by Dani Stowe
I tap the fat fucker again and grind the end of the steel pipe into his cheek, “Wake the fuck up!”
“Hey!” yells Graham as he smacks the asshole on the top of his head. “Where’s my sister, you jerkoff?”
The man shakes his head and attempts to open his heavy eyelids. “What the fuck?” mumbles the asshole as he lifts his head to look around to get his bearings. He laughs when he recognizes us—well, two of us. Gunner has decided to keep his black ski mask on to hide his identity, but Graham and I have nothing to hide.
“Where’s Senator Jones?” I ask the man as I tap the steel pipe in my hand. I’d forgotten how heavy it was; I haven’t touched it in years.
The asshole, who is indeed a member of Senator Jones’s bodyguard entourage, laughs. “What the fuck do you think you fools are doing? Do you think you pussies are going to scare me into telling you where Gemma is? What do you think you’re going to do with that?” He laughs looking at the pipe. “You think I’m a pussy like you? Take your best shot with that pipe. I won’t tell you. I know who you are, Sergeant Badass, and you’re no special ops. You’re an enlisted low-life—a grunt who takes orders because he can’t think for himself. And I know for a fact none of you have thought this through. If I’m not back within the hour, my associates are going to lay some real hurt on Senator Gemma Jones. So, give me the fucking money and let me go or she’s going to get it up the ass!”
I take a breath—a long, deep, slow inhale of air. I try to calm myself just as my real father, my adoptive father, taught me to do before the urge to kill assholes like this takes over. I try to think of something pleasant, something I cherish, like I was taught to do so I can stay focused on the task at hand. I think about Gemma and I grip the pipe tighter.
“Tell us where she is,” I say firmly.
“Yeah, tell us where she is!” shouts Graham and I motion my hand to keep him calm.
“Tell us where she is,” I repeat, “or I’m going to have to unleash the Cannon on you.”
“Cannon? What fucking cannon?” the asshole looks about the warehouse dumbfounded. I watch his gaze attentively focus on Gunner who bends down to pull out two large metal hooks from his black duffle bag loaded with guns and ammunition next to a couple of plastic water jugs.
“Richard Cannon,” I say and I hold up the pipe so the asshole can see the name, DICK CANNON, etched into the metal. “He was my biological father.”
The man starts twitching in his seat as Gunner takes the hooks and tries to weave the bends over his top and bottom teeth. I don’t even have to say anything to Graham, who comes over to help by head locking the guy with his arm from behind.
Gunner slips the ends of each hook over opposite ends of the man’s teeth—top and bottom, and pulls the asshole’s mouth open so I can slide the two-foot steel hollow pipe into the asshole’s mouth. I let Graham do the honors of taping the pipe securely in place. Both Gunner and I watch Graham roll the tape around the asshole’s head being sure to tape his nose closed, but not his eyes just as I told him. We want to be sure the asshole can see what’s happening to him.
The asshole struggles, gagging profusely, so I try to calm him with my voice. “Sit the fuck still,” I command, “or you’re going to crack a tooth. I know this is unpleasant having this big pipe shoved to the back of your throat, but I’ve faced this pipe many times myself, when I was a child, and it used to scare me, too. But what I learned from Dick was the less you fight, the easier and sooner the abuse will be over. Yes, my biological father was an abuser and a bully. He broke thirteen different bones in my body, including two in my legs. Dick went to prison for the legs and I guess I should be thankful the military rarely asks for X-rays during enlistment or I never would’ve gotten in. I lied to the Army about the number of broken bones I had growing up.”
I wiggle the pipe sticking out of the asshole’s mouth. “It’s still too loose,” I tell Graham who immediately unrolls more duct tape.
The asshole is whining under the tape and the sound is resonating out the open end of the pipe, so I continue to try to calm him by talking to him once again. “You know, I lived in foster homes until Dick was killed in prison; they said he had a brain hemorrhage after being hit in the head by a pipe, probably much like this one. You won’t believe how many times I was told I would end up like my dead father. I don’t know why people say that to kids. Everyone believed I’d turn out to be a bully just like Dick, until I met my adoptive father.”
I feel Gunner’s gaze on me and I look up to my younger brother. I cannot see my brother’s face under his mask, but I know he’s smiling for us both.
“You see, sir,” I say as I wiggle the pipe sticking two feet out of the asshole’s mouth that now appears to be sealed tight, “my adoptive father taught me you can only deal with bullies in one of two ways; you can either take their shit or you can try and help them. I’d like to help you. Truthfully, I think we can help each other. I think if I help you by giving you the one cure that can help a bully like you, then you will quickly change your ways and help me save Gemma.”
As I hold the pipe high in the air with the asshole’s head titled back, I signal to Gunner with a nod of my head to get the funnel hiding in his duffle bag and a jug of water.
“Get the bucket,” I tell Graham and he follows my order by getting the black bucket and placing it in front of the asshole between his legs and on the floor. “Have you ever heard the term, water cure, before?” I ask the asshole and he starts whining, or maybe it’s screaming to the best of his ability with a steel pipe in his mouth. His arms are jerking beneath the tape; he’s attempting to free himself from the chair, but he will have no success.
I continue to hold the pipe as Gunner places the funnel inside the opposite end and hands the water jug to Graham. Graham hesitates for a second, his hands shaking.
“You can do it, brother,” I tell him. “The water cure is a torture that’s been going on since Medieval times, long before America was born. America did not adopt this technique until 1899, but it’s effective and we need find out the truth. We need to know where your sister is.”
Gunner concurs, “Don’t be afraid. This is about family.”
“Tell us where the fuck my sister is you asshole,” Graham screams and I figure he understands now, why I had to bathe his head in a toilet to get him to change. I watch as Graham pours the entire jug of water into the funnel.
The asshole gets red in his neck and forehead as he guzzles and chokes. Some of the water spews out the top of the pipe, so I try to block it with my hands as the jug gets close to empty, but I knew this was going to get messy. The asshole’s eyes look as though they’re about to pop out of his head as fine drops of water start to seep out between cracks of duct tape.
I try to calm the asshole with my voice again because I really do need to cure the man, but more so, I want Gemma back. I put a pen in his hand and slip a sticky Post-it onto the chair handle. “The second you write down the location of Senator Jones is the second I’ll considered you cured of bullying. Then, not only will you get the money, but this water torture will stop.”
The man drops the pen.
Motherfucker!
I tilt the pipe down like a lever and water along with tiny globs of undigested food pours out of the stomach of the asshole through the pipe and straight into the bucket. Gunner walks over to grab another jug of water and hands it to Graham.
As Graham pours the water into the funnel to repeat the process, I wonder what my adoptive father, who has passed, would think of me right now. “Every soldier thinks something of the moral aspects of what he is doing,” he often quoted General Curtis LeMay, “but all war is immoral and if you let that bother you, you’re not a good soldier.”
What I’m doing right now is most certainly immoral, but so is ransoming a woman—the one who should be my woman, but I fucked up by letting her go. If I had done the work like I promised and hadn’t let her go, she might not be missing right now.
And fuck. I fucking miss her! “Get another jug,” I tell Gunner.
Gunner doesn’t move. “But that could kill him,” he warns.
I huff, “You cannot expect soldiers to change people’s minds. That has to be…”
“Done in other ways,” Gunner finishes. “I remember all the quotes Dad used to use. You do know that one was from Sir Mike Jackson, a British General.”
“Yeah, well, we were taught to respect all soldiers, except when we are at war.”
“Another jug it is,” Gunner agrees and I notice the asshole’s fingers are twiddling.
Two rounds! Asshole is not even through two rounds of the water cure and he’s already willing to talk.
Pussy—I knew he was never a soldier.
I tilt the pipe down and water flows from the asshole’s innards. I put the pen in his hand and he immediately begins to scribble on the Post-it. I use a box cutter to cut the pipe free and Graham tapes the asshole’s mouth shut as I shove the bagged cash into the asshole’s lap.
“You’re still going to give him the money?” asks Graham.
“What’s the most important thing you learned at camp?” I ask Graham.
“Loyalty.”
“To whom?”
“God, family, country.”
“Do you really give a shit about this money?’”
“Fuck no,” Graham states.
“Then, we’ll let him have it and hopefully, we won’t have any more problems either because that’s likely all they’re after. These fuckers will be easily bought because they have no honor.” I smack the asshole on the face a few times lightly. “How many people can we expect at the location?”
The asshole raises a single finger.
“One? That’s great!” We hear Gunner sorting through his guns and he packs a few on his body. “I hope we don’t get too much resistance extracting Senator Jones. I have no doubt we’re going to get her back, Bastion. If this mission ends quickly, we can talk about your obligatory attendance at my kid’s birthday party.”
I’ve always loved Gunner’s optimism. Despite the fact his past was filled with as much abuse as mine, Gunner always seemed to find something to enlighten the mood, even in dire situations. I always loved comic books, but Gunner wasn’t interested in them. He was more of a fantasy enthusiast; I used to tease him about his love for fairytales. “Hope” always seemed to be his motto; it’s hard to admit I might have something to learn from my younger brother.
“You should bring the kid, too,” Gunner says, referring to Graham who gives Gunner an awkward look. “You and your sister—you can both come to the party.”
Chapter 9
“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” exclaims Gunner as he throws open the van door and I follow behind with a small battering ram. Graham pulls away as we swiftly march through the front yard of a little white house under the cloak of night, wearing black tactical attire and face hoods. We are in a small, quiet, country neighborhood that looks like it houses elderly residents; gnomes and daisy pinwheels line tiny picketed yards.
When we get to the front door, we form our two-man stack—a lineup next to the door. Gunner signals with a forward pointed finger and I come around him with the small battering ram to breach the old door with one quick, heavy blow. Gunner slips in through the busted door, slicing-the-pie—his eyes follow the tip of his gun as he moves it to the left looking for a target.
No one.
We take a few more steps into the house and I hear Gemma. She’s crying!
“Don’t break formation!” stresses Gunner in a low voice as I zip past him towards Gemma’s screams, which sound like they’re coming from ahead, but beneath us.
I find a door that looks like it leads into the lit basement and I peep down the stairs letting my M4 small compact rifle lead my sight. Gemma stops screaming, but I hear scuffling.
“You’re surrounded. Come on up,” I yell.
“Let me go ahead,” says Gunner.
“No,” I say, “this is a bad entry and you have kids. Plus, we’re here because of me, because she’s mine—I mean, she’s my responsibility.”
“All right, bro,” says Gunner and I take a few steps down the stairs, trying to bend down and take a glimpse.
“He’s got a knife!” Gemma screeches.
I leap down to the bottom step and for a brief millisecond, my heart feels like it’s been pulled right out of my chest at the sight of Gemma with a knife to her throat. Her hair is messed up, but her body and clothing look intact.
“Let her go!” I yell. “I’ll fucking kill you, right now!”
The heavy-set man looks like he’s related to the asshole and is shouting back, but I don’t listen to a damn word he’s saying.
“Let her go, motherfucker!” I yell again and then I hear a pop and a clunk.
Gunner shot the asshole in the hand and he dropped the knife. I’m not remotely surprised to see Gemma instantaneously turn around and start punching the guy until he falls on the floor. But I am surprised to see that once her captor hits the floor, she gets on top of him and starts punching him again and again, cursing every foul word she can muster as she bloodies the guy until he’s near unconscious. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she switched to ruthless villainy.
“Bro,” says Gunner, “we need to go before the police arrive.”
“That’s enough,” I say as I bend over to wrap my arm around Gemma’s waist and pick her up. She’s still flying her arms about wildly in distressed anger and accidentally punches me. “Calm down,” I say and remove my hood.
“Bastion!” she says and it breaks my heart to see her steel-blue eyes looking so pitiful.
“It’s okay. It’s me,” I confirm.
“I knew you’d come,” she says as she wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes tight. “I’m sorry I got you involved, but I knew I had to call you. I just knew you’d come. I just knew it.”
Chapter 10
I’m thinking happy thoughts when I get to my apartment building. The feel of Senator Jones’s arms flying around my neck makes me feel like I deserve to be in my own comic book. Not to mention, I feel like soaring; the sight of Graham and his sister united and hugging makes my heart skyrocket.
Nothing could bring this soldier down, until I open my door and realize I’ve made a mistake. I should’ve never let Verona stay; she made a vegetable lasagna (which I’m not going to eat), folded my clothes (which I wanted to hang), and unloaded what looks like a big suitcase full of her stuff (which is not staying). In one single day, she’s taken over my apartment.
Shock. And. Awe.
I realize I’m being an ass; it looks like she also tried to clean and I appreciate the hard work, but the t-shirt she’s wearing! It’s gray and pink and matches the pink and gray camo print apron around her waist. The t-shirt says, “Army Girlfriend,” but it really should say, “Military Groupie.”
I’m not against groupies. We all have a type. My adoptive mother, who was the greatest superhero of all time and way too pretty and tall for my adoptive father, often remarked on the fact that “We love who we love,” and she loved my dad, especially when he was in uniform. She was a military groupie through and through.
But, I’m in love with superheroes, so I don’t feel that bad kicking Verona out, especially after we argue and she tells me I didn’t measure up to any of her previous military boyfriends anyway. I do feel like an ass as I continue to open the door for her, letting her walk back in repeatedly—she keeps knocking every ten minutes because she forgot something: her hairbrush, her bra, her vibrator, her stringy thong. I realize she may have already been through this routine with some other military guy and she’s planted these things in hopes I might change my mind, get turned on, and let her stay.
I take off my shirt, which I changed before saying farewell to Gunner and all of our gear, which I’m going to miss. I’m at the end of my leash when I hear a knock for the fifth time. I walk around my apartment and look through every
drawer, nook, and cranny to make sure there’s nothing left. I realize I’m still in my black task-force style pants and debate if I should throw a t-shirt back on. She knocks a little louder—this time really hard. “Hold on!” I say, as I do a quick check to look under the bed.
Never. Again. Never am I going to let a girl stay over.
She fucking pounds on the door now. She’s really fucking pounding! So, I march to the door and open it. “What the fuck?!”
“Can I stay here tonight?” asks Senator Jones.
I’m not sure what to say. My heart starts racing, but I calm myself to look beyond her and she’s alone.
“No bodyguards. Just me,” she says with blue eyes flaring under a black hood. She should be scared, but she’s still smiling, slightly. And her smile gets a little bigger as her eyes wander over my naked chest.
I push the door wide open. “You can stay.”
I watch her walk in as I shut the door behind her. She looks different. She’s not in her typical superhero uniform. She’s in a pair of oversized black sweatpants and a black hoodie that I’m assuming she got out of Graham’s closet.
“Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink? I can whip you up something if you’d like.”
“No,” she says and sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m tired. Can I just sleep here tonight?”
“Sure,” I nod. She’s not tired. She’s scared and that’s okay. She’s never been through any training that could’ve prepared her for what happened to her. “I was about to get in the shower. You can make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to whatever you need. There’s a vegetable lasagna if you change your mind and get hungry. I have no idea if it’s any good.”
The senator nods and falls back on the bed.
As I soap up, I’m not sure what to think about this day. I’m not sure how Senator Jones would feel if she knew what I got her brother into—teaching him to torture someone. I also don’t know if it’s a good idea for Senator Jones to stay here tonight. She probably needs some kind of therapy or debriefing, which is what a victim, or soldier, gets after enduring what she’s been through. I do believe she’s still a superhero, but being kidnapped and held for ransom would certainly mess with even the toughest of minds.