by J. B. Havens
****
Jordon slowly came to, blinking in the darkness and trying to clear the grit out of his eyes. Loud thumping sounds assaulted his ears like a Bradley tank. No matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t see anything besides darkness. His head was pounding and throbbing painfully in time with the tempo of the noises surrounding him. He tried to rise up into a sitting position, but attempting to move his arms triggered painful stabs in his wrists and shoulders. Jerking on his wrists only caused his bonds to cut into his wrists more. Whatever they had tied him up with felt sharp, like plastic or wire. He stilled, not wanting to slit his wrists inadvertently. It was made worse by the fact that he was tied in a very unnatural position. The backs of his hands were facing each other, with his wrists twisted into a stress position. Any movement at all was painful and short-lived. There was no way for him to wiggle his fingers to try to loosen his bonds. These fuckers got props for knowing how to restrain someone properly. The thought was sobering. If they knew to use this stress position, they’ve done this before. It was not amateur hour around here apparently, which was bad news for him and his life expectancy. He tried to keep calm and relax as much as possible.
Tied up, check. Darkness, check. Kidnapped. Big fucking check. He turned his head back and forth trying to clear the fog weighing him down like a cinder-block sitting on his forehead. Taking a few deep breaths low into his gut calmed and centered him enough to assess his surroundings. A hood was over his head and face, tied snugly around his neck. He was lying on his side on what must be concrete. Nothing else had a smooth cold hardness like concrete. His eyes were useless, so he closed them and reached out with his other senses. Smell: his soap and the cotton of the hood, underlined with the stale, musty smell you get in closed spaces. He wasn’t in a basement because the air he breathed in wasn’t damp, but more of a dusty smell. Coupled with the concrete floor, he was in a garage or shed maybe? Hearing: the blood was rushing in his ears in time with thumping base. Music? Loud rock assaulted his ears; no lyrics, just heavy drums and screaming guitars. Taste was a moot point; his mouth felt like he’d been eating sand with a chaser of dust. Licking his lips was yet another useless lesson in frustration that produced no results.
He slowly tried to move his legs. Yes! They were free. Groaning, he slowly, agonizingly, shifted, got his knees under him, and sat on his heels. His arms were numb and the pins and needles burning through his legs made him grind his teeth until his jaw ached. His ribs and side where he’d been tackled were tight and sore. He took as deep of a breath as he was able. It was painful, but not stabbing, so no broken ribs. The situation had improved by a small degree. No longer laying on the cold concrete like a whipped dog did wonders for his confidence, but was short lived.
Superman he was not; there was no breaking the bonds tying his wrists together. Trying to move his hands at all caused more vicious pains to ratchet up his wrists to his shoulders. God better be watching out for the cowardly fuckers that took this cheap shot. They better be glad he was restrained so tightly, because otherwise he’d be tearing them limb from limb bare-handed. He would bathe in their blood and show them the true meaning of being mad with blood lust.
“Come on Jordon, calm your shit. Get it together. Remember your training. You can do this. You don’t have a fucking choice,” he rasped to himself, feeling like his throat was coated in sandpaper. Breathe in…out….count of seven in….count of seven out. Who knew yoga breathing would pay off so well? Whoever these stupid mother fuckers were, they better gear up because Steel was about to bring the rain.
By rain, he meant fire bombs, pain, and a humiliating bloody death.
He felt, more than heard, a loud click, and the quality of darkness in his hood changed. Must be a hell of a light system if he could feel the vibration of it turning on. He still couldn’t see a fucking thing but the darkness was slightly thinner. Instead of ‘deep-inside-a-cave-dark’ it was ‘moonless night-in-the-woods-dark’.
He strained to hear anything over the music, a shuffle of a shoe, a door, anything. He felt an air current shift across his bare arms, raising the hair there in awareness. Another shift across his other arm. Someone was walking in circles around him; pacing, like he was a sideshow freak. Sweat popped out all over his body, reeking of stress and fear. Stay calm, he thought.
“Keep your cool man, they’re trying to fuck with your head. Remember your training. Calm your pulse, deep breaths into your belly,” he spoke softly to himself. Again, he took a breath and counted; he breathed out again and again, until he felt his pulse slow and his sweat cool.
The music stopped abruptly. The sudden silence was as stressful as the pulsing and throbbing music had been. The only sound was the hum of the lights above him; a buzzing like an insect flying next to his ear. There it was, a footstep to his left. He turned toward the noise and got a hard smack to the back of his head. Gonna be like that huh? He bit his tongue, keeping the words in. Don’t say a fucking thing until spoken to. Choke back the snarky, ‘fuck off you smarmy bastards’ responses. And then I have one response: name, rank, and serial. No more, no less. He repeated it to himself like a mantra. Corporal Chris Jordon, United States Air Force, 587-52-9821.
“Name and rank,” a heavily accented voice said from above him. Not playing games then. Jordon tried to place the vaguely Eastern-European sounding voice. Pinning down a nationality would help him figure out who took him and why.
“Corporal Chris Jordon,” he rasped out. If he was going to have to play broken record he seriously needed a drink. A sip, anything. His mouth was not up to much talking in this state. Swishing his tongue around in his mouth trying to summon up some spit got him a few drops for his efforts. Maybe they’d beat him soon so the blood would wet his mouth a little. You’re cracking up man, he thought to himself.
“No games, Corporal Jordon. You know what we want and you’re going to give it to us. We know you work for Steel. We need the names of your commanding officers and the fellow idiots you play war with.” The voice had moved to his left. Either the voice was trying to keep him guessing on his location, or he was moving out of the way for the knee breakers.
“Go fuck yourself. Corporal Chris Jordon, United States Air Force, 587-52-9821.” He barely got the last number out before he felt the first punch. Stars exploded across his black vision. His mouth filled with blood where his teeth cut into his cheek. The hood was jerked up over his mouth but still covered his eyes. He spit the mouthful in the general direction of the voice. That earned him two more hits in quick succession. Wham-wham! Jordon rocked back on his heels, using all of his concentration to stay upright and conscious. His face was a throbbing mass of raw nerves. Warmth was running down his face from a cut somewhere in the vicinity of his eye. Both sides of his face were swelling up, making it hard to tell where the cut was. Not like it really mattered. He deduced it would be joined by a few others before this was over. He’d concentrate on coming up with creative ways to insult these bastards while taking his beating.
“This is all very unnecessary, Corporal. This beating can worsen or stop completely, depending on your answer. I’ll even give you some water. Those drugs give a nasty case of dry mouth, don’t they?” The bastard had the gall to chuckle at the thought. When he got loose, Jordon was going to cut this fucking guy’s tongue out and feed it to him.
“Corporal Chris Jordon, United…” He didn’t finish it before the beating continued. This time, he couldn’t hold onto consciousness. Oblivion swallowed him after a solid hit to his chin that clacked his teeth together. He bit his tongue, filling his mouth with yet more blood.
Chapter 7
I cracked my knuckles for what seemed like the thousandth time tonight. It was harder this time than any other. It was killing me to see him tied up, bloodied, and beaten. Jordon thought he’d gotten hazed in earlier playing on the track. This was getting hazed in. Beaten into unconsciousness and revived with ice water. Over and over.
“Let him sleep a little, give hi
s brain a break. We want him fucked up, not dead. Wouldn’t do at all to have Jordon out with a concussion or a fucking brain bleed or something,” I spoke into the radio. Pierce acknowledged me with a thumbs-up.
“Ok boys, ten minutes of sleep then wake him up,” I continued.
I watched from a two-way mirror on the other side of the room Jordon was being held in. Phillips and Pierce were standing over him. Blood spattered on the floor all around them like a macabre painting. Pierce was nursing a cut on his knuckles from Jordon’s teeth. Phillips checked his pulse and breathing, the medic in him taking over. I trusted him to keep it from going too far. After all, they had both been through this same thing. Pierce still showed a fine white scar on his eyebrow, and Phillips had a slightly crooked nose from a bad break during his kidnapping.
“Only a few more hits before you start in on the sleep and oxygen deprivation,” I told them. Phillips glared at me, shaking his head and stomping to the door.
“Stop fucking micromanaging this, Mic, we got it,” Phillips said, as he poked his head into the observation room I was in.
“Just go, Phillips,” I snapped back, once again rubbing my temples. I needed to get a grip, this was a job. This had to be done, no matter how distasteful I found it.
If he didn’t soon spill his guts about Steel, it all stopped and he could go back to his cabin and get patched up and be welcomed into the family. The last family he would ever know. Shit, I sounded like a reject from Men in Black. I scrubbed a hand over my face and through my hair. I needed a cup of coffee or a fifth of whiskey. Hard to decide which was more appealing at the moment.
It always bothered me to see my men hurt, but with Jordon, it was visceral pain. This was an unacceptable reaction. I needed to get the hell over myself.
“Alright Phillips. Wake him,” I barked into my radio earning a raised eyebrow from him. Fuck him, this is my business. He nodded at me and retrieved the bucket of ice water by the door, tossed it back, and brought Jordon sputtering to life.
Jordon was somehow still propped up on his knees, his weight balanced on his heels. His hands were tied behind his back, dressed just in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. He was so cold I could see the goosebumps dotting his bluish skin from here. He looked so hard and unbroken, even with the blood flowing down what I could see of his face, or maybe in spite of it. The sight brought my dream to the forefront of my mind. What the fuck?
****
Jordon hardly reacted this time when they woke him up. Freezing cold and soaking wet, he shivered and shook involuntarily. Shaking his head, he tried to clear some of the water from his eyes but the abrupt movement was a stupid idea; it just made everything hurt more and caused his stomach to churn with nausea. If he puked, he hoped he could manage to hit one of them. The spinning in his head and the violent feeling in his stomach clued him into the concussion he must be sporting.
Breathe in, breathe out.
It had become his new mantra over the past hours.
Exhaustion pulled at him, tugging at his eyes, but he willed them open.
He didn’t want to sleep just to be woken by ice water again.
Had these fucks ever heard of hypothermia? Where in the ever loving hell was Steel and his rescue? Maybe they couldn’t track him.
He didn’t know how long he’d been out; maybe he wasn’t even in country?
As time passed, he thought he’d have some answers, but all he had was more questions, each one more frustrating than the last. Doubts plagued him, eating at his mind like a sickness; swirling around in his brain, adding to his mounting confusion and anger.
Footsteps approached again. He tensed for the same questions asked; his ‘fuck off, you assholes’ responses; and the inevitable beating and ice bath. Forgetting his bruised ribs, he heaved a deep sigh, sending shooting pains through his chest. Enough was just about fucking enough.
“Listen ass wipes, my answer isn’t going to change, so can we just get to the waterboarding feature of the evening? The anticipation is killing me.” He mouthed off as arrogantly as he could. He’d keep needling them until he couldn’t talk anymore. No response came, either verbally, or in the form of yet another fist to the face.
The footsteps continued around behind him and stopped. Hands fumbled at his wrists, releasing his restraints with a snap. His arms hung limp. They’d been tied behind him so long his muscles had seized. Stabbing needles of pain exploded in all of his nerve endings as the blood rushed back into his limbs, forcing a loud groan from his lips.
He sunk forward and tried to lift his arms, which screamed in reply, swinging forward due to gravity alone. His wrists were raw and slowly seeping blood, running down the inside of his wrists in a warm tickle.
They hauled him up under his arms and sat him in a straight back chair, his knees screaming from the movement. Spending hours kneeling on cold concrete was not conducive to joint health. Hands grabbed his limp arms, the screeching, ripping sound of tape reaching his ears. They taped him to the chair from wrists to elbows, followed by his ankles and calves to the chair legs. If he managed to get out of here alive, he was not looking forward to ripping all this tape off his skin. Talk about waxing.
He flexed his hands, trying to make a fist. Thankfully he wasn’t taped so tight that the circulation was cut off. A heavy cloak of silence thick with tension hung in the air. Exhaustion pulled at him and he struggled to stay awake and alert. He wasn’t comfortable by any means, but as the pain in his legs and arms lessened he relaxed slightly. He lost the fight to stay awake, exhaustion pulling him under with heavy arms.
****
I watched Jordon’s chin drop to his chest as he fell asleep.
“Five minutes, Pierce,” I grouched into the radio. He nodded his understanding and checked his watch. The sleep deprivation was well underway and I was readying for the oxygen deprivation. I ran my hands through my hair again and again, trying to release my tension. I knew how necessary this whole procedure was. Hell, I had been in that chair myself, but I fucking hated it. I hated having to do this the way a parent hates having to discipline a child.
Growling in frustration, I gave the go-ahead and watched Phillips get a plastic bag out of his duffel. Pierce woke Jordon with a solid kick to the chair seat, the loud thunk of his boot sticking wood echoing in the concrete room.
“Same question, Corporal,” Phillips rumbled in his fake accent while rustling the bag. I watched Chris carefully for a reaction. He was completely stoic, betraying none of the fear he must be feeling.
“Fuck off,” Jordon ground out through clenched teeth. His breathing was picking up, I could see his chest rising and falling, faster and faster. The air was cloaked with strain. The veins in his neck were standing out with his tension. If I could have seen his eyes, I’m sure they would be flashing with rage, not fear. I was beginning to see why he had been recruited by Jackson; fierce determination and mental strength, not to mention his physical presence. Even tied up and beaten, he wasn’t backing down or giving an inch. As long as he passed this test, he’d be in for good.
****
Jordon was trying his damnedest not to hyperventilate with the knowledge of what was coming. A plastic bag? So very mobbed up of them. Not very creative, but what it lacked in creativity, it made up for in effectiveness, to say the least. Death by suffocation wasn’t how he had planned to go out, but seeing how he didn’t have any choice he had better just man-up and deal with it.
“Just fucking do it, you pieces of shit. I can hear the bag. Put it on already! If you’re going to kill me do it. I’m still not telling you a fucking thing. Corporal Chris Jordon, United States Air Force, 587-52-9821.” He spit in the general direction he thought they were in and settled back to wait for death.
The plastic was cool against his face and slightly sticky feeling, as it slid over his head. Soon it was pulled tight around his throat, choking him of what little air he had. The plastic bit into his neck as it was pulled tighter and tighter. His mouth popped open like
a fish, gasping against the plastic, causing it to suction fast to his mouth. All he could hear was his desperate gasps for air and the crinkle of the plastic. He started to thrash, rocking the chair side-to-side with his movements. His chest was tight and burned like hell, desperate for oxygen. His vision started to fade to black and his movements slowed. His arms jerked fruitlessly against the tape, pulling his skin and hair in painful jerks. His heart was pounding in his head and his chest was tight as a fist.
This is it! This is how you are going to die. Tied like an animal and beaten, just to be killed when the bastards holding him realized he wasn’t a fount of information. With every second that ticked by he grew weaker and weaker. Involuntary spasms jerked his arms and legs. His face was burning with the lack of oxygen and he no longer gasped. He was feeling sluggish and his movements stopped. Just as he felt he was about to die, just as he saw the Reaper reaching for him with his great scythe, the bag was jerked free. Air washed across his face, rapidly gelling the sweat that had gathered on his cheeks and neck. He sucked in a giant lungful of air, gasping and choking as his lungs tried to inflate. His throat was raw and dry. He was disoriented; he couldn’t tell where his captors were and he couldn’t hear them. All he was aware of was the cool oxygen sliding into his lungs and blood.
Bright light blinded him so suddenly he saw spots, and had to slam his eyes shut. Groaning, he twisted his head back and forth trying to escape the brightness stabbing into his eyes, until he realized the light was following him. Someone was shining a light into his eyes.
