughing hysterically. “It does not matter what you do to me. Arrest me, take me to your prison in Cuba. The fact that you do not know what this is all about tells me how ignorant you all are. You will be dead before the sun sets.”
“Possibly, but I am willing to give you an option on whether or not you join us,” Tommy said.
“I don’t matter, I am only a part of all of this,” the man said, still laughing. “I am nobody.”
Tommy looked over at Elias, who had been standing back, covering the door. Elias was shaking his head. Tommy opened his hand, gesturing for Elias to give him the backpack. Elias handed it over and Tommy unzipped it, finding bundles of cash inside—bricks of American dollars and Swiss francs. He pulled one out and held it in his hand. “There is a lot of cash here.”
The man looked away, ignoring the statement.
Tommy looked to Elias and shrugged his shoulders. The man was still tied to the floor. His body was sagging, but he looked at Tommy defiantly. Tommy shot the man a quick wink before turning his back and walking toward a far wall of the structure. The floor was covered with rubble and the space stank of urine.
He turned back. “No more time for bullshit. I’m going to be straight with you. Your people have something I want. A woman. We know you are in the business of taking women. I’ve heard you are the type of monster to visit these woman against their will. Now all I ask is for you to tell me where they are.” He pulled his MK23 pistol from the holster on his hip. The man looked up and smiled, still defiant.
Tommy returned the man’s smile and stomped down on the prisoner’s exposed ankle, causing him to cry out.
He stepped closer and held the pistol close to the man’s face, silencing his screams. “I normally don’t operate this way. But since we are on a tight schedule and just happen to answer to no one, I’m going to make an exception for you. You seem to have all the answers so I’m sure you won’t mind me taking shortcuts,” Tommy said as he pulled a suppressor from his pocket and threaded it onto the barrel of his sidearm.
Tommy pulled back the slide and showed the man the chambered round.
“Now, my friend and I are in a bit of a time crunch, and unfortunately I couldn’t give a shit less what happens to a rapist scumbag like you. This place where the women are being held, I want to know where it is. We can do this one of two ways. You can tell me. In that case, we will leave you here unmolested. I’m sure someone will come along to free you eventually.”
“You fool, you can’t do anything to me! Nothing you do to me will save you. You are already dead!” the man yelled, now a thick Pakistani accent shining through.
“Or,” Tommy continued, ignoring the man’s protest. “I can ask you a series of questions, where you will be punished for wrong answers or not cooperating.”
“You already lost,” the man said, laughing hysterically.
“Slowly now, where are the women being held?”
“Nobody cares about those whores. I will tell you nothing,” the man spat back. “I could buy a dozen whores with my shoe. Now you tell me—what is this really about?”
“Okay… you are about to feel a slight discomfort,” Tommy said as he placed the end of the suppressor against the man’s left ankle and pulled the trigger.
Even with the suppressor, the .45 pistol’s discharge was loud and made Tommy’s ears ring in the confined space. Tommy had looked away just before he pulled the trigger to protect his eyes. When he looked back, the man was kicking his feet. The destroyed ankle flopped grotesquely at an odd angle as the man kicked and screamed.
Elias gave Tommy a shocked look, unaware that he would actually fire. Elias moved toward the man and pinned his head against the wall and stuck a strip of duct tape over his lips, silencing the screams. The man moaned through the tape but stopped kicking his legs.
“Okay, now that you know how this game works, let’s try again. That’s one point for me and zero for you,” Tommy said. “Where are the women being held?”
Elias peeled the tape from the man’s mouth. Between whimpers, he told Tommy that he didn’t know about any women, claiming he was just a college student from a University in Egypt who makes extra cash delivering backpacks to this building two times a month.
Tommy squatted down and patted the man on his head. “You suck at this game. You’re too old and stupid for college, my friend. That was another wrong answer, and a rather large lie.” Tommy placed the barrel over the man’s left knee. “We already know that you have information on where the women are being kept. Your cell sold you out. They told us what a monster you are, how you treat women. They told us how to find you because you disgust even them. They told us you would come here to make the drop. Do you think we are here by accident?”
“Impossible!”
Elias reapplied the tape, and Tommy pulled the trigger, punching a hole through the man’s kneecap. The prisoner’s back stiffened and he strained his arms against the ties. He tried to kick his leg, but it wouldn’t cooperate. He was shaking his head side to side, moaning through the tape. Beads of sweat formed and ran down the side of his face.
“I seriously do not have time for this. Tell us where they are!” Tommy yelled. “Where do you go to feed your fetish?”
The man looked up at Tommy and shook his head violently. Without saying a word, Tommy aimed the pistol at the man’s lower leg, fired, and destroyed his tibia. The man again flexed and screamed in pain through the tape. He rocked his head side to side before blacking out from a mix of shock and pain.
Elias looked at Tommy. “What the hell are you doing? This isn’t what we talked about.”
“Just get him up before we lose him to blood loss,” Tommy answered sternly.
Elias grabbed a small glass vile of smelling salts from his kit. He broke the bottle and waved it under the man’s nose. “Wakey, wakey, sleepy head,” Elias said as he gently slapped the man on the cheek.
The man’s head jerked back as he swung it to the side drunkenly. He moved his head up and gave Tommy a shocked look. His face was still filled with pain and agony.
Tommy knelt down directly in front of the man, using his gloved hand to make the man look him in the eyes. “This is where you were hoping it was all a bad dream. I’m sorry, but I am your worst nightmare.”
The man whimpered, pulling his head back, mumbling incoherently through the tape.
“So, this is where we are at,” Tommy said. “We already know you came from the airport. Your cell ratted you out; they told us you would be here. They made a deal with us. If we get rid of you, we get to keep the money. Now you have no reason to protect them,” Tommy bluffed. “All we want to know is where the women are.”
“I cannot tell you anything. I do not know. There are so many places they could be.”
“The women from the church in Albahr. All we want to know is where the women are kept. Then we will leave you all alone to disappear and go about your evil ways.”
Elias shook his head in frustration. “Let’s go, this guy is useless. We’ve already wasted too much time.”
Tommy raised the pistol, and the man reared back, shaking his head. “Why do you care so much about these whores?” The man dropped his head and spouted off an address. “That is all I know. I was told there will be new ones there, brand new. Now that is all, leave me.”
Tommy gripped the heavy pistol in his hand and pressed it against the man’s forehead. “One more question … who is running the Badawi Brigade? Tell me who is at the top!”
The man let out a sobbing laugh. “Just let me go or take me away to your Guantanamo Bay. I know you will not kill me; you Americans have no resolve. You are the good guys, you always play by the rules.”
“You got the wrong people, I’m no good guy,” Tommy said, pulling the trigger.
14
Jamal stood on the steps of a cement block building. Night was falling over the city. In the distance, he could hear the reports of gunfire and the rumble of explosions from the outer limits. There were always smaller battles being waged between the rebels and loyalists. If things carried on too long, the Russians would call in close-support sorties from their aircraft.
Jamal tried to keep out of those things. He was a business man, after all. He stepped into the street and looked to the left, spotting his two men standing watch in the back of a white technical—a large pickup truck with a mounted machine gun in the back. One man was resting, sitting on a side rail of the truck while the other leaned over the machine gun that overlooked the roadblock. The heavy machine gun gave them courage, and that was enough for Jamal.
The government troops rarely came by here. This old warehouse was outside of the patrolled safe zones, but still close enough to take advantage of the military presence. Jamal paid his bribes and those in charge willingly looked the other way while he existed, and that allowed Jamal the freedom to run his brothel any way he wanted, without being under their watchful eye. His guards here were good and he paid them well, but it was also known that this place was under the protection of the Badawi Brigade. The threat of reprisals from the Brigade is really what kept most people away.
His men were complacent and spoiled, knowing that the real fighting was still miles away to the north and nobody would dare mess with the property of the Badawi. And even those who had the courage to mess with Jamal, had the Russian military to contend with. The Russians didn’t play favorites and they policed the neighboring sectors with deadly efficiency. This worked for groups that were disciplined enough to color inside the lines, and the Badawi brigade was certainly one of them.
Jamal’s building was at the top of a T-shaped intersection in the old city center. Although once a prized industrial area, most people rarely ventured here now, the block just outside of the military patrolled sector. There were no homes in this district and what industry remained was now bombed out beyond recognition. Undesirable for most, but it made prime real estate for Jamal. The trading of flesh was unpopular with the state, and having the space to do it in the shadows was important. It put him in the white space on the page, a place where the governing institutions could easily deny his existence while remaining cooperative in what he was doing.
An old military bunker made of concrete and sandbags was at the bottom leg of the intersection directly in front of the building. Straining, he could see one of his armed men standing under the dim streetlight slowly walking the length of a chain-link fence. To his right was the only open road allowing access to the property, and the only avenue allowing vehicle traffic in or out of this small compound.
Checking his watch again, Jamal looked at the phone in his hand, eager for any news of reinforcements from Abdul or permission to relocate to a more secure location inside the cities security, for the night at least. He had less than eight soldiers here this evening with others being sent to reinforce the larger building in the city. Jamal was told that eight was plenty, but with word of the recent killing of his courier, he had requested more. Rumors were already circulating amongst the guards at the compound over the news of the dead money man. His body was found at the site of the money drop, all the currency missing.
He looked at his watch again, impatiently waiting for the minutes to pass until midnight. Jamal didn’t consider himself a bad man; he just performed a task like everyone else in the country these days. He was a business man providing a service, an auctioneer of sorts, a flesh peddler to be exact. If it was true that a hit team was on the ground in Syria searching for the missing women from Albahr, then he needed to have them moved to the city, and the sooner the better. Too many people, including the money man, knew of this compound in the industrial district of the city—a place converted to a prison for those valuable enough to be ransomed or traded on the open markets. And if the money man was tortured, he surely would have talked about this spot. Everyone knew women were traded here.
Earlier in the day, he sent word by ground to Abdul, requesting permission to move the women to a new location. That was hours ago, and he was starting to wonder if Abdul had received the message at all. He considered trying again, calling by phone, but use of mobile phones was highly restricted for fear that they would be targeted by American drones. Even though unlikely, it had happened in the past, and mobile phones were frowned upon.
He was ordered to keep the phone off and to only turn it on at the top of every hour. Jamal paced nervously and looked left again to the technical. This time he froze, the blood draining from his face. The men on watch were gone. Snapping forward, he could see that the streetlight over the bunker to his front was now out, no sign of the roving guard near the gate watch. He turned and ran into the building, barring the door behind him, shouting the alarm as he reached into his pockets, searching for his phone. Even though he shouted, he heard no response from his men inside.
He heard a thump in the next room and the lights went out. He held the phone in front of him, his thumb pressing the power button desperately, starting the boot sequence, watching the silly Samsung logo, the glow of the display lighting his face. Rapid firing from an AK47 in the back of the building caused him to flinch in time with the metallic thwack, thwack of suppressed gunfire. They were here and he knew he had nowhere to run. A woman screamed, and Jamal pressed back against the wall, hiding in a corner. He tried to dial for help, but his hands shook violently and his sweaty fingers slipped on the touch screen.
Jamal wasn’t armed; he never carried a gun. He held his breath and tried to plan an escape. Maybe he could run. He considered unbarring the door, going outside, maybe disappearing into the night. The plodding of heavy boots to his front forced his hands into balled fists over the phone. He looked up and swore that he saw the green glow of a demon’s face moments before he lost consciousness.
The room was dark, void of any light. Tommy stood in the corner, night vision goggles pulled over his eyes. In his hands was an odd-shaped syringe. In the center of the room, hands strapped to a table, was the man the women said was in charge of the brothel—the one they said treated them like merchandise. Tommy had found enough evidence in the building to know they were telling the truth. The building was a disgusting house of horrors. Women gathered together like cattle and only released from their stagnant holding cells long enough to work their shifts in the upstairs rooms. That wouldn’t happen anymore; Tommy made sure of it. The place was out of business and the building burned.
The man was awake now, his head shifting side to side, startling at any noise or movement. Tommy had yet to speak to him. They had tied the prisoner there while he was still knocked out. He wanted to kill him right off, but the man had information. Information he wanted. Tommy used the time to inject the man with a tracking microchip into the fat at the base of his neck. The sharp pain brought the man back to consciousness. Now Tommy watched Jamal’s eyes glow back through the night vision goggles. He observed the man’s terror at finding himself restrained and in total darkness. Tommy walked across the room, making no effort to silence his footsteps. The man called out. Tommy ignored him. He opened a door at the back and stepped into a darkened hallway, where he climbed plank steps before removing the goggles and exiting into a lit room.
A red carpet covered with overstuff
ed cushions blanketed the floor, the windows covered with heavy drapes. A plank table held the stacked bundles of cash from the money man. Elias entered from a side door and handed Tommy a plate of roasted meat and vegetables. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew food was fuel.
“You need to eat, and to sleep,” Elias said. “You’ve been going nonstop since you arrived.”
Tommy tossed the empty syringe to a table and exchanged it for the plate. He moved slowly to the far end of the room and dropped to his rear, leaning against an overstuffed yellow pillow with decorative fringes. He yawned and took a mouthful of the meat, grabbing at it with his fingers. Still chewing, he said, “The tracker is in place. You sure it’ll work?”
“It’ll work. It’s passive; it only needs to be close to an active cell phone tower and it’ll ping a location. The battery should last for a hundred hours, give or take. It’s not the fancy stuff the agency uses, but a pet tracker will get the job done.” Elias opened a smart phone. He grinned then turned the display, showing Tommy the red dot overlaid on a satellite map.
“Good, and what about the women? Are they safe?”
“Kohen is taking care of it. He notified a security official on the payroll. They’ll have questions, but the women will be freed,” Elias said, sitting at the table and moving aside a bundle of the money so he could sit over his own plate.
“Any information on Sarah?”
Elias shook his head. “She was separated from the others shortly after they were taken. The women don’t know where they were taken.” Elias tossed Tommy a bottle of water. “What are we going to do with him?” he said, signaling his head toward the locked door.
“I’ll talk to him. I didn’t come here for the women. I came here for Sarah.”
