Consummate Betrayal

by Yungeberg. Mary

  Blinking and wiping his eyes, he squinted through the peep hole and saw Rita, the young Hispanic maid who brought him room service every morning. She stood in front of his door sobbing, hands clutched together in front of her. Dressed in her gold and black uniform, she must be there to work the early shift.

  Suspicious by both nature and years of practice, he hated to open the door. But he couldn’t leave her standing out there bawling. Javier was her husband and a maintenance man at the hotel. He’d played pool with him off and on and let him win so he could give the couple money he knew they needed. He looked back at Ralph, who stood ready with his own pistol. His boss nodded decisively.

  Taking a steadying breath, wishing he wasn’t so damned hungover, he turned the deadbolt and opened the door, weapon ready. Rita stood as if paralyzed, tears gushing down her face. He reached to draw her into the room, glancing down the empty hallway as he did. “Oh Mr. Rowan, I’m so sorry, so sorry. They made me come up here.” When he heard they made me, he cursed again. As he shoved her past him into the room, the door across the hall burst open. Four massive men armed with guns and wearing dark blue jackets, poured from the room.

  Taking split second aim, Rowan fired two rounds into the chest of the first man rushing through the doorway, the report from the gun reverberating throughout the pre-dawn quiet of the hotel, leaving his ears ringing. The huge man grunted and kept coming. Were they wearing body armor? He backed into the bed, lost his balance as he fired again, and the bullet meant for the man’s head entered his shoulder. The big bastard grunted again and lurched into the wall, but didn’t fall down.

  As he fired at the next man, he tripped over his shoes. The shot exploded into the mirror, sending shards of glass crashing to the desk and floor. At the same time a stocky figure roaring obscenities plowed into him, spun him sideways and sent him toppling face first onto the floor next to the bed. A heavy knee bored into his lower back while rude hands skillfully twisted his arms backward, cuffed his wrists together and took his gun.

  Rowan turned his head in time to see a booted foot coming his way. It slammed into his ribs, left him gagging and gasping. Big hands wrenched him up, forcing him into a sitting position on the bed.

  “That’s for shooting my agent, you worthless son of a bitch.” Sweat beaded on a jutting forehead and close-set blue eyes stared into his. This was a Marine, and in charge of the ugly operation, he was certain. Taking quick breaths, the man turned, waving his pistol and barking commands. “Campbell, hurry up – call an ambulance. This fucking traitor could have killed Jackson.”

  When he saw Federal Agent emblazoned in yellow on the back of the leader’s jacket, he swallowed hard. Both he and Ralph were federal agents, so why had these men attacked? Why hadn’t they identified themselves as feds from the get go? And what did they want with him? Wishing he could wipe the sweat out of his eyes, he tried to make sense of the nonsensical, but his fuzzy brain couldn’t reason it out.

  Across the room the situation didn’t look promising. Ralph sat on the floor with his hands behind his head, looking mad as hell. Rita stood still as a statue, eyes widened in stark terror. A blonde behemoth of a man held her with one giant hand, a pistol shoved against the base of her skull.

  Angered that they would mistreat someone so innocent, he glared at the agent holding her. “For God’s sake, stop terrorizing her and let her go. Rita, you’re going to be OK.”

  The burly leader sneered. “Look what we’ve got here. What a prince.” The man threw back his head and laughed, spittle flying everywhere. “It’s the fucking prince of darkness.” The agent’s fist shot out, crashed into Rowan’s jaw and cut the inside of his mouth. Head reeling, he tasted blood and felt it dripping down his chin, beneath the whiskers. The pain of the blow on top of the blossoming hangover left him completely vulnerable.

  Facing him, still breathing hard, the man thrust an ID and badge in his face. “Seth Hancock, CIA.” Wielding a stainless steel Sig P226, keeping it trained on him with one hand, the agent pillaged his briefcase with the other. First waving the Iranian passport he used when traveling covertly and then thumbing through the print-out of Muusa Shemal’s travel records, Seth stepped back to the desk, grabbed his wallet and taunted him with a fistful of one hundred-dollar bills, a few of them fluttering to the floor. “Why don’t you tell us where this money came from? Never mind, we already know. It’s what you’ve been paid to betray your country.”

  He ignored the barb, still sickened by the man holding onto Rita. The black-haired man dumped his wallet back on the desk. The agent named Jackson, a monstrous jerk with a shaved head and wire rimmed glasses stepped back in the room. “Sir, I called an ambulance for Campbell and took him downstairs. They’re taking him to one of the local hospitals.”

  Seth nodded and pointed at Ralph and Rita. “Good job, Jackson. Stay here and keep an eye on those two. Lucien, let’s go.” The agent twisted back to face him. “We need to question you, special agent Milani. Care to come quietly, or are you going to continue to resist arrest?”

  Without warning, the big man stomped on his left foot. He heard the distinct crunch of bones breaking as a blinding flash of pain engulfed his foot and streaked up his leg. While his eyes watered, he concentrated on not passing out. Swallowing bile, he squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, blinking at the brute still gloating in front of him.

  Ralph blustered from across the room. “That’s my subordinate you’re abusing, agent Hancock and we happen to be federal agents as well. You better have a warrant for special agent Milani, or you better remove those cuffs and damn fast.”

  The ugly man pointed an index finger at Ralph. “When it’s all said and done, special agent Milani will be declared an enemy combatant.” Patting the front of his jacket, the agent smirked. “The warrant for his arrest is right here. And now, your special agent is coming with us. We’ve got a private interrogation planned for him, which is none of your concern.”

  Seth yanked him to his feet and propelled him to the door. Every step brought excruciating pain in his foot. The agent banged him purposely into the door frame and shoved him down the hall toward the elevator. A panic-stricken security guard and Jennie, the friendly hotel manager he enjoyed kidding with raced around the corner and skidded to a stop. Round-eyed, Jennie looked first at him and then at the two men gripping his arms. “What’s going on here? We heard shots and called the police. Rowan, what happened to you? Are you all right?”

  The blonde agent pulled an ID and badge from beneath the blue jacket. “Nothing is going on. You can tell the police that the CIA is in charge, and it was a false alarm. Now, excuse us, please.”

  The two agents dragged him to the elevator and down to ground floor, then out the side door of the Sheraton to a waiting black Suburban. After opening the back end, one grabbed him under the arms while the other wrapped a thick arm around his legs. Together they heaved him inside the cargo compartment. His teeth rattled when his head whacked the wheel well and bounced off. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  Calloused hands slapped his face. Rowan opened his eyes and the nightmare began again. The two agents dragged him from the cargo compartment as he watched a huge overhead door grinding closed. The door settled against the ground and yellow light from the Suburban’s headlights pooled in the pitch darkness. His nose tickled as he breathed through a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes. As far as he could tell, they’d taken him to some kind of warehouse. Seth poked the barrel of the Sig into the small of his back, above his cuffed wrists. “Move it, special agent. We’re ready to interrogate you.”

  His breath rose in white clouds and he shook with a terrible sense of foreboding as he limped in the semi-darkness of the headlights across the filthy floor, the frigid concrete burning the bottoms of his feet. He’d shot a federal agent. The two men would make sure he paid for that decision.

  Seth kept a tight grip on his arm, yanked him toward a battered wooded door marked OF
FICE, pulled it open and shoved him into the room. He staggered and half fell against a cold wall. When Seth flipped on the fluorescent lights, he saw a scarred wooden table and two metal folding chairs. Someone had recently installed a large meat hook in the puke green wall, just below the ceiling. Bits of plaster and dust were scattered across the grimy tiled floor below it. His sense of foreboding expanded, along with the first whispers of terror.

  Seth grabbed his arm, slammed him against the wall face first and held him there with a knee jammed against his legs. The agent removed the cuff from his left wrist, but before he could react, big hands spun him around and the handcuff sliced into his wrist again. This time his hands were in front of him. Closing his eyes and clenching his jaws, he waited. With an iron grip on both his arms, the agent grunted and lifted his bloodied wrists over the hook, leaving him twisting on tiptoe.

  His bulky tormentor looked at him and leered, grabbed his shirtfront and ripped it open. Buttons flew. Precarious balance lost, his body hung suspended on his cuffed wrists. Tearing pain shot from his shoulders up his arms, blending with the agony exploding in his wrists. While Seth laughed, he floundered against the wall, desperate to regain his balance. The door opened and the blonde agent brought his briefcase and laptop in and dumped them on the table. Muscles bulged in the man’s biceps and forearms when he removed his jacket. This agent had the same cocky bearing as his companion and stared at him with unadulterated loathing as he shut and locked the door.

  He gritted his teeth to keep from groaning out loud, teetering on tiptoe while blood from his lacerated wrists oozed down his arms. Observing helplessly while the agent opened his briefcase and rummaged through his things, he hoped they wouldn’t find the flash drive stashed in a hidden pocket. Next the agent booted up his laptop. Did the men think he was naïve enough to keep anything of value in his computer files or that he’d tell them the password to access those files?

  Seth held up the key to the handcuffs and waved it in front of him. “Just tell us what we need to know special agent, and here’s your key to freedom.” Laughing again, the agent slapped the key down on the front corner of the table, slid into the other chair, opened a folder and pulled out what looked like bank records. Damn, they’d been thorough. “We’ve gathered quite a bit of information about your operations.” The big man picked up his passport, opened it and read the name. “Mr. Ismail Hassani. That’s your real name, isn’t it?”

  While he watched, Seth wiped sweat off the thick forehead and fixed him with a caustic glare. “We’ve been tasked with apprehending you and turning you over to your own employer – the FBI, for federal prosecution. But see, both Lucien and I served in the Gulf War, and we’ve got buddies serving in Iraq and Afghanistan now, some of whom have lost their lives because of miserable ragheads like you who help make that happen.” The agent tossed his passport back down on the table. “On behalf of our fallen brothers, we decided to conduct our own private interrogation first and give you our version of justice. And then…” Seth paused to smile at him. “You don’t need to concern yourself with your final destination.”

  In a moment of terrifying insight, he realized that the two agents thought he’d betrayed his own country. How had they learned about his clandestine activities? Who had twisted his service into treason? It didn’t matter now, though. He could see the lust for revenge in their eyes. These two didn’t want to interrogate him. They planned to punish him for every jihadist who’d ever killed an American soldier. If only he could think through the waves of agony rolling from his wrists to his shoulders and down his back. His left foot throbbed mercilessly, and so did his head.

  The monstrous blonde started in. “How long have you been committing treason? Long enough to accumulate a large amount of cash in a couple offshore accounts, I see. Who’s paying you?” Waving the bank records, the agent scattered them on the table and picked up his passport, paging through it with stout fingers, reading the time stamps as he went. “Let’s see…Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iran.”

  Lucien stopped reading and looked at Seth. “This piece of shit has been to Iraq, Lebanon and Syria as well, such interesting venues for travel these days.” The big man’s face turned red and he waved the passport. “You were probably involved in planning 9-11, too.” Slinging his passport on top of the papers, Lucien leaned forward, thick hands planted on the table. “So, Mr. Hassani, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  The agent’s last comment pushed him over the edge. That the stupid bastard thought he of all people would be complicit in 9-11, the day that had destroyed him, brought the submerged rage roaring to the surface. They would never listen and never believe in his innocence, so he’d say what they were determined to hear. Glaring from one to the other, affecting a look of pure hatred, he spat out the phrase. “Allahu Akbar, kafir.”

  The men exploded from behind the table as though he’d lit them on fire. Seth steadied him against the wall while Lucien applied a one-two punch, first on one side of his ribcage and then the other, leaving him gasping. When the gargantuan fist slammed into his unprotected belly for the first time it took his breath away. Wheezing, voice rasping, he managed a jeer. “You hit like a CIA girlie man.” A paroxysm of coughing gripped him. Thick blood leaked out the corners of his mouth.

  The men laughed and Lucien jerked his chin up, forcing him to stare into challenging brown eyes. “That would be Marine to you, raghead. You’re looking at the heavy weight boxing champ, three years running.”

  He did his best to sneer. “Well, semper fucking fi.” Seth pulled the Sig and whacked him on the back of the head. Lucien dealt a jarring blow to his jaw, drawing a black curtain over his eyes. Sharp slaps to his cheeks brought him back.

  Still gripping the pistol, Seth tapped him on the temple with the cold steel slide. “How about we just shoot you right now? We’d save the taxpayers a shitload of money.”

  Lucien’s purposeful eyes stared into his. “Nah Seth. This traitor deserves everything he’s got coming to him.” This time when the big fist rammed his belly, something tore inside, and he couldn’t stop groaning as he struggled to breathe, nearly passing out as searing pain in his abdomen overlaid the agony consuming the rest of his body.

  Seth slid the pistol back in its holster and twisted thick fingers in his hair, dragging his head up. “All right special agent, are you ready to tell us why you have Muusa Shemal’s travel papers in your briefcase?”

  Blood and sweat stung his eyes and he blinked at the two men. He could only manage a whisper. “Why those papers are in my briefcase is none of your business. Go fuck yourselves.”

  The big blonde cracked bloody knuckles and turned to his companion. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  Seth let go of his hair and his head drooped. The agent’s voice mirrored the malevolence he’d seen in the close-set eyes. “Teach this fool a lesson.”

  Lucien began plying rhythmic blows from all angles with his oversized hands. Blood leaked copiously from the cuts on his face and dripped steadily down his arms, soaking the white shirt and turning it crimson, while sweat poured down his back. Every blow slammed him against the wall and knife sharp pain accompanied every groaning gasp. The beating went on and on, until his tormentor staggered back, drenched in sweat. Through burning eyes swollen almost shut, he glimpsed the two agents nodding at each other, satisfaction written on their faces. Lucien smiled at Seth. “Justice served, at least for now.”

  Both men grinned at him while Seth grasped his jaws between rough fingers and turned his head from side to side. “You’re not so feisty now, are you, special agent? You’ve got a lot to answer for, but we’ll take up where we left off after you think about all this.” The final humiliation came when the agent spat on his face and gave him a shove. Balance lost, he hung freely, his full weight once again supported only by his wrists. He ground his teeth to keep from screaming.

  Head hanging, body shaking in agony, he heard the two men chuckling as they shuffled
his papers on the table and snapped his laptop shut. Seth turned the deadbolt and opened the door. “Let’s get cleaned up and find some breakfast while our special agent thinks things through. We’ll just have to beat that badass attitude out of him this afternoon.”

  Lucien grunted his agreement. “The stubborn jerk isn’t leaving this room until we get some answers. I want to know why he has Muusa Shemal’s travel itinerary in his briefcase, for one thing. And so help me – he’s going to admit to what he is by the time we’re done.”

  The light went out, the door closed and the lock turned. Only his wheezing groans punctuated the silence. Consumed by unrelenting pain, he knew with certainty that he wouldn’t make it to the afternoon. Wobbling on tiptoe with one foot and quivering legs, he tried to use the wall behind him to relieve his wrists. Helpless to stop the process, he groaned as the muscles in his shoulders and back seized over and over, sending him into a spiraling torment of spasms, spattering blood and sweat on the floor and walls.

  He passed out and came to, heard himself moaning. Would the country condemn him, call him a traitor? Would he be executed? And oh no, what about Danielle – would he ever see her again? He’d promised to say good-bye. Half-conscious when the spasms returned, he fought to breathe, tried to resist the slide toward oblivion. A shimmering golden light enveloped him, and the pain drained from his body. A soft voice caressed his mind and whispered to his tortured psyche – Rowan, come with me. It pulled him into peaceful darkness and claimed him completely.

  Agonizing consciousness returned when the wooden door splintered and fell with a resounding crash. The pitch darkness changed to blurry light and he heard loud voices, thought he recognized them, but slipped back into unconsciousness. Then he came to again and felt hands on his body, slippery with blood, lifting him off the hook. Big arms drew him close and shaking fingers grappled with the handcuffs. The voice he heard held bitter rage, undercut with grief.