by Zoe Dawson
They were in Yur’yevo, a two-syllable word that should have meant “I can’t believe the shit we’re in.” The drug-smuggling, arms-running, corruption capital of Kirikhanistan Province, Russia, a Wild West border town that made the lawless American West pale in comparison.
After gaining access to Petrov’s residence, Scarecrow and his team member were standing in the Kirikhan’s bedroom. Scarecrow was in the mood to do some damage, and from the look of Wicked, each of them had on their ass-kicking boots.
The top of their shit list was lying in a king-size bed with a petite woman sprawled across his thick chest. Scarecrow screwed on the silencer, Wicked mimicking his movement.
As if something had disturbed Petrov, he woke up and peered around the room, then relaxed, cuddling the woman closer as sleep took him. Scarecrow kept himself in the shadows and flipped on the light. Petrov surged up and reached for the gun beneath his pillow. Scarecrow none-to-gently pinched his wrist and retrieved the gun, handing it to Wicked, who tucked it into his waistband for safe keeping.
Petrov’s cry for his men to come help him would go unanswered. They were taking a dirt nap on the carpet in the outer room. There was no one to save him from retribution.
“Now that we’ve got that settled,” Scarecrow said, then rotated his gun to the startled woman clutching the sheet to her bare breasts. “Take a hike, sugar.”
The girl darted from the bed, pulling the sheet and leaving the traitor naked and vulnerable. Snatching up her clothes, she fled out the door, screaming at the sight of the dead men. Her harsh breathing was audible all the way to the outside door before it slammed shut. “Get up, you back-stabbing son of a bitch,” Scarecrow said between clenched teeth.
Wicked said nothing, his watchful, intent eyes never straying.
Leaving the bed, Petrov shouted, “Who the fuck are you?”
“Grim Reaper one and two. Death’s calling, Petrov.”
He glared at them with as much potency as the little girl who had run away.
“Sit down.”
The man folded his arms over his big chest and stared back, refusing.
Scarecrow fired at his kneecap. The thunk was crunchy wet as Petrov flexed with a scream and crumbled to the floor.
Scarecrow moved to him. “I should mention that we’re out of time and patience. Just give us an excuse.” Wicked moved into Petrov’s view, and he shrank away from the big man. There was a reason to be nervous around Wicked.
Petrov was breathing hard, clutching his knee, calling them every name in the book and then some. Scarecrow grabbed his jaw, digging his fingers into the joint of bone. He howled, and Wicked shoved the barrel of his silenced weapon into his mouth. “You are responsible for many American deaths, good men, and you’re going to be accountable for every last one. There’s nowhere to run or hide. Where are the SEALs Boris and Natasha have stashed away?”
At the feel of the cold steel, Petrov went rigid, his eyes bulging. He mumbled something, and Wicked pulled the muzzle out enough for him to speak. “I don’t know.”
Scarecrow flicked a glance at Wicked, anger pouring into his muscles and sinking into his bones, and with a low, menacing growl broadcasting loud and clear Wicked’s threat to put the gun back in place, Petrov’s body went rigid once more.
He swallowed hard and held his hands up covered in his own blood. “I don’t. I swear. I wasn’t part of that. I’m just the intel guy.”
Blue had been MIA for weeks, Tank wounded, their canine teammate out of the service after the fight for his life. The dog had saved them all. Scarecrow wasn’t about to let some back-stabbing snake stand in the way of finding their teammates.
“You fucking weasel. Give us a name, Petrov. Someone who does know. My trigger finger is getting real itchy,” Wicked said, his voice nothing but gravel.
“You’re wasting your time. They don’t tell me anything. They always have me under their thumb. I can’t do a damn thing without them knowing about it.”
“That sounds like a load, you piece-of-shit bastard,” Scarecrow said, the drawl of his Southern accent harder and more edged with steel than ever. “You better get creative.”
“They’ll hunt me down and kill me,” he said in a rush when Scarecrow crouched down and pressed the barrel against his other knee.
“One shot and the tendon is severed, you goddamn fuck. Then, it’s a final lights-out shot to the head.”
The blood loss was steady, and Petrov seemed to weigh his options before his face contorted and he shouted, “You’re asking me to betray freaking psychos.”
Scarecrow pulled the slide, assuring Petrov there was a bullet in the chamber. Wicked grabbed the bastard by the hair, and Scarecrow glanced at him. There was determination in his eyes, and Scarecrow felt the violence he kept a tight rein on stir in him. If Petrov wanted to live, he’d better start talking. “Those fucking psychos have my teammate and close friend. They have another SEAL, a brother…so I don’t give a fuck about problems that you brought on yourself by screwing the US and your own country. Tell us what we want to know or you’re not going to be breathing in five fucking seconds.”
Petrov paled. “I know the name of the guy who brokered the deal for the American weapons.”
“Start talking,” Wicked said, “or you’re headed for eternal justice.”
Petrov swallowed hard, his eyes welling, his doom sealed one way or the other. He was royally screwed. “Anatoly Makarov,” he whispered.
“Makarov is dead. The Golovkins took him out when they ambushed us. You know all about that because you sold us all out,” Scarecrow shouted. “So if you lie to me one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to fucking kill you. A name.”
His shoulders dropped, and he looked away. “I don’t know any other names.”
Wicked swore low and viciously. Petrov turned to look at him, the color washing from his face. “All right! I know their financial advisor!”
Wicked huffed out a disgusted laugh. “Financial advisor?” He shook his head and shifted. “Time is up. Name.”
Wicked was losing his patience, and Scarecrow knew from experience that was a bad sign.
“Grigory Babkin.”
Wicked inhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw contracting. He brought up the gun and placed it in the middle of Petrov’s forehead. He got close, so he took up all of Petrov’s possible visual space. “You’re still fucking with us,” he whispered.
Uh-oh. When Wicked got quiet, all hell was about to break loose.
“Petrov,” Scarecrow said just as quietly, “If you want to keep breathing, I’d suggest you give us the new arms supplier. Babkin is also very dead along with his wife and kids. Car bomb. Looks like they cleaned house. Maybe they’re coming for you next.”
With a defeated expression, Petrov said, “I’m a dead man.” His face contorted in pain and fear. “Ivan Bure.”
Fifteen minutes later they left the room with Petrov unconscious on the floor. Wicked had wanted to kill the bastard and he and Scarecrow were, once again, of one mind. But that would be a quick death. The Kirikhanistan Police were waiting to take Petrov to a prison where they would toss him in a cell and throw away the key. Dismissing the traitor, Scarecrow had a name and hopefully a path to Blue’s location. None of them would give up until Blue was home, one way or the other.
* * *
Unknown Location Wilds of Kirikhanistan, Russia
Natasha walked over to Blue, the spike heels of her boots tapping against the concrete of the pool deck. This must have been someone’s mansion a long time ago. Now it was in ruins. The water of the pool a grungy, dull gray, the chlorine smell long gone. He’d been dragged down the worn wooden steps to the left when he’d first arrived here…had it been days ago? He’d been tied to that ring on the wall, impotently looking at Speed. Trying to get him to respond. Now they were forcing him to kneel. The concrete floor was strewn with cracks snaking across it. In front of him was a rusty floor drain sticky with old blood, rot and an ozone-like
tang from metal and cement mixing with his rancid sweat and the scent of death hanging like a pall in the creepy darkness. The stench almost made him gag.
Above him, the small, grimy windows with dead flies on the sill, bare beams above with pipes running across the open ceiling, and fuzzy insulation added to its ruin. The sound of unidentifiable scratching noises and creaks, the groan of a shifting wooden beam as moths flapped around the bare lightbulb were at his periphery. The place was stacked with large and small crates and he wondered if the warheads they were looking for were in any of those boxes.
She crouched down, her slightly mad eyes slowly going over him, savoring her power. She licked her lips and reached out, scratching her nail down his shoulder to his elbow. He stared at her, not giving an inch.
“Such a pretty man.” Her voice was a lilting combination of heavily-accented English and sibilant seduction, the complete opposite from the dead look in her eyes. “It would be shame to damage such beauty,” she purred.
Revulsion crawled along his skin as she got closer. He drew cold, musty air into his lungs, the scent of mold and mildew strong. His hands were flex-cuffed behind him, but he hadn’t missed the chains on the wall.
Natasha was beautiful, her dark, straight hair pulled back into a ponytail accentuating her delicate features, lashes thick as they swept over her feral eyes. “I have little questions,” she said with a cold smile. “All it takes to keep you pretty and…” Her gaze slid over him. “Pure.”
He said nothing, the subtle threat in her words quite clear. His fists clenched. He couldn’t strike out at her and snap her neck with his hands bound. Just five minutes was all he needed to take her out of the equation.
She smiled at the challenge in his eyes, like she knew exactly what he was thinking and welcomed it. “What is name?”
Again, he kept his lips closed.
“What is name?”
“Yoda, Grand Master of the Jedi Order.”
She frowned for a second, then when it registered, she scowled. “Who do you work for?”
“The Rebel Alliance. We’re a ragtag renegade band.”
Her lips compressed. “When is government planning to attack? What is strategy?”
“We’re going to take down the Death Star.”
She hit him dead-center in the solar plexus, and he doubled over, gasping for air, fighting the pain radiating out to his limbs. “American with jokes,” she spat.
“I take it you’re not a Star Wars fan,” he wheezed. “Fuck you.”
“Looks like it will be hard way.” She motioned to two men standing behind her, and he heard a chuckle in the dark. Boris. It seemed he liked to watch.
The leader of the rebels spoke from the darkness. “He is strong one.”
She shrugged. “For now, my love.”
The two men came for him. One cut the flex cuff off his wrists. The moment Blue was free, he knocked out the two guards, roundhouse kicked the bitch in the face, and punched Boris straight in the kisser as he darted out of the shadows to subdue Blue.
His nose shifted under Blue’s fist, his attack fast and savage. Blue’s rage was not for himself but for the men and one valiant dog who had most likely died at their hands, returning home in flag-draped coffins.
Natasha called out as Blue pummeled Boris, and more men piled into the room. They overwhelmed him and kicked and beat him until he fell to the floor, covering his head and protecting his groin until one too many kicks to the head put him out.
* * *
They came for him again, dragging him across the concrete, the backs of his feet scraping with stinging prickles of pain jerking him back to consciousness. He tried to raise his head, but he was completely exhausted, fighting for his life. Days had merged into one big blur of pain and dirty water, the nights unbearably cold. Failure. All he’d ever cared about since he became a SEAL was the brotherhood. They had been there for him at such a fundamental level, he couldn’t seem to separate himself. All that mattered was how he resisted in defense of his country. When he was upright, he could see the cells, the chains, and Myerson’s body. When he moved, Blue stiffened. He turned his head to look at Natasha. “Let me help him.” She stood there with that damn evil smirk on her face.
But if these bastards thought they could use water to break him, they would be disappointed. He might break. He was told during SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training—that he would mostly likely break but holding out as long as possible changed the game plan. Gave his LT and his team time to find him or the opportunity to change the strategy. Old intel was worthless intel.
They tied him to a metal contraption and hoisted him up. As his arms stretched, the full weight of his body rested on his shoulders. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give any indication that he was in discomfort. It was a modified iron cross, and there was something almost right about him in this position. Crucified.
The time ticked by, and he could see Natasha standing on the edge of the pool watching him. He bet that psycho bitch got enjoyment out of all kinds of suffering. If he got his hands on her, she would be dead before she could take her next breath. That’s a promise, shrew.
With that thought, Blue closed his eyes. He could probably hold his breath for about three and a half minutes. He’d been the stand-out in his BUD/S class, and as a surfer taking on the ocean, he’d learned a few tricks.
The dropping sensation matched the one in his head as he plunged into the water-filled pool.
When he opened his eyes, time “ticked by” above with Natasha watching him. He was beginning to feel the strain of not breathing. To keep the panic and fear at bay, he went back to his training class and the drownproofing exercise that they’d had to pass to make it through the program.
He started to feel dizzy. Fear was hard enough to combat, but discouragement was infinitely more powerful. He closed his eyes again and told himself that he was something more: more than the water’s liquid force, more than his body that required oxygen, more than the woman who stood waiting for him to drown so she could repeat the process all over again.
He drifted in the daze as the oxygen dwindled. In his head, he could hear the ballet music he used to conjure up to keep him from losing it at the bottom of the BUD/S pool, his hands and feet tied, a mask mocking him at the bottom, this exercise between him and his ultimate goal. He saw them, fluttering around with pink tutus right in front of him, his long-ago teammates twirling and slow-mo dancing for his amusement. All he had to do was keep himself calm and he’d get that mask and his mission would be complete.
The next thing he knew, he was upright as someone pounded on his back. He opened his eyes, sucking gasping breaths.
“Still feeling your Yoda?” Natasha sneered while he choked and coughed up water, the pull on his shoulders getting painful. His body steamed in the cool air, and he lost more heat. Hypothermia wasn’t going to help at all.
He smiled. “The psycho bitch has jokes. But I’ve got more Jedi mind tricks.” He pictured her in a white tutu with feathers in her hair. How intimidating can a ballerina be?
She was getting mad; her eyes were like a blast furnace. He bet she wasn’t used to being thwarted. He didn’t give a flying fuck. She’d better get used to it.
She looked behind him, probably to those two steroid enhanced goons; then with a malicious cant to her head, she gave them a nod.
He was helpless like he’d been in BUD/S, held by the sheer will to become a Navy SEAL. It was as strong a motivation as the preservation of the precious intel he had in his head. He knew what the secondary plan was, but he wasn’t going to tell her.
The dunking went on for a long time. He lost track of how many times they almost drowned him, his shoulders screaming from the unbearable pressure. The next time he was aware, he found himself on a mattress in a small room. His shoulders throbbed, but he was no longer on that cross. His throat felt raw, his sinuses full and thick like he had a cold. He coughed, and he could see his breath. All he had w
as a ratty blanket to cover his nakedness, and it did little to shield him from the cold.
The door opened, and he turned his head to find Natasha and those two goons standing in the opening. “More water torture,” he mumbled.
“No. We leave that to tomorrow. Tonight, I show you how you not hold out against me.” Her eyes narrowed. The men lunged at him, and he tried to move, but his sluggish body wouldn’t respond. They bound him hand and foot in a spread-eagle position and, without a word, left and closed the door. Natasha stood above him with a hypodermic in her hand.
Suddenly the door opened again, and Boris came in. She gave him one of those we’re-in-this-together looks. He leaned back against the wall, his face creased in a smug smile, his dark eyes glittering with lust.
The prick of the needle in Blue’s upper arm brought his focus back to her. What the hell had she injected him with? He started feeling as if he was floating, then she touched him, trailing her fingers over him to his dick. He tried to say no, but it came out all slurred.
Then he felt cold steel against the inside of his leg. There was pressure and he realized it should have hurt, but he could feel no pain. Then other areas of his groin.
Then her mouth was on him and he couldn’t stop himself from responding, his body jerking against the pleasure, against the violation. He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t caught in some horrible nightmare, feeling out of control, disgusted and turned on at the same time.
He pulled against the bonds, his wrists scraping, impaired and helpless, his coordination gone.
Then a memory came out of nowhere, out of his subconscious, something he’d buried because of the shame it had caused him. He’d only been twelve, and he’d walked in on his friend Rory while they were at summer camp. Blue saw his face in the shadows as it all played out from that distant memory. Blue was shocked and Rory’s face, full of shame and helplessness, burned into his brain. Their camp counselor, Mr. Walters had Rory’s pants down, and he was doing things to him that Blue knew were wrong. There was no consent in Rory’s face, only fear, revulsion and a cry for help.
