Extracted

by RR Haywood

  ‘I’ll get you through this, Ben Ryder.’ She locks her gaze on his. ‘Soak your muscles in the shower. Tomorrow will be harder.’

  She leaves him to it. His fitness is appalling and his moods are a big problem but that flash of anger is a good sign. He needs patience, time to heal and for that anger to come out once it’s ready.

  Twenty-One

  ‘Ben, you up?’

  He rolls over, closing his eyes against the banging at the door.

  ‘Ben? Are you up?’

  ‘Yes,’ he shouts too loud and too angry, but the night was worse than the one before and plagued with bad dreams that he can’t bring to mind and the noises outside spoke of monsters and war, not a gentle-looking valley.

  He sits up and gasps from the pain radiating through his stomach muscles. He breathes it out like a woman in labour while shifting his legs over the edge of the bed and yelping at the pain in his thighs and calves. Then it hits his shoulders and arms and he sags down, feeling like he could cry.

  ‘Ben? You okay?’

  ‘I said yes.’

  ‘You decent?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, yes, I am decent,’ he groans, wondering how the hell he is meant to even stand up.

  ‘Morning,’ she says, leaning round the door. ‘Aching?’

  ‘No,’ he lies.

  ‘You’re not aching?’ she asks with a sharp look.

  ‘No.’ What the hell? Why is he saying no?

  ‘Well, okay then,’ she says, clearly not believing him. ‘You must be aching a bit. I am.’

  ‘Shower free?’ he asks, glancing up to see her hair is still wet and guessing Harry has already done his.

  ‘Ablutions,’ Harry calls.

  ‘Not a soldier,’ Ben shouts back. ‘Is the shower free?’

  ‘It’s free,’ she says and waits. Ben waits. She waits. Expectation in the room for him to move and therefore show the pain he is in. He could tell her he hurts, that his body is screaming out in agony and he needs more sleep. He could lie back down and tell them to fuck off and leave him alone. Instead, he walks and his top lip twitches against his will at his thighs begging for mercy.

  ‘Soak,’ she says, as he closes the bathroom door.

  ‘Stretch lightly,’ she says when he goes back into his room to get dressed.

  ‘Drink,’ she says, placing a large cup of water in front of him in the main room. He doesn’t ask where the new larger cups came from, or the bowls, or the plates, or the napkins, or the loaf of bread.

  ‘Eat,’ she says, pushing eggs and already sliced fruit towards him.

  ‘Take these,’ she says, giving him two white pills. He doesn’t ask what they are. He doesn’t care. He swallows them with water.

  ‘Drink more,’ she says. He drinks more water. ‘Stay hydrated today.’

  He finishes the water, stares round at the crash mats and notices the head guards and boxing gloves have moved. Maybe Malcolm and Konrad had some fun last night. Either that or Safa and Harry came out for a few more rounds after he turned in. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t care.

  ‘Put this on when we go outside,’ she says, handing him a black cotton baseball cap. ‘Keep the sun off your face.’

  ‘Stop mithering him,’ Harry mutters, tucking into his cheesy-feet marrow and looking ridiculous with his baseball cap perched on the back of his head.

  ‘Mind yourself,’ she says in a biting tone, but Harry just shrugs and carries on eating like nothing was said and if Ben gave a shit he’d notice the dynamics of their trio are changing.

  ‘Both of you go outside, I’ll be out in a minute.’

  Ben follows Harry through the doors and corridors. Outside the view is as glorious as before.

  ‘Up there,’ Harry says. Ben follows his line of vision to the sky above and several of the flying creatures they saw bursting from the forest canopy the day before yesterday. Shit. This is the third day here already. No, the fourth. They were drugged for a day or two so it could even be the fifth day. Five days away from home. Five days of being dead. Have they had the funeral yet? Do they have funerals without a body? I think they do. Like symbolic or something. Steph must be in pieces. His parents too. Steph was having an affair. Christ, that thought hurts deep in his gut, a pain that will never go away. Is five days too late to go back? He could say he was knocked out and crawling about the tunnels in the Underground for a few days. They’d believe it.

  ‘Give me a hand, one of you,’ Safa says, pushing through the door carrying the black gun bag in one hand and a large, stainless steel flask in the other with three steel mugs hanging from her fingers. Harry goes over, taking the flask and cups to the table while she grimaces and tugs the black bag off her shoulder.

  ‘I’m aching a bit,’ she says. ‘You?’ she asks Harry.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘It is,’ she says. ‘No milk though . . . and no sugar either.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ he replies, lifting the flask to inspect the outside. ‘This is clever.’

  ‘You didn’t have flasks back then?’

  ‘Not like this.’ He unscrews the top and sniffs the contents with his eyes showing his appreciation of the aroma.

  ‘I’m pissing Roland off,’ she says conversationally, watching Harry pour the black liquid into the mugs. ‘He’s got no idea,’ she adds, ‘completely no idea of what he’s doing. He’s asked me three times since yesterday when we’ll be ready.’

  ‘And?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Told him to fuck off and it could take weeks or months and that he has a fucking time machine so he can doubly fuck off.’

  ‘Safa,’ he tuts.

  ‘What? You asked. And I said I’d punch him in the mouth if he asked me again.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Harry says, pulling the corners of his mouth down in agreement. ‘Take it well?’

  ‘Blah,’ she says. ‘Who cares? How’s the coffee, Ben?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘We’ll do skills training today.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Seeing as we’re all in pain from yesterday.’

  ‘Okay. I’m fine now,’ Ben says, tensing his thighs, which no longer hurt.

  ‘The pain is just masked,’ she says. ‘Grab a pistol from the bag and field strip it for me.’

  Repetition of motion. Slow but progressive.

  ‘Assemble it for me.’

  Repetition of motion makes him not think about everything else.

  ‘Strip it.’

  Repetition of motion. Thinking of the movement now and what comes next to place the hands in preparation. He makes mistakes constantly and waits for her to tell him what to do.

  ‘Assemble the weapon.’

  I am warm. I am fed. I am hydrated.

  ‘Strip it.’

  I am dead. I died on the tracks.

  ‘Assemble.’

  Repetition of movement.

  ‘Field strip the weapon.’

  Her voice becomes the only real thing in this place. The gentleness of it, but a tone of command that makes him want to do what she says. She is kind. She is patient. She is solid and unwavering when he loses focus and forgets what he is doing as his mind opens up to the pain in his heart.

  ‘Ben,’ she says, moving into his eyeline.

  ‘Okay.’ He starts again. Stripping and putting it back together. Harry strolls over to sit with his back against the bunker and dozes off with his cap pulled down over his eyes.

  ‘Drink,’ she says in the main room, placing a large cup of water in front of Ben.

  ‘Eat,’ she says, giving him eggs and fruit.

  ‘Drink more,’ she says.

  ‘We’ll go back outside and carry on.’

  Outside back to the table. Malcolm comes out with a fresh flask of coffee.

  ‘Field strip the weapon,’ she says, and so the day wears on and all that matters is her voice.

  Twenty-Two

  Water pours into his mouth and nose. Choking him. Drowning h
im. His senses shut off. The room is pitch black but the light shining in his eyes is powerful enough to induce intense pain in his retinas.

  The soaking-wet cloth over his mouth prevents him breathing in. Tilted at an angle, almost upside down on a hard board. Strong hands gripping his arms and legs.

  He cannot speak or say anything. He tries screaming but that just opens his airway. He retches, trying to vomit, but that means another intake of air, which means more water.

  The board slams upright and the light shines in his eyes, forced open by rough, black-clad fingers.

  The confusion is almost as great as the fear. He undertook some basic interrogation training in the military so he understands being waterboarded. What he doesn’t understand is the lack of questions, or, to be more specific, the lack of any questions. Not one of the five men has asked a single question.

  As the immediacy of the threat of drowning abates, so he coughs to clear his airway in order to ask what they want but the gun rises, presses to his temple and fires before the words form.

  The lights come on. Harsh overhead strip lights that show the body of the man just killed in the dingy room.

  Five remain. All of them have broken noses, contusions and the after-effects of concussions. One has a broken arm. Two have broken wrists. One has a ruptured testicle. One has a dislocated shoulder.

  It takes seconds for the pain in their eyes to ease so they can look round and see that death for themselves.

  Like Hans Markel, they are hard men. Ex-military. They have seen conflict and bodies before, but being forced to remain kneeling with their arms bound behind them while listening to one of their own being silently waterboarded was an assault to the senses none of them ever expected.

  The five look round the room, blinking rapidly as they adjust to the bright lights. As one they spot their mate now dead on the floor, lying in a pool of blood that is turning pink from the puddles splashed during the torture.

  Five men in balaclavas stare at them. Five men dressed in black from top to toe.

  The five men walk to stand in front of the five kneeling men. They stop with one in front of each from Alpha to Echo in one line.

  They have the height advantage, which they know adds to the intimidation and perception of threat. They fold their arms and widen stances. They remain quiet. Not a word spoken.

  One of the kneeling men coughs to clear his dry, parched throat. Another groans from the agony in his joints and the fact his broken arm has been forced behind his back. Another sways on the spot. The pain from his shoulder threatening to render him unconscious.

  Alpha nods to Delta. Delta draws his pistol and shoots the swaying man in the head.

  Four remain. Four that gibber in absolute terror. Still not a question has been asked. Not a word uttered. They were in the two ambulances. The paramedics were really nice and made sure they were comfortable. The offered water and made small talk. The ambulances stopped. The paramedics got out. There was silence but the injured men did not question it, such was the state of them. Five men wearing balaclavas came back. The operatives were dragged, beaten, thrown and pushed into the cellar of the abandoned warehouse and forced to kneel in the pitch black while the first one was dragged away.

  Terror grips them. The lack of questions. The lack of any human interaction from the men in balaclavas renders them as monsters.

  Alpha waits. His men wait.

  ‘We don’t know anything,’ the man kneeling in front of Bravo blurts. The sound of his voice invokes a response and the other three sob and cry out. Pleading for their lives. Begging not to be killed.

  ‘I promise,’ the man in front of Bravo sobs. ‘It was a job . . . just a job . . .’

  The five men in balaclavas stay silent, but as one they turn to look at him. That tiniest motion spurs him on. He nods at them. Staring up and round while gasping in fear and pain.

  ‘We got picked up . . .’ He nods again, he keeps nodding. ‘In a van . . .’

  ‘Blindfolded,’ the man in front of Echo whimpers.

  ‘Yeah, blindfolded,’ the man in front of Bravo says. ‘Said we couldn’t see the location. Said it was secret . . . prototype detention centre . . . Hans said they paid well . . . said it was an easy gig . . .’

  The five stay silent but show they are listening by simply watching the man. That gives him hope. That small glimmer of hope that he is doing the right thing and he rushes on, speeding up to get the words out.

  ‘Was, er . . . was underground . . . a bunker . . . concrete . . .’

  ‘Fruit,’ the one in front of Echo says.

  ‘Fruit!’ the one in front of Bravo exclaims. ‘They had fruit on a table . . . er . . . tables and chairs made from wood . . . big room . . . English guy with black hair . . . another German guy translated . . . said they had three prisoners . . .’

  ‘Detainees,’ the one in front of Echo adds.

  ‘Yeah . . . he said that . . . he said detainees . . . said they might be violent so we had to be ready and just wait . . . he was giving the brief when the three came in . . . two men and a woman . . . big man called Harry . . . had a beard . . . he told us to fight him . . . told us to fuck our mothers . . . he was English . . .’

  ‘Said it in German . . .’

  ‘Yes! He said it in German . . . told us to fight him and fuck our mothers in German.’

  ‘Woman was . . .’

  ‘Fit . . . like pretty. Really pretty. Dark hair. Dark eyes . . .’

  ‘Hard as fuck . . .’

  ‘They were.’ The one in front of Bravo keeps nodding and swallows quickly. ‘The big one . . . Harry . . . he went nuts. He attacked us . . . the woman joined in . . . ragged us senseless . . . then the last bloke came in . . .’

  ‘Drugged them . . .’

  ‘We did . . . they had needles . . . they injected them in the neck . . . we were fucked. Like, three dead and, and . . . and, like, they took us out in the van and, like . . . we were so fucked-up but they put the blindfolds on again . . .’

  ‘That’s it . . .’

  ‘It is. I swear it. I swear on my mother’s life. I swear it . . .’

  ‘I know.’ The man in front of Charlie coughs the words out. He lifts his head. His eyes baleful with hatred. He looks round at the five men staring down at him. ‘I took my blindfold off . . .’

  The five look at him. They stay silent. An air of expectation hangs.

  The man in front of Charlie shakes his head. ‘Fuck off,’ he spits. He has worth. He has value. They need him alive. It’s the only hope he has.

  Alpha pulls his pistol and shoots the man in front of him through the head. Bravo shoots next. Echo fires.

  One remains. He sobs and squeezes his eyes closed. The smell of blood, piss and shit hangs in the air. The corpses of his mates on the ground next to him. Charlie pulls his pistol and aims.

  ‘NO! Please . . .’ The threat is too great. The fear too much. The intensity of the situation grips his mind. These men are ruthless beyond anything he could ever imagine. ‘Warehouse . . . back street in central Berlin . . .’ He clams up. Holding back in the desperate hope they will not kill him.

  Alpha nods. Bravo moves away. The man sobs. Snot drools from his nose. Everything hurts. Bravo comes back holding a briefcase, which he holds flat towards Delta, who presses the two locks and lifts the lid. Bravo shows the kneeling man the banknotes stacked neatly inside.

  The man swallows at the lifeline thrown his way. The sheer need to survive suddenly has a glint of greed. He locks eyes on the money, swaying with adrenaline and gut-twisting fear.

  ‘Where?’ Alpha speaks for the first time.

  ‘You promise me?’ the man asks, turning towards Alpha with a rush of terror-induced rage pulsing through his body. ‘PROMISE ME.’ He screams the words out, snot and spittle spraying from his mouth.

  ‘Where?’ Alpha asks as Bravo takes a small step closer with the briefcase.

  The man heaves for air. His eyes darting to the briefcase then round to
his dead mates. They will kill him. He knows that. He only has one bit of information left and if he tells them they will kill him.

  ‘I don’t know Berlin.’ The man whispers the words out ragged and broken. ‘We went through a hundred streets and . . . it was down a back street and . . .’

  Alpha nods. Bravo starts closing the briefcase. Charlie lifts his pistol.

  ‘NO . . . er . . . oh shit . . . grey bricks! The warehouse bricks were grey . . . oh fuck . . . please . . . you promised . . .’

  He has nothing left to give. Alpha senses it. A grey-bricked warehouse down a back street in central Berlin. Not much, but enough.

  He nods. Charlie fires. The man’s screams cut off. Bravo closes the lid. The others look round then over at Alpha, who shrugs. ‘Looks like we’ll be out on foot then.’

  Twenty-Three

  Remove the magazine and check the chamber. Release the slide. Point the weapon in a safe direction. Pull the trigger. Thumb under the slide round the back of the grip, fingers over the slide. Pull back and pull down while pulling down the slide. Remove the slide. Take the spring assembly out. Remove the barrel. The weapon is field stripped.

  ‘Assemble it.’

  Ben works the parts, listening to the satisfying clunks and clicks as the gun becomes whole again, and only when it’s done does he glance over to see Harry dozing again on a wooden chair underneath a large sun parasol with his arm resting on the wooden table to the side of the bunker door. Ben turns round to stare down into the valley and feels a rush of emotions pouring through his mind. Like they’ve been held back by being occupied with working the gun, but now, with nothing to do for a minute, they come rushing back, and the sudden onset makes everything feel worse than before.

  ‘Ben.’

  He turns back to see her smiling warmly and motioning for him to continue.

  It’s been a week now. A week of running and circuit training. A week of physical exercise and healthy food. Chicken, rice, vegetables, fruit and more water than he has ever drunk in his life. Some of the food comes precooked and hot. He doesn’t question it or ask where it comes from. He doesn’t care. Harry had a plate full of pork chops two nights ago with a bowl of chips to go with them. Ben eats what Safa tells him to eat. Ben drinks what she tells him to drink. He sleeps when told. He is a man–child slipping further down a black tunnel of depression. It’s been a week of nightmares and waking up bathed in sweat feeling terrified.