Kill Shot - An Abram Kinkaid Thriller

by Blake, Cameron

  Chapter 14

  When Abram opened his eyes again, he groaned. No such luck. He was still alive. The pain in his chest had subsided, and he managed to sit up without the world spinning. That was progress. Although he wasn’t sure it that was a good thing. A plate of food lay before him. He hesitated only for a moment before giving in. He snatched the chunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth. The bread was hard as stone. It must have been sitting there for a long time. How long had he been unconscious? An hour? A day? A week? His stomach throbbed and his body ached for sustenance. It was definitely awhile.

  He used his side molars to chisel away at the stone bread. A cup of brown liquid sat to the side. He tried dipping the bread to soften the dough. It worked well enough for his gums not to feel as though they were being cut to pieces with every bite. Abram took the rubbery piece of meat off the plate (he was pretty sure it was meat) and bit down. It was definitely old, but he didn’t care. His stomach convulsed and throbbed, welcoming the nutrition, no matter where it came from. Any amount of sustenance would do him good. The rice wasn’t so bad either; a little crunchy, but still edible. It reminded him of candy rocks, except not as sweet. When he had finished with the food, he licked the plate and chugged the cup. It turned out to be tea. The throbbing in his stomach had quieted, but still ached for more.

  A low moan escaped his abdomen as his digestive tract went into high gear. He placed the cup in the center of the plate and set it to the side. He leaned back against the cold stone and steadied his breathing. He knew they were watching him right now, taking notes, contemplating their next tactic to break him. But it wouldn’t work. They were wasting their time. If there was anything Abram wasn’t, it was a traitor. He’d die before giving them what they wanted. Although, it was beginning to be harder to determine what that was. So far, no one had come in to torture him. In fact, the only human contact or interaction he’d had was with Philip. Abram had decided it wasn’t his real name. That didn’t so much bother Abram. What really got his wheels churning was how Philip knew so much about him. Some of the things he said no one could have known. And yet, he did. How? Abram wondered if maybe they had interrogated him while he was in a weakened state. Perhaps they even drugged him and got what they wanted. That would explain the lapse in time and why he couldn’t remember anything. It definitely would justify the severe stiffness and lethargy his body seemed to float in day in and day out. It didn’t make any difference. Whether they tortured him, used sodium thiopental to get him to talk, or none of it happened, it didn’t matter. None of it changed his current situation. He was in a cell. He was a prisoner. And his enemy was on the other side of that wall.

  Abram glared at the one-way mirror, willing it to shatter into a thousand pieces so that he could lunge forward and take down as many of them as he could. Abram didn’t remove his gaze from the mirror when the door opened.

  “Who’s winning?” Philip asked.

  “Huh?” Abram said, still not taking his eyes off the mirror.

  Philip blocked Abram’s view, forcing him out of his trance.

  “You know, if you look hard enough, you’ll find what you’re looking for in the glass. Sometimes it’s not always what you want to find.”

  “I’m not searching for anything,” Abram said. He crossed his arms and resumed his thousand-yard stare.

  “We’re all searching for something. Love. Purpose. A reason to all of this and why we’re here. Money. Power. It’s all part of the game.”

  “Is that what you think this is? Some kind of game.”

  Philip sat on the chair and crossed his leg over the other.

  “Children play games. Are you a child?”

  Abram’s eyes shot up. He had heard that before. The man in the brown coat; the one who had convinced him he should join his secret group. Scott Train. Abram scowled, but inside, he was smiling.

  “Alright, I’ll play along. Would you say you’re a religious man?” Abram asked.

  “I don’t abide to any form of religion. I believe man has a choice to choose what he will believe. His truth is his own.”

  “So if my truth was that every women and child should die, that’s okay with you?”

  “Oh, my. Not me. That would be terrible.”

  “But it would be okay for someone else to do so, if it were their truth, right? Isn’t that what you just said?”

  Philip grinned.

  “You’re an interesting man, Mr. Kinkaid. Quite possibly one of the finest I’ve met.”

  “I guess I should be thanking you…” Abram did little to hide his sarcasm.

  “How was your meal?” Philip asked.

  Changing the subject. I’ll follow along.

  “Cold,” Abram said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll be sure your next is to your liking. Speaking of which, what would you like? There’s nothing out of my reach. Name it and it’s yours.”

  Abram thought about it for a second.

  “There’s a place back home, Sally’s Ale House. They have the best steak and chopped lamb in the country. I’ve never been, so I wouldn’t know.”

  “You’ll have it tonight,” Philip said. His smile had returned. “Anything else?”

  “I hear they have killer cornbread and a chocolate mousse dessert that literally pours with melted chocolate and caramel.”

  Abram wasn’t sure if Philip was buying it. He wondered how long he could drag this out.

  “Oh, and some crab cakes.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Philip said.

  Philip didn’t write anything down. Philip must have been playing along. And if not, the room was surely bugged. Everything was being recorded.

  Philip fidgeted, looking for the words to say.

  “I’ll be going away for a few days,” he said.

  “Don’t miss me too much,” Abram said.

  Philip continued, “There are some business matters I need to attend to. Don’t worry. I leave you in good hands. A personal friend of mine will be overseeing your stay in my absence and ensuring that you’re comfortable.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “You remind me a bit of him,” Philip said. “I think you’ll both hit it off. Anyway”—he stood up and brushed his pants like he had the first time, despite there being no obvious dirt—“I must be going. Your meal will be delivered tonight as requested. Do mind your manners while I’m away. I wouldn’t want any of the others getting any ideas.”

  Philip’s face was a ball of light, his smile not once faltering.

  He’s crazy Abram thought. No one could be that happy.

  “I promise I’ll behave,” Abram mocked.

  “Great! I’ll see you soon.”

  And just like that, he was gone again. Abram grabbed the plate and launched it at the door. It shattered on impact. Abram’s chest was heaving and his face red. He saw his reflection in the mirror.

  “You’re going to get out of here. And when you do, you’ll kill every last one of them,” he said to himself. “They will never break you. They can’t hurt you. You’re invisible.”

  Chapter 15

  Sometime later, the door cracked open and another gentleman walked in, pushing a cart with him. Abram eyed him down. He wasn’t one of them. Probably some poor sap who had gotten sucked into this mess like him. The man’s face was calm, almost joyful.

  “Good evening, Mr. Kinkaid. Pardon my intrusion. Mr. Philip wanted me to give you his condolences. He wished he could have been here himself, but alas, duty calls. He wanted me to wish you well. If you need anything, I will be right outside the door.”

  The man maneuvered the cart in front of the chair. He placed a large purple cloth over the back of the chair, then bowed and left.

  Abram just stared at the door. Did that just happen? He had to be hallucinating. He thought the meat tasted funny. Maybe he was losing his mind after all. Maybe all of this was just a figment of his imagination and he was still back at Walter Reed, strapped to the table, awaiting his
next dose of antidepressants and tranquilizers. That had to be it. He was in an ISIS camp, not some five-star resort with room service. And yet, here he was; three silver domes, white tablecloth, and silver china and all. If it were real…

  He didn’t allow himself to finish the thought. It was all a test. Interrogation 101. Develop a rapport with your prisoner. Give them gifts, food, and special privileges. Get them to trust you, see you as a friend, not an enemy. So far Philip had followed the book to the tee. On second thought, Philip was just another pawn in this game of misdirection and manipulation. The true man behind the madness lay on the other side of the glass. The only way to beat them was to join them.

  Abram examined the first silver dome. He lifted it and immediately was engulfed in steam. His nostrils flared and his mouth filled with moisture. He was awash in the most glorious aroma he had ever smelled. He waved the steam aside to see a tower of meat skewered to a tall metal rod. The oils and spices on the lamb still simmered. Abram replaced the first silver dome and picked up the second. Again he was welcomed by a wave of hot steam. This one had a thick chunk of meat the size of his head. The steak’s juices oozed onto the plate with a delicious scent. Abram was already picking up the third and fourth domes. Cornbread and a large chocolate fountain cake. The chocolate was literally pouring out from a spigot near the top where it continuously recycled itself.

  Abram’s mouth was open. He sat down in disbelief. A small note was in the center of the table, propped at his glass.

  ‘Mr. Kinkaid’ was written in golden letters on the front. He opened it and read:

  Mr. Kinkaid,

  I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies for not being able to make it tonight. By this time, you should be receiving your meal as requested and I’ll be halfway around the world. Francis will be your server. If there’s anything that you need, he’ll be the one to speak to.

  I hope you’ll forgive me, but there appears to have been a mistake, potentially on my end, with the order. There is no Sally’s Ale House on record. But worry not, I took it upon myself to make sure you got the best meal the world could offer. Hawksmoor Guildhall in London was more than happy to oblige. I do hope you enjoy the porterhouse. It’s one of my favorites and is dry-aged for at least 35 days before it’s delicately grilled with charcoal. Oh, and the anchovy hollandaise sauce is to die for! Do enjoy. See you soon.

  Best,

  P

  Abram folded the note and tossed it on the table. Could things get any weirder? If the meal was any consolation, it would. Abram pulled all four of the silver domes off and set them on the ground. A large plate embroidered with gold and silver lining sat before him. Next to the lamb were a two-pronged fork and a serrated blade. He sliced off several pieces and placed them on his plate. He then cut the steak in half and left the rest on the plate it came served on. A large pitcher of iced tea was sweating. He poured some in his wine glass.

  He held the glass to his lips and took a small sip. The cold sugary water slid down his throat like silk. He swallowed three more large gulps before setting it aside. Not knowing which to eat first, Abram cut a piece of the steak. Medium-well. How did they know that’s how he liked his steak? Was there anything they didn’t know?

  Abram’s mouth exploded with flavor the moment he bit into the first bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the seared taste, and the juices. It was the best piece of meat he had ever had. It went down easy. He quickly cut another piece and nearly swallowed it whole. The lamb was just as rich. The flavor was unlike anything he had ever tasted. The cornbread and the cake were just added bonuses, each one building on the last. When Abram had finished, he could barely breathe. He leaned back in the chair and savored the feeling. The door opened as if on cue and Francis came in.

  “Is there anything else I could get for you, sir?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. This was more than enough.”

  “Very well. I’ll take this out of your way.”

  Abram backed away as Francis gathered all of the plates and stacked them one on top of the other, and covered the remaining morsels of meat that Abram just couldn’t bring himself to eat. He wheeled the cart out two minutes later. Abram felt exposed with the table gone. He kicked his legs out and leaned his head back, allowing his torso to stretch. He closed his eyes and waited.

  Five minutes later, the door opened again. Abram didn’t bother opening his eyes.

  “You’re a little earlier than I would have guessed.”

  Rough hands grabbed his arms and tied them behind his back, while another wrapped a black sack over his head. It also smelled like piss and vomit. Great. The three men lifted him, chair and all, and carried him out of the room. Abram hadn’t opened his eyes once. It was all part of the game. The food was the final gift before things got real interesting. His head bobbed as the men carried him off. The hood would light up every fifteen paces or so. Must be a corridor.

  Hinges squeaked and a rush of colder air swept up Abram’s exposed stomach. His equilibrium flipped as the men sent him vertical before placing him back on the ground. The feet of the chair clicked as they made contact with the ground. Not stone. Tile maybe?

  The door slammed shut seconds later. Abram sat there with his hands tied behind him and his feet bound to the legs of the chair. He slowed his breathing so he could focus on his surroundings. Someone else was in the room.

  “I know you’re there,” Abram said. “I can hear you breathing. The food was a good touch. I’ll give you that. But like I told the other guy, I’ll die before I break. Your psychotic and demented ideology has clouded your own judgment and ability for reason. You think you’re doing the world a great service, but you’re only ostracizing yourself. You may kill me, but you can’t kill us all. You’re outnumbered. Give up. Better yet, untie me and I’ll kill you myself.”

  Clapping.

  “Great speech. Almost as good as the last guy’s.”

  It wasn’t Philip.

  “Yeah, well. I didn’t have much notice to rehearse,” Abram said. His mind was racing through his memories. Where had he heard that voice before? Keep him talking.

  “So, what’s the plan, boss? A little bit of torture, maybe some waterboarding, and cap it off with electrocution?”

  “That all sounds rather interesting, but I thought we’d try a new approach.”

  “Oh, goodie. I like surprises. Let me guess. Strangulation, suffocation, deprivation, then revive. Am I close?”

  “Not quite,” the voice said. He hadn’t moved.

  “Ah, those were all my best guesses. Alright, give me—”

  Abram gasped as the air in his lungs disappeared. The blow had come out of nowhere. He hadn’t even known someone was next to him. His right side buckled when the second and third blows made contact. He wheezed beneath the hood.

  “So that’s how you want to roll. Alright, I see how it is.”

  The next cracked his left supraorbital arch. Eyebrow bone. His head was on fire. No doubt several of his ribs were broken, and if he wasn’t bleeding internally already, he soon would be.

  “Take these zip ties off me and we’ll see how tough you really are.”

  He caved forward as something snapped in his left side. That was definitely brass knuckles that time. Before he had time to gasp in air and push back the pain, three quick blows to the face sent him to the ground. Warm liquid pooled down his chin. He couldn’t breathe out of his nose and his face felt like it had been hit by a train. Abram held his arms up to defend himself, but he didn’t know from where the next blow would come. Luckily, none did.

  Strong hands yanked him back to a sitting position. Abram’s head hung forward. His breathing was shallow, unable to draw in a deeper breath without excruciating pain.

  “Now do you see what you made me do?”

  Abram had no fight left. He just hoped it would be over soon. If only he were so lucky. They’d draw this out for weeks, maybe even months if he didn’t die before then. Nope, the fun had just begun. He didn’t
flinch when he felt hands around his neck. He actually willed them on. The hood came flying off. His friendly combatant tossed the bloodied hood to the side. Abram teetered on the verge of unconsciousness.

  The man placed smelling salts under Abram’s nostrils. Abram shot up.

  “Glad to have you back,” the voice said, still in the shadows.

  Abram’s left eye was swollen shut. His right was on its way.

  “Just kill me. I’m no use to you. If I had anything to say, I would have done so already.”

  “We don’t want you dead. On the contrary, we want you very much alive.”

  The voice was coming from the shadows. One florescent light burned bright above Abram, but its light left the far corner in the dark.

  “Step into the light so that I can see you,” Abram coughed.

  Heels clicked on the tile floor as the mysterious voice came into the light. Abram’s heart stopped.

  “I don’t understand,” Abram said.

  Scott Train stood in the same brown suit he wore the first time he met Abram at Capitol Hill during the inauguration of the forty-fifth president.

  “How are you here?”

  Abram’s mind was racing. Why was Scott Train working with ISIS?

  “It’s quite simple really. We received a tip from one of our local sources that one of ISIS’s members was planning something big. All we had to go on at the time was Morocco. Several weeks ago, one our analysts came across an encrypted email sent from Canada’s prime minister to an unknown account registered in Lebanon. As we dove further, we were able to back-trace where the email thread originated. This then led us to a source called Jihir Mohammed.”

  “Jihir was your contact?”

  “Yes and no. Jihir was with the Taliban, but after an injury, he went AWOL. He no longer agreed with what they were fighting for. He started a new life in Lebanon, where he met his wife. They had three children. When the Taliban learned that he was a deserter, they tracked him down. When Jihir got home from work that day, he found his children butchered and his wife hanging from the balcony, her clothes removed. Each of his three boys had been violated, and his wife showed signs of the same.”