The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  “Bring him to me.”

  There was no hesitation on their part. Instantly, a man was at each side and they dragged Machmud forward. He protested and kicked at the men. This was not well-received. One laborer stomped his heavy steel-toed boot sadistically across Machmud’s calf, forcing a scream from the man.

  “I’ve done nothing!” Machmud sobbed.

  Miran ignored the protests. He walked around the table. “Stand him up!” he ordered.

  The men pulled Machmud to his feet but his injured leg would not support his weight. He was weaving and leaning onto his captors.

  “Where were you when you received our text message tonight?” Miran asked. “Where were you when we asked you to return to the apartment?”

  “I was with a contact,” Machmud said urgently. He was sweating profusely and tears cut paths through the dust caked on his face. “I was cultivating a relationship.”

  “What type of relationship?” Miran persisted.

  “A contact. That’s all.”

  Miran grabbed Machmud by the hair and raised the dagger to his throat. “Do you think we are so stupid as to turn you loose with no way to monitor you? Did you not realize you were always on a virtual leash? That we tracked all your movements both in the city and on the internet? That we know every website you go to and every message you send?”

  Machmud’s panic rose another notch and he tried to protest. “I’ve…done…nothing…wrong.”

  “Your job was to make inroads we could exploit. Your goal was to cultivate relationships and nurture those relationships into assets we could manipulate. Instead, all you’ve done is pursue your own deviant pleasure." Miran drew the word deviant out, relishing the way it sounded on his tongue.

  "I did nothing."

  “Do I need to read the transcripts out loud?" Miran yelled, getting in Machmud’s face. “Do you I need to read the messages aloud? Do I need to show the pictures you exchanged?”

  Machmud sobbed and went limp. The men supporting him allowed him to drop to the ground. His hands still flex-cuffed, he curled up and sobbed. "I am sorry. She tempted me and I could not resist."

  "Did she tell you things you liked to hear?" Miran mocked. “Was she a temptress?”

  Machmud moaned. "Yes. Yes!"

  “Then we will make certain you do not hear things that tempt you again," Miran spat. "Hold him down!”

  The men at Machmud’s side slid on thick leather welding gloves which they used hold Machmud down. One of them, a thick man with arms like tree trunks, placed one on Machmud’s neck and another on his forehead, crushing his cheek into the dirt floor. Miran went to the kettle of boiling oil and returned with it. He crouched over Machmud’s ear.

  Machmud whimpered and cried, still not completely certain what was about to take place. He could not see what Mohammed saw. He struggled but he could not gain ground against the strong arms holding him. Miran tipped the kettle to Machmud’s ear.

  Machmud screamed. He kicked and fought like an animal, but Miran continued pouring until the ear was full.

  "Flip him over,” Miran ordered.

  The gloved men did as they were told. As they rolled him over, Mohammed could see Machmud’s eyes wide with pain, shock, and terror. He tried to scream again but no scream could release the explosion of pain inside his head.

  Once rolled to his other side Miran leaned over Machmud and whispered into his ear. "Remember my voice. It is the last you'll ever hear."

  Then he poured the other ear full of the burning oil, deep frying everything within the canal. Miran returned to the table and placed the kettle beside the burner. "Take him away!"

  The gloved men grabbed Machmud by his arms and dragged him away into the darkness. Mohammed wondered what would become of him. Would they kill him? Would they return him home? When Mohammed returned his eyes from Machmud to Miran he found the man staring at him.

  "Have I made myself clear?" Miran asked. "Are you aware now of how serious and how urgent our mission is?"

  "We understand," Mohammed replied.

  "I will return in two weeks. You have that long to develop an actionable plan. Should you have nothing for me, what you saw tonight will look like the easy way out."

  “We will not disappoint you,” Mohammed said.

  Miran’s look indicated he was not convinced. "Get them out of here," he hissed.

  The hood was thrown back over Mohammed's head and he was shoved from the room. He felt a sickness deep inside that made him want to throw up, though to do so with the hood on his head would only increase his suffering. He had not known Machmud well and had not known of his activities on the computer.

  He also had not known they were being monitored so closely. That concerned him. There were times he watched a stupid video to blow off steam and relax. One thing was certain; he would type each word now with the understanding that he might one day have to stand before Miran and explain it. He would type each word with the understanding his life may one day depend on it.