Jesus… The CIA?
I think about what he said to me. About having no ties outside the army anymore. I think of my old man, and how I’m only really here because of him. But then I look down again, at the medals awarded to me earlier, resting on my chest. I guess you don’t receive things like these if you don’t care about what you’re doing.
I think back to Saudi, standing on Route 50, watching my unit drop around me. I would’ve done anything to save them. I don’t care how many bad guys I killed. Stopping the Iraqis is absolutely the right thing to do, and I’m angry that they took my friends away from me.
But… if what that Jones guy said about us going to war with Iraq next week is true, I’m not going to be fit to go back over there. I want to do something… but I can’t do that.
So… the CIA?
I lean back and relax into my pillow, closing my eyes. I think of my dad. I reckon he would be proud of everything I’ve done so far, and that’s enough for me.
Adrian Hughes, CIA…?
Why the fuck not!
7
November 18, 1993
??:??
I’m sitting in a cold, empty room. I don’t have anything on my feet, and they’re resting in a bucket of freezing water. My calves are tied to the legs of the chair, keeping them in place. My hands are tied behind me, over the back, and there’s a bag over my head. Underneath it, my mouth is covered with duct tape.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I guess that’s the point… My entire body is tense. I’m fighting the urge to shudder or panic or scream.
This isn’t exactly what I was expecting when I signed up.
It’s been almost three years since I left the army. Almost three years since I met with Julius Jones in a café one morning and agreed to join his little program. And for almost three years, it’s been pretty great. The training I’ve been given access to is incredible. Weapons, tactics, strategy, unarmed combat… I’m a fucking machine compared to the guy who got shot by a child in the Saudi desert.
I know what I’m going through now is part of my training. I know that. It has to be… I think back to basic combat training at Fort McCoy. How much it hurt. How much I hated it.
What I wouldn’t give for that shit right now!
For starters, I’d kick Hunter’s ass, no doubt. I’ve been rigorously trained in many different forms of unarmed combat. I’m no Bruce Lee or anything, but then, you wouldn’t exactly throw a martial arts-style kick in a street fight anyway. But I’m dangerous… lethal. And the CIA has invested a lot of time and money making me this way.
But this… this is hard to wrap my head around. The next phase of my training was supposed to be interrogation techniques. I was due to start a couple of days ago. The briefing said I was to learn and understand how to extract information from someone, and why the techniques are effective. Basically, the science behind it.
But I didn’t get a chance to turn up for class.
The CIA kindly provided me with an apartment just outside Arlington. One night, about three days ago—I think—three guys broke in while I was sleeping and kidnapped me. I did my best to fight back, but they were heavily armed and very organized. Whereas I, on the other hand, was butt naked and half asleep.
Trust me, I won’t be making that mistake again. From now on, I sleep lightly. I’m going to train my body to always be semi-awake, so the next time anyone gets any bright ideas, I can break their goddamn necks.
I’ve no idea where they’ve brought me. I was left alone for a while. It felt like forever, but in reality I reckon it was about twelve hours, max. Then someone came in, stuck a straw between my lips so I could drink some water, and started asking me some strange questions. I didn’t recognize the voice, so it wasn’t Julius.
I tell you, when I see him next, we’re having words regarding the fact he left this shit out of his sales pitch! If this is part of the training, they could at least mention it in the brochure…
My feet have been cramping up for a while now, which is uncomfortable to say the least. I’m trying to remain calm and patient—trying not to panic and think about everything. That’s what they’ve been training me to do. To analyze any situation as if I wasn’t in it myself. When you’re emotionally involved, you sometimes miss things—blinded by your own perspective. Stepping away from the situation and looking on objectively stops that from happening.
It’s just really hard to do when you’re blindfolded and, presumably, about to be tortured.
I’ve not actually seen the room. I came in with the bag already over my head, and it’s only ever been lifted enough to expose my mouth, nothing else. I can tell it’s empty, or mostly empty, because every noise echoes a little, which suggests there’s not much in here with me.
I hear a metallic bolt slide across, and a door creak open somewhere behind me. To my left, I think. Maybe my right. Shit, I don’t know! Having my eyes covered is so disorienting!
Okay… deep breaths, Adrian. Focus…
Slow, patient footsteps clack loudly on the floor and scrape to a stop in front of me. The bag is lifted, allowing a cool breeze to blow against my face. The duct tape is peeled back roughly and a straw is stuck between my lips.
“Drink.”
That same voice as before.
I suck up gratefully, savoring the cold, refreshing water as it trickles past my cracked lips. I get two mouthfuls before it’s yanked away from me and the bag moved back down over my head.
I hear another set of footsteps enter and move behind me. I feel someone grab the back of my chair.
Shit… what’s going to happen to me?
Uh!
The man in front of me just punched me hard in the gut. I can’t keel over because of the ties around me, but I really want to.
Goddamn… that hurt!
Uh!
And another one.
I breathe deep and slow through the pain.
“Do you know where you are?”
I frown and shake my head. I honestly don’t.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
I frown again, but I think about it. This all part of my training, right? I shrug and nod my head.
Uh! Fuck!
A third punch. Man, that—
Whoa!
The chair is pulled back sharply, and I land flat on my back. I hear the shuffling of footsteps around me. The shirt I’m wearing is ripped apart, revealing my chest. An instant chill washes over me, and—
Ah! Ah! Fuck! Ah! Shit! Uh!
I growl through gritted teeth as a loud buzzing fills the room. The pain accompanying it is incredible! What the fuck’s happening to me?
It stops as quickly as it started. My chest is damp. Drops of moisture run down my sides. I breathe quickly, trying to calm myself.
Holy shit, what was that?
Uh! Fuck! Fuck! Ah!
That buzzing again!
Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
Ah! Shit!
It finally stops. Jesus!
Quickly and effortlessly, the chair is lifted upright. My feet land neatly back in the bucket of cold water.
“You think you know, but you don’t.”
What the fuck does that mean?
They leave the room, slamming the door shut behind them. I hear the bolt slide back across outside and that’s it—I’m alone again, and in a lot more pain than before they arrived.
You know what? Despite all the fun I’ve been having with the training, and essentially being turned into a living weapon on the U.S. government’s dime, I’m starting to think this maybe wasn’t the best career choice…
??:??
I don’t know how long it’s been since I was mildly tortured. Could be five minutes. Could be five days. It’s all the same after a while. But one thing I’ve noticed, which I’m guessing is a result of my training, is I’m not afraid.
I remember Desert Shield, facing those Iraqi rebels… my team was getting shot to shit… I even threw up in the san
d! But I remember feeling a very real sensation of fear. It was awful. It was debilitating, almost. Luckily, I worked through it at the time and dealt with it afterward, but I still experienced it. But now, here in this room, I’m not afraid. I’m not exactly looking forward to more electrocution, but I’m not scared of it. It’s just something I have to go through.
But I don’t want to, which is why I’m trying to figure a way out of here.
Because of all the physical and theoretical training I’m doing, I don’t really have much of a life outside of all this. That’s probably the main reason why they approached me in the first place. My dad passed away almost three years ago. My mom died when I was a baby, so I never knew her. I have no siblings, no friends, as such. I have nothing. Consequently, whatever free time I’ve had, I’ve spent in the gym. I’ll never be bulky, but I’ve definitely filled out a lot in the last year or so. I’m toned and lean and strong, and, as a result, I’m a little heavier than I used to be.
I might be able to use that to my advantage.
Now, I don’t know what the objective is here. Am I simply to learn how to endure? Or should I be taking notes? Who knows…? But the way I figure it, if I can’t get out of shit like this, what’s the point? You don’t learn how to take a beating—you learn how to either give them, or avoid them.
I rock side to side gently. The chair creaks a little. I rub my fingertips over it at the back. It’s wood. I reckon with enough force, I might be able to break it if I land on it. But I need to smash it completely so my arms and legs are freed, otherwise it’s pointless.
I’m only going to have one chance at it. Once I’m free, I should be able to take down two guys, even if my hands are tied and I’m blindfolded…
I let out a short sigh. This is insane! What am I thinking?
??:??
The door squeaks open and two sets of footsteps clack loudly into the room. As before, one stops in front of me, one goes behind. The bag is lifted and the duct tape is peeled back. The straw is shoved unceremoniously between my lips, and I gladly drink some of the cold water. After a moment, it’s taken away, the tape replaced and the bag lowered once again.
“Do you know where you are?”
I pause for a moment, then shake my head.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. I sigh heavily, and then make a noise against the tape, trying to form a word or two.
I feel the bag lifted over my mouth and the tape removed again.
“Something you want to say?”
I open my mouth wide, cracking my jaw. I take a deep breath. “Yeah… You know my mouth is taped shut, so why do you keep asking me questions? I can’t fucking reply, dickbag.”
The tape is put back over my mouth, the bag is lowered again, and—
Uh!
There it is… a punch to the gut.
God… dammit!
I cough as best I can.
“Do you think you’re funny?”
Another question… Jesus!
I shrug, and then nod.
Uh!
Another punch… Man, this sucks.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Ah, fuck it. I shake my head.
I feel the guy behind me start to pull my chair down again.
This is it. This is my chance. I’ll show these assholes!
As I’m being pulled down, I use all my body weight and as much momentum as I can to force myself backward. I twist and land heavily on my side, which sends a pain shooting through my shoulder. I hear the guy shuffling out the way as the chair crashes to the floor under my weight. I hear it smash and splinter and crack. Instantly, I can move my arms and legs.
Yes!
My arms are still behind my back, but my legs are free. I roll over and push myself up, crouching slightly, ready to fight. I can hear the guy who was standing in front of me stepping quickly toward me. I’m pretty sure he’s at my eleven o’clock. I lean back slightly, then whip my head forward, hoping I’ve guessed right. I connect with his face, possibly just below his nose.
Fuck, that hurt!
I hear him drop, so turn my attention to the other guy. I reckon he’s on my two o’clock… I lash my foot out low, looking to catch his leg.
Oof!
Nope!
I missed and caught a blow to the kidney.
At least I know where he is now—straight ahead of me. I stand tall and kick my leg out in front of me, like I’m trying to punt a thirty-yard field goal. I’m right on the money, and catch him so hard in the balls his pelvic bone hurts the top of my foot.
I hear him drop to the floor.
I can’t waste a second here. I sit where I stand and bring my knees up to my chest, shuffling my bound hands down and around over my feet so they’re in front of me. It’s a bit of a stretch—I’m not that flexible—but I manage.
Straight away, I’m back on my feet. I pull the bag from my head and rip the tape off my mouth. I close my eyes, squinting in the sudden influx of light. After a moment, I force myself to open them slowly, so I can see—
What… the… fuck?
Through narrowed eyes, I stare ahead. The two guys are still on the floor. They’re both wearing black suits, which are a little dusty now. But I’m not bothered about them anymore. I’m more concerned about the huge window…
When I was strapped to the chair, the door was on my left. The walls in front and behind are plain brick. The wall on my right… isn’t a wall. It’s a huge window. And not like a one-way mirror or something. Oh, no. I can see out of it—into a classroom…
A full classroom!
Maybe thirty people, men and women, all sitting in seats with a fold-down surface on the right arm. Everyone’s staring at me, eyes wide, mouths open.
I raise an eyebrow.
I don’t think I was meant to do that…
Well, fuck it! It’s what they get for torturing me, the sick bastards!
Behind me, the door opens. I spin around to see Julius Jones standing there. He’s smiling.
“You okay, son?”
I rub my eyes. I’ve not felt this angry in a long time. “I’m not your son. What the fuck is this?”
“Interrogation 101.”
“Yeah… I’m meant to be taking this class, not participating in the fucking lesson. What the hell, man?”
“This is the class, Adrian. Well, your class, anyway. And you passed. Well done.”
“Are you kidding me?” I sigh and stare at the floor for a moment, collecting my thoughts. Then I look at each of the guys laying in front of me. “Which one of you two did the electricity thing on me?”
The guy I head-butted slowly raises his hand.
I walk over and crouch beside him. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re the teacher and I’m the student, and I don’t give a fuck that you work for the CIA. If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll fucking kill you. We clear?”
He looks up at me, but doesn’t speak. He holds my gaze for a moment, then I feel Julius’ hand on my shoulder.
“Adrian, you’ve had a rough few days. Why don’t you—”
I stand and shrug his hand away. “A few days? Seriously? Jesus Christ! You twisted sonofabitch!”
He backs away, holding his hands up slightly. “Okay, take it easy. I know it’s tough. Let’s get you cleaned up and fed, and I’ll de-brief you. No more games. That alright with you?”
I stare at him for a moment, and then shake my head dismissively. “Whatever, man.”
I walk past him, making sure I barge into him with my shoulder as I do, and leave the room.
8
November 19, 1993
11:38 EDT
I’m sitting opposite Julius at a café in downtown Washington D.C. For some reason I still don’t fully understand, we’re sitting outside. It’s mid-November, the temperature’s in the low forties, and the wind is blowing the light rain right at us.
He’s sitting calmly, his legs crossed,
sipping his latte. He’s wearing a dark gray suit underneath his overcoat. I’m slouching slightly in my seat. I’m wearing a thick, high-neck jumper and jeans, with tan boots and a baseball cap. I’m staring blankly at my half-empty cup of Joe.
“You alright?”
I look up. “Hmm?”
Julius smiles. “I said, are you alright?”
“Oh, right. Sorry—yeah, I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh… You wanna talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Nah.”
“Are you sure?”
I sigh, then look him in the eye. “You lied to me.”
He chuckles. “Welcome to the CIA, Adrian—it’s what we do.”
“No… you said I’d be learning interrogation techniques, and instead you had me kidnapped and tortured! Only to say, eventually, that I passed…? What kind of bullshit is that, Julius?”
He places his cup gently on the table and crosses his legs the opposite way. He clears his throat and smiles almost sympathetically. “Adrian, you were never going to learn interrogation techniques.”
I frown. “What?”
“Your lesson, if you want to look at it that way, was to survive being kidnapped and tortured. And you did.”
“But—”
“We might be working with the CIA at this stage… we’re using The Farm, we’re using their money… but you’re not making your way through their curriculum. You’re not training to collect a CIA paycheck. You’re part of a special project, don’t forget that. You’re not going through what all the regular agents are going through. This has nothing to do with the agency.”
I let out a heavy breath and reach for my drink. I take a gulp and hold it in my hand, feeling the warmth on my palm. I don’t say anything.
Julius leans forward. “Adrian, you’re one of the youngest people in our organization’s history to be involved in a program of this nature. We have the backing of President Clinton. We’re going to carry out missions black ops teams won’t, or can’t, touch. Missions no one except a select few will even know existed. You’re only just old enough to drink, yet you’ve been chosen to spearhead this program… Do you know why?”
A Hero of War--An Adrian Hell Novella Page 7