by Robert Clark
‘You’ve got ten seconds to tell me why this truck is here and what the hell you’re doing aboard it before I blow a hole through your neck and watch you bleed out,’ he snarled.
‘Easy now,’ said the prisoner. ‘As you might be able to guess, I’m not exactly here at my own will.’
‘Why is this truck transporting one prisoner in the middle of nowhere?’ Corser snapped.
‘You’d have to ask the driver that, unless he’s not feeling too chatty anymore.’
Corser squeezed the pistol into his neck.
‘Okay, okay,’ he groaned. ‘Just cut me down and we can talk.’
‘Why should I do you the kindness?’
‘Call me crazy, but you came here to rescue me, didn’t you?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because I’m James Stone.’
One
The Price of Failure
The last thing I’d seen was her face. Those wild, untameable eyes. The kind of eyes that make you jump in front of traffic just to see light up with pleasure. The eyes of Nicole, standing over me, trying to save my life. I remembered blood. I remembered fire. I remembered her eyes. Her eyes were the last thing I saw as I drifted away.
And then…
Doctors. Surgeons. Police. Each a snapshot from a frazzled mind. No matter what I did to piece the parts together, I could not. All I had were the fragments of a halved life. Fever had almost claimed me its victim. But they got to me, just in time. They stitched me up and pumped blood into my veins and made sure I was okay. Made sure I would survive.
Then they threw me in a cell.
Time doesn’t run the same way inside solitary confinement. What is the point in a day when your entire existence is shrunk down to a room the size of a closet? Plastic food was administered via a postbox. My one, minuscule moment of light. And as it slid shut, the darkness came crashing back in. I had nothing, no one for company, not even my own sanity. I lived in a state of hollow existence. No life. No purpose. Nothing.
I didn’t have a clue how long it went on. Maybe it never ended. Maybe what happened next was a fantasy concocted up like the last ember of a dying flame. Maybe I died in that prison. Maybe that’s what I deserved.
When they came for me, I didn’t know if they were real. The hands that snatched at my wrists felt real, but I was too far gone to be certain. They threw a bag over my head, bound my arms together, and took me from my hole.
The hessian bag smelt foul. The combination of sweat and dust made for a claustrophobic and nauseating experience. The minuscule gaps did little to give me any sort of indication as to my surroundings. Save for the tiny bright light somewhere off to my right, I had nothing. The straps around my hands were tight, leaving them in a permanent state of pain.
It had been a long time coming. From the moment I took flight for Afghanistan seeking adventure and purpose, I’d sealed my fate to a life of absolute, unyielding mayhem. When finally I returned home to England, I was a changed man. A damaged man. And there was no place for that monster. Since then, death and destruction had become commonplace in my life. No matter how far I ran, I couldn’t escape it. And now, in the heart of Florida, it had finally caught up.
Arriving in America had set off a chain reaction. And no matter what I did, I was unable to stop it. My pathetic attempt to fight back had ended in tragedy. People were dead. Their blood on my hands. And now I would pay for it.
I wondered if they would take me back to England. My crimes back home were more severe than anything I’d managed in America. But that didn’t mean shit if America wanted redemption. They could just as easily shoot me in the head and spin a story that I was armed and dangerous, and no one would bat an eyelid. Hell, they might not even bother bringing the news to the public. What’s one more criminal on the bonfire?
Would Sophie ever discover the fate of her husband? Would she ever believe that I was not to blame? Or had she already disowned me? Life would be hard enough for her now. People would distance themselves from her. They would whisper lies behind her back, accusing her of being complicit in some way.
Would Peter be able to distance himself from his father’s terrifying legacy? He would grow up thinking I was a traitor to my country. A monster far worse than those found in his schoolbooks. He would be bullied at school. Victimised because parents didn’t want their children associating with the son of a terrorist. He would move from school to school, looking for some place that would let him be judged on his own merits.
Or was it worse than that? Were they even alive? The thought was too much to bear, but it was one I couldn’t avoid. Both had been thrown into the maelstrom as my life had fallen apart. Both had slipped from my grasp. They were lost to the void. Out of sight, out of reach. That was a dangerous place to be. It was a place where casualties were commonplace.
From somewhere outside of the hessian fog, a door opened. Two sets of footsteps cut through the silence, and two sets of chairs dragged across a concrete floor. The person on the right moved forwards and tugged the bag free.
I was sat before a wide metal table tucked into a square brick room. Painted a dull grey, the room was no bigger than a child’s bedroom. Along the wall to my right, a large mirror reflected the contents of the room back on itself. No doubt it was a one-way mirror, hiding God knows who behind it. Tucked into the top left corner above a windowless door was a surveillance camera. It was pointed right at me.
Two men in smart black suits sat opposite me. The man on the left was white and had looked like he’d been a model in a previous life before taking a tumble off the catwalk and landing behind a desk. He was easily six feet and had the muscle to back it up. His bulging biceps throbbed through the suit fabric. How he had managed to squeeze into it without tearing was beyond me. His short, blonde hair was so full of product, it looked like it was chiselled from a block of stone. He smiled at me with his designer teeth and rested his massive arms on the desk.
The man on the right was just as big, and no less muscular. He was black and sported a neat moustache that looked like it had been drawn on with a marker pen. Besides that and his slim, manicured eyebrows, he was as hairless as a newborn child. Unlike his partner, he was chewing gum. The irritating smack of saliva was so infuriating, it took all my will not to jump across the table and snap off his jawbone.
‘James Stone,’ the man with the moustache said as he read from a manila folder flat on the desk beneath his hands. ‘Born September 15th, 1980. Son of Matthew Stone and Elizabeth Tindall. Brother of Samuel Stone. Husband of Sophie Elkins-Stone and father of Peter Stone. Approximate height, five eleven. Approximate weight, one eighty. Formerly a journalist before a change in circumstance, and a wanted felon in five countries, and six states?’
‘At least six,’ said his partner.
‘At least six states. Known associates include Nicole Green, Robert Green, Derek Reddington, Isabella Reyes and,’ he stared at the document in amusement, ‘my oh my, the one and only Khalid Hussein Fadhil. Now that’s quite a feat.’
‘I’d go so far to say that’s almost impressive for a little lad from London,’ said the partner.
‘Wanted on charges of murder,’ the man with the moustache continued. ‘Attempted murder, grand larceny, arson, conspiracy to commit terror. And, most of all, for perpetrating the Remembrance Day attack last year. Now that is quite the résumé.’
‘And that’s the abridged version, you know,’ his partner said to him. ‘Who knows how many other crimes he hasn’t been charged with?’
‘Who knows indeed? Well, I suppose my boy James here knows, don’t you James? I can call you James, right?’
I didn’t respond. I stared blankly ahead, zoning out everything extraneous. It was just me, the moustache and the ridiculous chiselled hair.
‘Come now,’ said the moustache. ‘We’re just having a chat now, aren’t we? I hear you’ve got quite the quick wit. Surely you’ve got something to say?’
I didn’t respond.
‘He must be shy,’ said the chiselled hair. ‘Here he is, bundled up and tied to a chair without any idea what’s going to happen to him. I bet he’s been thrown through a loop.’
‘You know, I bet that’s it,’ said the moustache. ‘What can we get for you, James? You want a soda? A bite to eat, perhaps?’
I didn’t respond.
‘No wait,’ said the hair. ‘He’s British. He’ll want a good ol’ cup o’ tea, won’t you?’
I said nothing.
‘Well, don’t say we didn’t ask,’ said the hair, holding his hands up in mock attrition. ‘We’re just trying to help you out.’
‘But if the man doesn’t want help, he doesn’t want help. What are we to do?’ said the moustache.
‘You know, we haven’t introduced ourselves,’ said the hair. ‘I’m Federal Agent Jonah Miles, and this right here is my partner.’
‘Federal Agent Kayden Whyte,’ said the moustache. ‘But you can call me Agent Whyte.’
‘And you can call me Agent Miles.’
‘And you know, it’s such a pleasure to meet you, James. We’ve heard so much about you.’
‘So very much indeed. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve heard.’
‘You’ve led quite the life, haven’t you?’
I said nothing.
‘Huh, you know, I thought you’d be dying to chat,’ said Agent Whyte.
Their false chatter was infuriating.
‘I suppose he’s just keen to find out why we’ve got him here, don’t you think?’ said Agent Miles.
‘That must be it. A young scallywag like James must be itching to know.’
Both men stared at me, egging me to respond.
I left them hanging.
‘No?’ said Agent Whyte. ‘Oh well, we tried. I guess we’ll come back in a while and see if he’s changed his mind.’
‘But we can’t leave him here like this, can we?’
‘You’re right. All this silence must be driving him insane.’
‘I’m sure we can do something about that, can’t we?’
From his jacket pocket, Whyte retrieved a slim media player and a pair of earphones. He played with the device while his partner pulled out a roll of duct tape from his pocket. Whyte selected a track on the device, and the faint sound of music emitted through the earphones.
It didn’t stay faint for long.
Whyte tapped at a button on the side of the device, turning up the music until it was clearly audible through the tiny speakers. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant. It brought back dreadful memoires of a club in Bruges, but I had the sickening feeling that it was nothing compared to what I was about to endure.
‘We’ll see you in the morning,’ Whyte said through his perfect teeth.
The pair moved in close and pushed the earbuds into my ears. The sound was deafening. It thundered into the deepest recesses of my mind, shattering everything it came into contact with. As I winced, I felt duct tape wrap around my head, covering both ears, and dashing any chance of shaking the earphones free. The hessian bag was reapplied, and my world descended into hell.
I couldn’t think. I didn’t have the capacity to. Everything was drowned under the cacophony of dreadful music. In fact, to call it music was an insult to music. The screams of the vocalist cut across a barrage of heavy death metal like knives on burning flesh. It seemed impossible that it was real. No one could be so barbaric to assume any other living soul wanted to listen to this detritus. It was beyond atrocious. It was an assault on the senses. Nothing less. It thundered through my skull like a wrecking ball, amplifying the throb that had already left me borderline incapacitated. I wanted respite. I wanted freedom. I wanted silence and solitude and escape.
I wanted death.
I had no idea how long it lasted. It could have been hours. It could have been days. The need to eat and drink and sleep was nothing compared to the agony in my eardrums. I was but a shell of my former self, existing in a world of perpetual torment, waiting for the sweet release of death. When finally the tape was ripped off, and the earbuds removed, I felt no different. The insatiable ringing in my ears negated everything. The screams and shouts echoed in my mind, reaving the silence. I felt something slap against my face, but it didn’t register in my brain. It felt like an image on a screen a million miles away. Completely separate to me. A face swam before my eyes. A gleam of glistening white teeth shone behind a set of gums. And from out of the sea of noise, a distant voice reached me.
‘Playtime’s over, James.’
I gazed numbly into the void. Slowly, reality returned in reticence. As it climbed back into my vacant shell, the world around me came back into focus. The table, the mirror, the camera all came flooding back. As did the two men in suits.
And a plate of food on the table.
‘We thought you might be hungry,’ said Whyte. ‘Roast potatoes, a side of vegetables and a prime, sirloin steak cooked through. You look like a man who likes his meat well done, am I right?’
There was no point ignoring them anymore. I didn’t want the music to return.
I nodded.
‘Attaboy!’ shouted Whyte in glee, slapping his hands together. ‘I told you we were getting somewhere.’
‘I owe you ten bucks,’ said Miles. ‘I figured he’d need at least another round of music before he saw sense.’
‘And you were wrong, my friend. I had some faith in our boy James,’ Whyte jeered. ‘Come on, tuck in.’
He pushed the food towards me. My hands instinctively moved forwards, but they were still tied.
‘My bad,’ Whyte laughed.
He walked around and cut my bonds with a knife. My arms drooped forwards. The muscles screamed in protest. The food smelt great. I wanted to tuck in, but I couldn’t. It was a sign of defeat. A sign of cooperation. The ego in me hadn’t given up just yet. I pushed the plate away.
‘See,’ said Miles. ‘I told you he wasn’t ready just yet. You owe me ten bucks.’
‘Come on, James,’ willed Whyte. ‘Can’t you see we’re trying to help?’
I couldn’t contain the laugh.
‘Help?’ I barked. My voice was hoarse. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken. There hadn’t been any point in talking since the arrest, but now I felt compelled. I needed to say something. I needed to assert myself. ‘This is help, is it? Filling my head with that garbage and then trying to win me over with food? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘He speaks!’ cheered Whyte. ‘I knew you had it in you.’
‘Oh he does more than speak,’ I snarled. My throat stung. I needed fluid, but I would be damned if I was going to ask them for water.
‘So tell me then, James. You don’t think we’re being hospitable? We cleaned up your wounds and offered you food. That bullet wound on your shoulder was going septic. You’d be in a great deal more pain if we hadn’t sorted it for you.’
‘Oh sure,’ I snapped. ‘What a fantastic service you’ve got here. Five out of five stars. Would be detained against my will here again.’
‘James, work with us here,’ said Agent Miles. ‘You need to eat. From the sounds of it, you need a drink. We’re happy to provide whatever you need, so long as you give up this tired, macho charade and show a little cooperation, okay? We need you fit and healthy.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘Well, not for us. It’s the state that requires a certain level of physical health. Can’t have you dying on us before we send you off to the electric chair now, can we?’
And there it was. The motive. They didn’t give a damn about me. They were going to kill me. They just wanted me full up before they stuck me in the chair and sent me to my death. What sat before me on the table was my last meal. The final choice of the death row inmate before he met his fate, except I wasn’t given a choice. The realisation sat in my stomach, negating the need for food, souring the roasted potatoes and sirloin steak. It could have been meat from a sewer rat for all it did to entice me. I wa
nted to hurl the plate against the mirror, watch it shatter into a million little pieces, and expose whoever sat behind, watching me from the shadows.
‘You might as well eat it up, James,’ said Miles. ‘You won’t be offered anything better. It’s either this or we stick you on a drip.’
‘And the doctors around here aren’t all that good with their bedside manners,’ said Whyte. ‘If you catch my drift?’
‘How nice of them.’ I said.
‘Let’s be honest, James,’ said Miles. ‘You’re better off eating this delicious steak. Lord knows I would in your scenario. At least it will give you something nice to think about while it happens.’
‘I’ve experienced an electric shock before. A bit of meat in my teeth won’t change that.’ I said.
The two men laughed.
‘Oh heck no,’ said Whyte. ‘You won’t be going to the chair just yet. We couldn’t have you breaking too early now, could we?’
‘That’s a bit of a contradiction, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Oh I think you’ll find it's pretty apt.’ said Miles. ‘You see, if I drove a five inch nail in behind your thumbnail and prised it apart, a weak man might pass out from the pain, and what fun would that be? So we’ll feed you up or pump you full of fluids until we’re damn well certain you’ll be strong enough to endure it. The choice is up to you how we reach that end game.’
‘I’m lowering you down to a four out of five stars for that.’
‘Look at it this way,’ said Whyte. ‘You’ve got five hours left in this room. When that time is up, we’re going to haul your ass out of here and take you someplace special. Think of it as our private resort, a place where we can all really let our hair down.’
‘And I know what you’re thinking,’ sneered Miles. ‘The Geneva Convention will save your pretty little skin. We can’t touch you. We can’t lay a damn finger on you.’ He stood up and leaned in close. ‘But I’ve got news for you. Where we’re going ain’t technically US soil. It’s no man’s land, free from the persecutions of the American Government. And James, we’ve seen the place. Let me tell you, you do not want to end up some place like that. Well, I guess you ain’t got much choice now, have you?’
