by Angus McLean
Fuck them, he decided. It was time to take the offensive.
‘I want to talk to your boss,’ he said.
‘Shut up.’
‘Get me the boss.’
‘I say shut up.’
The guy shoved him flat on his face with a heel between the shoulder blades.
Moore fought to breathe.
‘Get me the boss, arsehole.’
He could smell the man leaning in close over him.
‘I am boss,’ he snarled.
‘You’re just the monkey,’ Moore told him, ‘get me the zookeeper.’
‘You fuck you!’
The guy landed a decent punch to the side of Moore’s head.
The door opened and a second voice sounded. The man over Moore replied and the other voice said something short and sharp. The door closed again and Moore sensed the man stepping back.
‘The boss,’ Moore insisted. ‘Go get him, dickhead.’
The man’s cigarette breath wafted into Moore’s face.
‘Boss come soon. Then you know.’ He chuckled. ‘You know.’
‘I know you hit like a fuckin’ limp-wristed cock sucker,’ Moore replied.
‘Fuck you!’
The guy was angry now, snorting like a bull as he launched into a frenzied assault, his fists raining down on Moore’s head and torso.
The door opened again and there was a shout then running feet. The punches stopped when the newcomer got to them and there was an angry exchange of Turkish between the two men.
Moore lay there, catching his breath and trying to clear his head. The boy had some weight behind those hits and he was hurting, but it had been worth it. He now knew more about these guys, and information was power. With information he could plan.
He heard angry feet stomping off and the door closed. Another voice sounded, this one older and obviously better educated.
‘You are still alive, yes?’
‘Barely,’ Moore said. ‘Thanks, you’re a good man. He’s an animal.’
‘You shouldn’t provoke him,’ the man said. ‘He does not like you being rude to him.’
‘I want to speak to your boss, when can I do that?’
The man was silent for a moment as if weighing his answer. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘It will be soon.’
‘Could I please have a drink? I think he broke my nose.’
‘No, no drink.’
‘I need some water please, he really hurt me.’
‘I said no.’
‘Will this look good for your boss, us all beaten to shit? It won’t look good on the cameras.’
‘You don’t worry about that. There is no need.’
Moore digested that. It wasn’t good. He tried again. ‘When is he coming here, your big chief wallah-wallah?’
‘Big what?’
‘Your boss. When can I speak to him?’
‘Soon, I say soon.’ The man gave a small chuckle. ‘He is very keen to talk to you too.’
‘I bet he is. We have a lot to talk about. He needs to know what we have to say, and I don’t think he’ll like it.’
The man was silent for a moment. ‘Why you say that? He won’t like it?’
‘I’ll tell him when he gets here. I’m sick of talking to the bottom feeders.’
‘Now you are rude. Maybe I get my friend back in here.’
Moore managed a snort. ‘He said you need him to do the dirty work for you.’
‘I think it time for you to shut up for a minute.’
‘What’s your big chief’s name then? If I’m going to get killed here I should at least know his name.’
‘You are scared. You should be scared.’ The man crouched down beside him. ‘You talk to him, it is the last conversation you have in your life.’
‘So tell me his name then. Or are you too scared I’m going to escape and tell everyone?’
The man snorted. ‘I am scared of nothing. I believe in Allah, the one true prophet. He is leading us to glory against the infidels of the west.’
Moore gave another snort of derision, but his mind was racing. ‘Can you stop breathing on me please, your breath smells like an old man’s cock.’
There was a flurry of movement as the man stood and booted him in the side. ‘Your juvenile insults mean nothing to me, spy. You will soon be leaving this world.’
‘So will you, you fuckin’ retard. Is your mother still alive?’
There was a pause. ‘Why? Why you ask this of my mother? It is not your concern.’
‘Is she in Allah’s Paradise or not? It’s not a difficult question; yes or no?’
No pause now, and the unseen man’s tone was proud when he spoke. ‘She is indeed in Paradise, awaiting me to come join her.’
‘Good. She must be missing you fucking her in the mouth. Now go get the boss, you dirty goat fucker. I’m sick of talking to you.’
‘Infidel! You will suffer for your sins!’
The man moved away, pausing only to stamp twice on Moore’s back, good and hard, before moving away.
The door opened and banged closed again. Moore took a slow breath and wondered how he managed to make friends so easily.
Chapter Twenty Five
He began to scrape the side of his face against the wet concrete.
The rough surface gained traction on the cotton at the same time as it began to graze his skin. He ignored the pain and focussed on wriggling, shaking his head to loosen up the hood. It wasn’t secured under his chin, and after what felt like a lifetime he had it halfway up his face. He could see ambient light now.
He worked harder, dragging the hood against the floor and shaking his head. He pushed up to his knees and bent over, feeling the hood beginning to flap a bit now as he shook his head as vigorously as his aching neck allowed.
He rolled onto his back, awkwardly moving his bound hands to the side, and bent forward, bringing his knees up together in a crunch. He got the loose end of the hood between his knees and pulled it off in one go.
He rolled to the side and then up, breathing hard with the exertion. His face stung but he could see now and breathe properly. He was in a concrete block room, maybe fifteen square metres, with a steel door on the far wall and a small barred window above it.
He was alone and couldn’t hear any sounds beyond the walls.
He took a quick assessment of his body, which was easy – everything hurt, nothing broken.
He snorted and spat snot, then moved to the wall, searching the surface for any kind of irregularity, any edge that he could use on the plastic flexi-cuffs. He knew guys who could manoeuvre their bound hands over their legs to the front, but they were all skinny little racing sardines, not members of the Hundred Club with hips almost as wide as their shoulders.
Finally he found a small ridge of unevenness where the bricklayer had failed to clean up a dribble of excess cement between two bricks at about knee height.
Moore knelt down and backed up to it, feeling around until he had the right spot then setting to work. The kidnappers had put a cuff round each wrist then linked them with a third in the middle, giving some flexibility. They were wide cuffs though and it would take some doing to get free.
Rubbing the linking cuff steadily up and down, Moore tried to avoid losing any more skin but it was impossible. He focussed on blocking out the pain and just getting the job done. The sooner he got his hands free the sooner he could have a crack at getting out of here. There was no way he was lying down for these bastards.
Their intentions were clear.
His shoulders and arms ached with the effort and he had to keep stopping to rest and let the circulation return to his muscles. Mentally counting the minutes, Moore had got to eight when he heard footsteps approaching outside the door.
More than one set, maybe two, and some kind of stumbling, dragging sound. Muted conversation between the men.
Moore went for it on the ridge, scraping at it like a man possessed, knowing he had only seconds. He could feel the cuff coming
apart but he knew in his heart it wouldn’t be soon enough.
He had the sudden, horrible thought that he’d blown it for them both, signed their death warrants by trying to escape.
But no, he knew they were dead anyway, so he carried on, scraping like crazy, straining his arms apart to try and break the plastic bonding. His hands and wrists were grazed and blood was running freely. Sweat ran down his brow and neck. Every drop that got within reach of his tongue was lapped up and recycled.
He was nearly there.
The footsteps halted and there was the sound of the door handle being turned.
Moore pushed up to his feet, giving up on the flexi-cuffs and bounding over to the door, his bare feet soundless on the concrete floor. He stood to the side, still straining at the cuffs behind his back, knowing they were nearly there. His fingertips could feel the big rip, only a few millimetres to go until he was free.
The door started to open.
These fuckers were going to interrogate them and kill them. They’d be two more Western infidels in orange jumpsuits, beheaded on an internet video for all to see, all for the glory of a bunch of religious zealots who couldn’t play nicely with others.
Fuck them, he wasn’t going down easy.
Chapter Twenty Six
The door opened wider and a shaft of light fell in. Katie was pushed across the threshold, coming from Moore’s right.
Moore’s arms quivered with the effort behind his back.
A hand on Katie’s arm, an arm covered by a cheap shirt, a foot. Barely half a metre away from him now.
The cuff was tearing, as slow as a glacier melting, and the man was right there. There was no time now.
The man took a step into the room and his mate was right behind him. Moore launched forward.
His right foot smashed into the side of the first guy’s left knee, ripping it apart as he drove through with full force. The guy cried out and started to go down, clutching at his knee. Katie jerked and turned her hooded head in his direction as if sensing him there. He could see her white T-shirt was rumpled and bloodied.
The second guy was still moving forward, as his brain processed what was happening. As he came across Moore’s vision he started to turn. He was bigger than the first guy and had a folding stock AK slung casually over his right shoulder, away from Moore. He was also dressed in cheap casual wear.
Moore went for a knee strike on him too but the guy saw it coming and pulled away, bending down to try and block the kick. Moore went for Plan B instead, feigning with another low kick. The guy tried to grab it while fumbling for his weapon, and Moore planted his foot solidly, snapping his upper body forward.
His forehead smashed into the guy’s temple and knocked him sideways. As the guy stumbled Moore came in again, landing a solid side kick now to the inside of his right knee, buckling it and helping send him to the floor.
The first guy was wailing and rolling on the floor. He didn’t have a visible weapon, so Moore focussed on the second guy, who was struggling to his feet. The AK was off his shoulder now but he had it by the sling – a piece of clothesline by the looks of it.
Moore slammed his right foot into the guy’s face, his heel landing square on the chin and snapping his head back. He crashed into the doorframe and let out a choking gasp. Moore was on him now, stamping down with all his weight, landing strikes to his balls, his guts, his chest and up to the face again.
The guy was wheezing and seemed to have forgotten all about his AK. Moore didn’t let up. If this guy got up they were in serious shit.
He stomped again, smashing his heel into the guy’s face, a second time, a third, each blow causing the guy to slump lower to the floor. Blood was flowing from a broken nose and split lips and his eyes were unfocussed.
Moore was breathing hard and totally zoned in on the guy. He heard something behind him and threw a quick glance around. The first guy was still clutching his knee with one hand but was trying to draw a pistol from under his shirt with the other.
Moore diverted momentarily, kicking him fair in the balls and making him squeal. He let go of the pistol and grabbed for his jewels instead. Moore hammered a foot into his face and heard a dull crack as his head impacted the ground, before turning back to the second guy. He could see he was out of the game now, but as long as he was alive he was still a threat.
With total focus and cold blooded ruthlessness, Moore lined him up and stomped straight on his windpipe. There was a gargling sound and the guy’s tongue hung out, his eyes bugging as he weakly tried to grab at his throat.
Moore stepped back, knowing the guy only had seconds to live before his oxygen ran out and he choked to death.
He breathed hard, sucking in lungful’s of air.
The first guy was out cold or dead – either way, he wasn’t moving. The second one was twitching and gurgling. Moore waited a few more seconds then the second man went limp. His hands flopped to the floor. He had a sheathed knife on his belt, a dagger of some sort.
Moore got down on his knees and twisted around, getting his fingers on the knife and tugging it free. He fumbled with it, his shaking hands managing to drop it twice before he got a good grip at the right angle and slipped it into the tear he’d already made in the flexi-cuffs.
He sawed steadily and in a few seconds the bond broke. He shifted his arms, rolling his shoulders to get the blood flowing again.
He turned to Katie, seeing she had moved off to the side and was standing rock steady, obviously listening intently.
‘Katie,’ he hissed. ‘It’s me.’
‘Rob? What the fuck just happened? Are you okay?’
‘Yep, turn round and I’ll get you free.’
She jumped when he touched her but she complied, awkwardly lifting her arms to give him room to move. He cut through her flexi-cuffs and lifted her hood off. He could see blood and grazes on her face.
‘You okay?’ he asked, getting the tip of the blade under the plastic round her wrist and sawing off first one cuff then the other.
She nodded while she rubbed at her wrists. ‘Here, give me that.’ She took the knife and set to work on his cuffs. ‘Those dirty fuckers.’
‘Did they…’ he fumbled, unsure how to ask. ‘Are you okay, really?’
She nodded again, removing the second cuff. ‘Yeah. I thought they were going to rape me. That one,’ she jabbed a finger at the second man Moore had killed, ‘he had a crack in here, tried to finger me and grabbed my tits.’
She looked harder at his still form.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Fuckin’ rapist.’
Moore rubbed his own wrists and swung his arms in slow circles – it was too painful yet to move very fast. He moved to the second man and took the AK he’d dropped. A quick frisk found a spare banana magazine in the guy’s pocket.
He undid the guy’s boots and pants and yanked them off. The pants were close enough to his own size but the boots were too small. He did the same with the first guy, stripping off his boots and pants and handing them to Katie. The guy had a cheap cell phone in his pocket, which Moore seized.
He also took the guy’s pistol – a Yavuz 16 version of the Beretta 92F, the standard sidearm of the Turkish military. He checked the weapon’s condition and handed it to Katie.
‘One up the spout and there’s the safety,’ he said, showing her. ‘You’ve got fifteen rounds.’
They dressed themselves and Katie laced up the boots. She straightened up and nodded to him that she was ready.
Moore bent to check the pulse on the first guy, and realised he hadn’t quite made it to Paradise yet. He flipped the guy over and stripped the laces from the second guy’s boots, using them to tie the first man’s hands behind his back. He hauled the guy to his feet and tore the cheap shirt off him, wadding a large piece of material and shoving it into the captive’s mouth then knotting a sleeve around his head to hold it in place. The captive was completely naked and bleeding, and when Moore
hauled him to his feet, the guy’s shattered left knee buckled under him and he jerked into consciousness with a muffled screech of agony.
‘Let’s go,’ Moore hissed to Katie. ‘Stay close and we’ll try and get outta here quietly. If we get sprung though, shoot first. Okay?’
She nodded. He could see she was flapping.
‘We’ll be okay,’ he told her firmly. ‘Deep breaths, clear heads. Speed, aggression, surprise. Yep?’
Katie nodded again.
‘Let’s go.’
He locked the captive under his left arm and moved to the door, checking the way was clear before moving out. They were in a hallway, bare dirt floor and damp wooden walls. A single light bulb hung further along. They stayed close to the wall and moved down, weapons at the ready.
At the end was a doorway with no door, and a lighted barn beyond. Moore hung back in the shadows until he was satisfied that the room was clear. He edged up to the doorway and scanned.
It was being used as a store room of some sort, with a rack of empty shelves and a few discarded cardboard boxes on the floor. On one of the shelves he saw their bags, obviously looted from their hotel room.
A rickety table was in the centre of the barn with two mismatched chairs and a wooden crate pulled up to it. A set of cards was on the table, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, a plastic jug of water with a cup. A walkie-talkie sat there, silent. A bare bulb dangled above it.
A pedestrian door was ajar at the far end of the left hand wall, and Moore could feel a breeze coming through, carrying with it the smell of farm animals. The main barn doors were closed straight ahead of him.
He began to move forward again, the captive under his arm protesting through the gag as he was hustled awkwardly. Moore tightened his grip round the guy’s neck.
They were scarcely two steps into the room when they heard movement then the pedestrian door was pushed inwards. A head appeared followed by an arm and leg, then a third man was in there, looking at the door handle as he reached for it.
He was dressed similarly to the other two but was younger, and had a folding stock AK slung over his shoulder by a piece of rope.