by John O'Brien
“If you weren’t awake before, you sure are now, eh gringo,” a heavily accented voice states.
I raise my head up, blowing water running in thick rivulets away from my mouth. Through the blur of my vision, I see the better dressed man standing with his hands on his hips, smiling. The guard stands by the now closed door, also smiling, while the third man sets down the empty bucket.
“I’m thinking you are in a lot of trouble, no? The murder of twelve policemen isn’t something to be easily overlooked.”
I chuckle, the pain in my head not appreciating the gesture. “They weren’t policemen. You and I both know that, so let’s dispense with that line of bullshit.”
The man snickers. “Very well. Let’s start with the basics. Who are you?”
I know I can’t feign a vacationer after being caught with weapon in hand, not to mention killing the other gunmen.
“A concerned citizen,” I reply.
“One carrying illegal weapons into my country, not to mention your actions. You didn’t inform the good people of Mexico of your intentions.”
“So, deport me then.”
“Ah, I do not think so, gringo. I will learn of the others who were with you,” the man says, crossing his arms.
So, they don’t have the rest of Red Team. Good to know.
“Long gone,” I respond.
“No, I do not think that is the case. Now, I am trying to be the reasonable one here. You answer my questions and that pretty face of yours stays as it is. Lying or not answering will result in pain. So, let’s begin anew, amigo. Where are the others? What was your plan? Who sent you? How did you know of our plans?”
“I told you. They’re long gone, probably out of the country by now.”
The man leans forward, staring me in the eyes. I return his gaze.
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he says after a moment, nodding toward the large man.
The brute unbuttons his shirt, taking it off and placing it over the chair near the door. Clad now in a tank top undershirt, he cracks his knuckles as he strides forward without expression. I know what’s coming and steel myself.
I turn my head with the punch, hoping for a glancing blow but it still lands squarely on my cheek. The blow rings my bell something fierce, stars forming in my vision. The chair I’m in rocks and falls to the side, my shoulder and side of my head hitting the concrete floor. This isn’t Hollywood where the hero can take the punch and respond with something witty. This shit hurts like hell and it’s all I can do to keep my wits about me. I’m picked up and placed upright. I can taste blood inside of my mouth and feel a trickle of it stream from my nose.
“Doesn’t feel too good, huh.”
“It’s not a carnival ride, but I’ve felt worse,” I reply, pulling my arms up and finding that my range is limited.
The cuffs I’m wearing must be secured to the chair as well. I quickly glance around the room, not seeing any mounted cameras or any other security measures. There’s a single bulb hanging from a wire in the middle of the room and a metal door that I’m sure is secured from the outside.
“You seem eager to leave. Not to worry, you will be our guest for some time to come.”
“And I suppose you’ll just let me go if I answer your questions, right?”
“That possibility exists. The promise I can make is that if you do not, then you’ll experience an eternity of pain followed by certain death.”
I shrug. “Everyone dies sometime.”
“But yours will be lingering, your body dumped in a sewage drain. Not a fitting ending, I am thinking.”
I know that the man is after how we knew about the attack and wants verification that we were sent by the American government. There’s likely also the propaganda angle. He can show what the cartel is capable of, to send a message to the other cartels and to the government. He surely knows I can’t be traded for the release of the man they want. I’m no senator’s daughter. I’m expendable, and once they get what they need, like he said, I’ll be dumped in a ditch.
“Are you American military? Special Forces?” the man asks.
“No.”
With another nod, the large man steps forward. He keeps his fist lowered, thrusting toward my stomach. I tighten my muscles and mentally send an equal force from inside to meet his punch. Believe it or not, this actually works. His punch lands and I fold around it. My actions reduce the impact, but it still hurts.
“CIA then? Or maybe DEA? Which one is it?”
“Neither,” I reply, staring at the man.
The punisher steps forward without waiting for a nod and delivers a blow to the other side of my head. The chair tips but doesn’t fall over. More blood trickles out of my nose and fills the inside of my mouth. I spit out a glob of red onto the floor.
Besides sleep and sensory deprivation or the use of drugs, there are really only two other basic means of extracting information. There’s the nice guy approach, where they offer you a smoke and just sit down and chat, finding holes in your story and sending you into a panic of confusion as your story falls apart. And then there’s physical intimidation. I’ve been through a variety of POW training, none of them fun in the least, but what I did learn is that it’s easier for me to withstand the brutality than the nice guy approach. It isn’t pleasant, but I find the pain and the anger it brings with it to be easier to weather.
The worst is being placed in a cramped box. I’m not claustrophobic, but when my extremities fall asleep without being able to move them for hours or days? That’s just pure hell. I’ll take beatings, waterboarding, sleep deprivation, days of loud music and crying babies before that any day.
“How did you know about our attack? Where did your information come from?”
“Tea leaves,” I respond.
“Very disappointing, amigo. Very disappointing indeed. I’ll leave you to Jorge’s ministrations for a while so you can rethink your answers.”
Question man pounds three times on the door. I’m not sure if that’s a code or just happenstance, but I do notice the inside handle is missing. It could be that the entire latch is missing or just jerry-rigged so it only opens from the outside. The door opens and he steps through, leaving me and Jorge to get to know each other.
* * * * * *
I wake again, my entire body throbbing to the pulse of my heart. Sweat is pouring down my body, enhancing the chill of the room. My throat is dry like sandpaper, the cuts on my face sting as beads of sweat trickle over them. Cracking my eyes open, the left one nearly swollen shut, I peek about the room.
There’s only the seated guard near the door, leaning forward in his chair with elbows braced on his knees and staring into his phone. Being as careful as I can not to move, I bring my hands closer together, my fingers reaching to my paracord bracelet. I find the thin hard piece of metal very slightly protruding from within the cords. Pushing on the end with one finger causes it to come further out. With my forefinger and thumb, I pull out the slim piece of metal—a trick one of my instructors told me about some time ago: I cut a thin strip of a hacksaw blade with the teeth along one edge, snipping it short so it would fit in the bracelet.
Carefully drawing the tiny blade clear, I put all of my concentration into holding onto it. If it drops, I’m dead. I carry no illusions about making it out of here alive. As a matter of fact, the only reason I’m still breathing is because I have information locked in my head that the cartel wants—namely, where their leak is. The fact that their secret operation of revenge was met by force doesn’t sit well with them.
Working by feel and memory, I insert the thin blade into the cuff’s locking mechanism. This amounts to running the metal along the smooth arm to the ratcheting system until I meet resistance. I then give it a little push, the blade coming between the ratchet arm and the teeth. I feel the little click of success. Still holding the metal blade in place, I ease the cuff arm free with my other fingers of the same hand, now holding both it and the blade.
; With my newly freed hand, I search the back of the chair, doing my best not to move my shoulders. I feel for the rung and place the open cuff around it. Going to work on the other hand, it’s not long before I’m completely free and placing the cuff on the same rung. I would have left the second cuff in place were it not for the fact that it was somehow secured to the chair. Gripping the thin blade tightly, I resume my close-eyed monitoring. My legs are still duct-taped to the chair; I’ll have to figure that one out soon.
Before long, I hear a banging on the metal door. Looking through my eyebrows, I see the guard give one last bang, the sound ringing in the room. More metallic sounds come from the other side and the door opens, the guard quietly talking to whoever’s on the other side. The guard gives me a look and then heads out, possibly going on a bathroom break.
The door shuts and I quickly reach down, sawing through the duct tape on both sides of my shin near the wooden legs. I leave it so that it isn’t immediately apparent that the tape has been cut through. My reasoning for enduring what I have and not doing this at the beginning is that they would have been more wary, expecting me to use whatever trick I might have in those first moments. Now, they will hopefully be a little more lax in their observations. Right or wrong, that’s my decision-making process.
I lean back, my arms behind and hands holding the blade tightly. Other than the chair, it’s really the only weapon I have in the room. As it stands, I can’t do anything with the locked door impeding my escape. Any move I make has to be quick and unexpected. One option is to wait by the door for the guard to return and take him out while the door is still open. But that would leave Jorge and his talkative buddy still at large. My best bet is to take as many in this room as I can, thus thinning the numbers of those outside who could prevent my escape or call for help.
The guard returns, taking his usual seat. Not long after, the question man and Jorge the brute enter. Jorge pushes a wheeled cart inside with screwdrivers, hammers, pliers, saws, and other tools on top.
“The last time was a gentle introduction,” question man informs me. “Now, it is time to get down to business. You have had time to think over your answers, amigo, so I think it is time to give answers. So, who do you work for?”
“There’s this lovely little mom and pop store on the corner. They were nice enough to–” I begin.
“Let’s see how smart you are with a nail pounded under your toenail,” question man interrupts.
With a nod, Jorge extracts a hammer and thin nail from the cart. As he starts forward without expression, I grip the thin blade. I have absolutely no intention of letting someone hammer a nail into the bed of my toenail. Nope, that’s not going to happen. He bends forward, pausing for a brief moment with a perplexed expression. He’s seen the cut tape. Realization enters his eyes, but I’m already in motion.
I plunge the thin blade into Jorge’s neck, the metal piercing through his skin. Sawing forward, the teeth of the hacksaw blade rips its way through the flesh, tearing through the external jugular vein and nicking the internal one. Dark blood flows down as Jorge drops the hammer and grabs for the tear in his neck, hoping to stem the massive loss of blood.
Rising, I grab the chair and hurl it toward the guard who is staring from his seated position with a startled and confused countenance. The seat hurtles through the room, the guard raising his arm to ward off the impending impact. It hits the man, throwing him off balance as he attempts to rise.
I only see that action in my periphery; my focus now on Mr. Question Man, who is backing up and franticly clawing at the sidearm tucked into his pants. Pulling it free, he tries bringing it up, his finger on the trigger. I grab the top of the handgun with my palm and twist the barrel toward him. His hold on the grip breaks free, his finger now lodged in the trigger guard. Using the trigger guard as leverage, snapping the sidearm further, I hear the crack of his knuckle as it fractures or dislocates, I’m not sure which, nor do I really care.
The man screams as I pull the weapon free of his grip and point it around his body toward the guard now clearing the thrown chair away from him. Pulling the hammer back, I fire, hoping to hell question man keeps his silver-plated 1911 loaded with one in the chamber. The blast is deafening within the small room, the padded walls absorbing some of the gunfire sound. The muzzle blast temporarily blocks my view of the guard, but quickly clears to reveal the man slumping down the wall, red spreading rapidly on his white dress shirt. A smear of blood trails down the wall as he sinks to the floor.
Question man is holding his injured hand, trying to decide whether to attack me or flee. That indecision cost him, as I offer him choice number three in the form of a barrel thrust under his chin. I have a quick thought of using him as a hostage and working my way free. But, if I overestimate his value and he is expendable, it would evaporate any leverage I might gain. Besides, that would slow me down and allow for anyone outside to regroup. Right now, speed and chaos are my friends.
I place the end of the barrel in the soft folds of skin under his chin and pull the trigger. The man’s eyes roll back into his head, the whites of his eyes the only thing showing. The shot is muffled, his lower head absorbing the blast. A flash of light emits from inside his open mouth, blood splashing from his lips. The top of his skull comes apart, a red fountain spraying upward in a clotted mix of brain, bone, and blood. The man crumples to the ground like a sack of meat, a puddle of red forming around his head.
Rotating quickly, I turn back to the punisher. The man has risen, one hand clasping his neck, blood pouring between clenched fingers to drip on his sleeveless T-shirt, adding to the already drenched cotton. Tools clatter to the floor as he raises the metal cart in his other hand, using it as a shield and peeking around the edge as he charges toward me. Behind, I hear metallic fumbling coming from the door. I’m about to receive additional company. Time is of the essence.
Not wanting to play the game of “let’s see if the bullet can penetrate the metal table and actually hit something,” I send a round into the only visible part of the man’s body. His knee rocks backward and then folds to the side, snapping like a broken toothpick. Jorge emits a grunt of pain, the only sound I’ve heard from him other than his fists slamming into my body, and he falls to the side. The metal cart clangs as it hits the hard floor, scooting until it comes to rest at my feet.
The punisher is writhing on the ground, one hand still at his throat attempting to stem the flow of dark blood, the other holding his ruined knee. Blood is dripping between his fingers to pool on the floor. His ashen face is twisted in agony and his lips have a bluish tint under the light of the single bulb. It won’t be long until he bleeds out, and seeing the blood trickling from his lips, I doubt he’ll be yelling out any warnings. Besides, I really don’t have the couple of seconds necessary to finish him off—a second shot will only make the others about to enter more anxious. As much as I hate leaving someone alive behind me, I step toward the door, leaving Jorge to his fate.
So far, there’s been the one loud shot, the yelp of question man as his knuckle fractured, and the clang of the tray. Hopefully the men about to come through the door don’t come in with guns blazing, but only to find out what’s going on. Seeing this is a torture session, there’s bound to be some screaming, and perhaps they think the shot was into my own leg. However, once they enter, it will quickly become apparent that all is not well. I’m counting on that moment of hesitation as they take it all in.
Walking past the hanging light, I crack it with the butt of the sidearm, plunging the room into darkness. I can see just fine, even though my nearly closed eye narrows my field of vision to a degree, but it’ll also take anyone entering the room a moment to adjust. The guard lying by the door is blocking it from fully opening. Giving him a quick kick causes him to slump over, folding like a sack of grain.
I move to the side of the door just as it opens. The illumination streaming from outside the room is thin at first but blossoms into a rectangle of light. The shadows of
two men at the door stretch long across the beam of light. One man quickly enters, a submachine gun held at the ready. His head makes rapid movements as he tries to see what’s inside, his brain moving a million miles an hour as he attempts to put the pieces together.
The other man is a little more cautious, hovering just outside the door. I peek around the corner, my handgun coming up. The cautious man is startled, his eyes widening as they’re suddenly gazing at the wide dark barrel of the .45. His expression is filled with both fear and the instant realization of finality; that there’s not a thing he can do to alter the imminent outcome.
The thunder of the gunshot is deafening, his eye suddenly transforming into a gaping red socket, red-tinged ooze trickling down as if he were the Madonna crying blood. The back of his head opens up, splattering a far wall of the hallway. His partner turns, but it’s too late; he only meets my next round as it slams into the side of his head. Stumbling sideways, he trips and falls over the first guard, hitting the wall and then the floor.
I glance back to Jorge, making sure he hasn’t risen again. He lies in the darkened room, his hands that were tightly holding his wounds to stem the bleeding gone slack. With my enhanced vision, I see that the blood that was streaming between his fingers has slowed, the remnants falling to the floor in long drips.
Quickly pulling the guard who fell outside of the room back inside, I snag one of the SMGs and an extra mag, stuffing them in one of the pockets of my swim trunks. I don’t have much time if there is anyone else in the building. There’s no way that kind of noise went unheard. Though I would like to change into one of the dead man’s pants, for their storage capacity if nothing else.
I tap the implant, the spot still tender from being on the receiving end of a blow from the butt of a gun. Nothing. There’s no click or any other response. The blow must have broken it. There’s also no sign of my watch. I’m on my own.
I take another mag for the .45 from question man and search them all, coming up with two key rings—one clearly for a vehicle—and a folding blade. I also find my thin blade, clean it off, and stuff it back into my bracelet. The weight of the keys, knife, and two mags in my pockets pull at my trunks. I tighten the drawstring for obvious reasons. The last thing I want is for my trunks to fall down in the middle of a firefight, although that might give anyone shooting at me pause. Maybe if that happened and I yelled “surprise,” it might do the trick.