Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

  Russell just nodded, still staring at Steve.

  The sound of bullets flying through the air and hitting metal was now replaced with Morgan crying and yelling, which was worse than the sound of gunshot.

  John put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and looked down at Steve. A large dark hole was painted onto the middle of Steve’s forehead. His eyes were closed in death. Blood continued to coat the asphalt.

  “What the hell was he doing here? Why did you bring him?” Morgan yelled.

  “We didn’t bring him. He wouldn’t take no for answer,” Sims said.

  “Morgan, he refused to stay. He wanted to come and save you,” Frankie said. This made Morgan cry even harder.

  Morgan put his head on the ground and grabbed at the asphalt with his hands. “He can’t fight! He shouldn’t have been here.” He looked at Steve, tears streaming down his face.

  John was about to say something when he heard a motorcycle riding up, this time coming from the direction of the houses. He looked up and saw Boogie riding John’s motorcycle, with Helen on the back, a red bag slung over her shoulder.

  Boogie ran over, out of breath. “What happened?”

  “Where were you? When I came running home for help, I only found Sims and Steve,” Frankie said.

  “What? I was out by your greenhouse picking veggies. I heard a commotion coming from your house, and by the time I got out there, I saw the Tahoe screaming down the driveway. I ran here to see what was going. When I saw Steve go down, I ran back home to get Helen and her medical kit. I woulda brought the Charger, but it’s out of gas, so we had to take John’s motorcycle.” Boogie looked down at Steve, seeing the enormity of the situation. “Ah, sweet Jesus, no,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, we could have used you here with a rifle,” Frankie said.

  “Hey, I didn’t plan for this to happen! I got here as fast I could, okay?”

  “Both of you shut up!” Helen ran over and bent down next to Steve, unzipping her bag. She looked at him and saw where he was hit and stopped opening the bag. “Oh, Morgan, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

  Morgan got up onto his knees. He was no longer crying. He just stared at Steve, unblinking. Without warning, he jumped to his feet and ran past John, almost knocking him over. He yelled, “You’re a dead man!”

  He stopped and stood in front of the dark-skinned driver, who was lying on his side. He reared back and started kicking him in the stomach, the chest, and the face, alternating between the three areas. “Fuck you!” Morgan yelled, over and over.

  John was happy to let him continue, but considering their situation was because of him and his men, he needed the man alive so he could answer some questions.

  He ran over and picked up Morgan with both arms. He carried him back and away from the driver, who was moaning, with blood on his face. “Stop, Morgan! We need him alive!”

  “No, we don’t! I want to kill him! Let me kill him!”

  “Not yet!”

  Morgan was struggling to get away from John and get back to kicking the man, but John, being much stronger, held him with ease.

  “What are we doing with him then? And why did they attack you?” Frankie asked.

  “We’re going to find out, Frankie,” John said. He bent down and picked up the man and carried him toward the Scout, while Sims carried the driver.

  Boogie, Sims and Russell loaded Steve into the back of the Tahoe, while Frankie jumped on John’s Harley Davidson. He took off toward the driveway, wanting to get the gate open so the two vehicles didn’t have to stop.

  John and Morgan waited in the Scout for the Tahoe to leave, and once it did, they soon followed.

  Morgan got in the passenger seat of the Scout and looked back at both captive men, who were staring right back at him. “I’m taking you both straight to hell. Make yourselves right with God.”

  Chapter 34

  “How do we want to play this?” Russell asked.

  They had all gotten back to the house and John and Morgan had taken the bound men into the workshop and secured them to metal chairs, their hands un-cuffed and their arms tied to the armrests using razor wire. Any movement would be sure to slice their skin.

  “I’m going to kill them,” Morgan said. Since the men had been secured to the chairs, he hadn’t taken his eyes off them. “Very slowly, I might add.”

  Their two prisoners kept shooting dagger-like glances at each of the four men standing before them. The gags in their mouths kept them from partaking in the conversation that surely involved their future.

  “Hold on, Morgan. We should at least talk to them first. Get as much information as possible. I really want to know why they shot at us – shot me and killed Steve, that is – and what their motives were,” Russell said.

  John wanted to step in between Morgan and Russell, but he knew that that was a sign of weakness that could be exploited by these two men, men that he had witnessed start this whole situation and caused the deaths of who knows how many innocent people. “Okay, Russell. Let’s see what they have to say.”

  John walked up to the red-headed man and bent down to meet him at eye level, while ignoring the driver. “Two things. First, you two are going to answer questions and you will answer them truthfully. This is not negotiable. Second, my two friends here are going to be the ones to ask the questions. Now, I warn you. They are going to be civil about it and we expect the same from you. It’s the easy way or the hard way, as they say. Nod if you understand.” A few seconds went by and the red-headed man nodded, blood coming from his nose. The second man nodded and John said, “Okay, then. I’m going to take the gags off and you are going to be good little boys, okay?”

  John did and before the gag was completely out, the red-headed man yelled, “You’ve all just made a big mistake!” His face turned red, making the whites of his eyes more pronounced.

  Morgan, who had been standing at the side, lunged at the man, throwing a right hook across his face. “Now, that’s not a very nice way to start out, is it?”

  “Morgan! Please, let us do this,” Russell said.

  Morgan backed up a bit, a calm and reserved look on his face. “Sure, Russell, do your best.”

  John stood back with Morgan, knowing full well that these men weren’t going to answer any questions at all. Men who are willing to kill an entire population of people – an entire country – weren’t going to answer questions from a cop. However, it was to John’s advantage to let these men think it would be a walk in the park. Warm them up, let them feel like they have an ounce of control, then turn the tables on them. Of course, Morgan would be the one to bring hell to these men, and John was more than willing to let him do it, considering what had happened to Steve.

  John watched as Russell grabbed a metal chair, similar to the ones the two men were sitting on. He turned it around so the back was facing the red-headed man and sat down.

  “My name is Russell and this is my partner, Reggie Sims.” He motioned towards Sims and continued, “We’re detectives with the Bellevue Police Department, so don’t try and play stupid. We’ve seen that act before. So, let’s start off with the basics, shall we? What’s your name?”

  The red-headed man didn’t answer and instead just stared at Russell. Seeing that he wasn’t going to answer, Russell directed his question to the driver. “How about you? Are you going to be as difficult as your friend?” Nothing. “What is your name?” Again, the man remained silent, looking down and not making eye contact.

  John watched the facial expressions of each man. While the red-headed man showed confidence and anger built up inside him, the black driver was equal parts concern and worry. That told John that he was the weak link and the most likely one to talk.

  Russell and Sims kept asking questions, but the men remained stoic and silent. John thought he saw the red-headed man smile and knew that though they appeared to be a good detective team, they weren’t going to get anywhere with these two men.

  John gave a sideways glance to Morgan
and got a nod.

  John interrupted Russell and said, “Stop. Let’s talk outside.”

  “Good, go talk outside. Go figure out how you can play mind games with me to get me to answer your cute little detective questions, huh? Remember now, good cop bad cop, right?” the red-headed man said.

  John followed Russell and Sims as they walked outside. He stopped when the two were well away from the entrance, then quickly slid the large metal door shut and locked it, securing himself and Morgan inside with the two men.

  John heard Russell run up to the door and bang on it, “Hey! John! Morgan! Open the damned door!”

  John had secured the dual lock in place. He turned around and saw Morgan standing with his arms crossed, a few yards from the two bound men, staring at them. He walked over and stood next to Morgan. He looked down at the red-headed man, who was alternating looks between him and Morgan.

  The red-headed man asked, “What are you doing?”

  Morgan didn’t answer right away. He just continued to stare at the two men on the chairs, while Russell and Sims banged on the door, the sound echoing throughout the workshop.

  “Ah. Shit,” the driver said, resignation in his voice.

  John put the gags back in their mouths.

  After a few seconds, Morgan said, “The hard way.”

  Chapter 35

  Morgan whistled. It was a habit he had picked up in Afghanistan due to the lack of music. There’s only so much noise one can take that involves screams, gunfire, and the last breaths of the fallen.

  Whistling was always hard for Morgan, but with practice, it was a skill he had mastered at an expert level. He had even started to whistle certain pieces of classical music. The likes of Beethoven, Bach, and Chopin had become his favorites, as classical music was always an escape from chaos, putting his soul at ease. It allowed him a brief escape from the horrors of war.

  Walking up to the workbench, Morgan thought of what needed to be done and knew that he needed to be clear-headed, his mind able to focus and not be distracted by outside influences, primarily Russell and Sims banging on the door.

  What he was about to do required immense concentration and perfection, and his mind and body to be in harmony.

  He nodded to two empty buckets on the floor, which John picked up and carried to the back. He grabbed a few tools, including a ball peen hammer, a thick leather strap, and a CRKT tactical knife off the workbench and then sat down before the two men. He held his left hand out and swept it across their field of vision as if he were showcasing an array of prizes, which they technically were. Who would be the lucky winner to receive the hammer? Maybe the runner-up would get the tactical knife. It was up to them and it depended on how they responded to Morgan’s questions.

  Morgan sat with perfect posture, his hands folded in his lap and his feet flat on the floor. He stared at both men to get a baseline. The red-headed man was glaring at him with fire in his eyes, his breathing rapid from the gag in his mouth and the fact that his nose was bleeding, which made it difficult to get air.

  The black driver was breathing at the same rate and Morgan was sure it was because he was scared. He was the weak link and Morgan knew that he would be the one to answer the questions. The whites of his eyes were more pronounced, which emphasized his fear.

  Unfortunately for the red-headed man, his pride was going to be his downfall. He was the unlucky one to become Morgan’s canvas with which to create pain and misery.

  Morgan had been in this situation before and knew that the gags weren’t going to hurt them. In fact, they were causing more psychological damage than physical. The mere fact that they couldn’t talk or verbally answer his questions meant they were at his mercy. They would be forced to answer questions with their body language, fueled by desperation to get the answer out. They could either shake their heads or nod. How much energy they put into those two motions would tell him the emotional toll it was taking on them, and thus, he could adjust the questioning to fit their fear.

  Since he had the floor and knew they couldn’t interrupt, he decided to start off with some facts.

  “You are both going to die. That is a given. Now, how you die is going to be entirely up to you.” Neither man moved. “If you answer my questions truthfully, it will be painless. If you lie to me or deceive me in any way, I can assure you, you will be put into a world of hurt.”

  To emphasize the point, Morgan bent over and retrieved the long leather strap and placed his feet on top of one end, keeping it secured to the floor. He grabbed the other end of the strap with his left hand and made it taut. He picked up the knife with his right hand and ran the blade from the hilt down to the tip as it traversed the length of leather downward, sharpening the blade with a shink sound. He then flipped the knife over and did the other side, reversing direction.

  Shink.

  “Did you know there are only two ways to kill a man?” Neither man moved, but the driver’s eyes got bigger. Morgan nodded to him and continued, “No, it’s true. You can either kill a man by mistake…”

  Shink.

  “…or you can kill a man on purpose.” Morgan leaned forward and winked at the driver. “And buddy, let me tell you…we don’t make mistakes.”

  Shink.

  Morgan waited several seconds, letting the hypnotic sound of him sharpening the blade resonate in their heads.

  Russell and Sims were either talking and figuring out how to get in, or they had given up. Either way, the banging on the door had ceased.

  “Now, I’m not saying I’ve never made a mistake before, especially when it comes to death. I’d have to say my only mistake was in Afghanistan in 2008. I was part of an Alpha Detachment that hooked up with the Northern Alliance in Northern Afghanistan. Our job, if you could call it that, was to help train their army on Special Forces tactics. Now, while there, I befriended a young boy by the name of Abbas. Cute kid, too.” Morgan looked up to the ceiling as if lost in thought. “Man, that boy loved his soccer. Of course, when you have no education, no entertainment, barely any food…you’ll find anything you can to pass the time. For him, it was soccer. Of course, who else loves soccer?” Morgan pointed his thumbs at himself. “This guy right here. So, Abbas and I would play every day during downtime in a dirt field behind the barracks. And most of the time he got the better of me. Of course, I usually let him, you know?” Morgan laughed, but the two men just stared at him, their attention solely on him. Morgan then went back to sharpening his knife.

  Shink.

  “But one day, Abbas didn’t show up. Now, like I said, there wasn’t shit to do, so it’s not like he had an appointment. I mean, we would always meet on that field at twelve thirty hours every day. So, I waited ‘till thirteen hundred hours and then decided to go look for him. I walked through the village and checked around every single building I could. I checked the mosque, the houses, the barracks…everything. Nothing. Nowhere. I couldn’t find him. Well, on my way back, I passed the hillside, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement heading up the rocky hill. I look over and can you guess who I saw?” Morgan alternated looks between each man and finally got a head shake from the driver. Yes, he was definitely the weak link. “Well, I saw little Abbas hurrying up the hill. I called out his name. I said, ‘Abbas! Abbas!’ I held up the soccer ball to him and when he turned, I saw that his face was discolored and his eyes were swollen.”

  Shink.

  “I ran up the hill toward him, but since he knows that countryside better than anyone, he was able to get away from me. Came to find out, he was beaten by his father for, and I quote, ‘befriending the infidels,’ end quote. But I didn’t know it at the time. I spent the rest of the day thinking about what could have happened and even took some time to nonchalantly walk around the village, hoping to find him. I even spent the majority of time around his home loitering but didn’t ever see him. None of the men on my team had seen him either, but, they admitted, they weren’t looking for him either.”

  Shink.
<
br />   “Well, that night, my curiosity didn’t subside. Loaded with excuses, I made my way over to Abbas’ home, and, as I got closer, I could hear crying and slapping sounds. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but as I got closer, I knew that those sounds were definitely coming from Abbas inside his home.”

  Shink.

  “I also knew that his father hated Americans and was even suspected of being a rat to the Taliban. Anyways, I put my ear up to that dirt covered door and listened. Now, my Pashto isn’t that good, but I’m pretty sure I know what suffering sounds like. And to me, it sounded like suffering.”

  Shink.

  Morgan stared down at the leather strap as he spoke. “Filled with rage, I kicked in that dirt door of theirs and do you know what I saw?” The two men didn’t move, but the whites of their eyes conveyed the growing fear inside them. “I saw dear old dad, sexually abusing his twelve-year-old son. Punishment!” Morgan stopped sharpening the blade. He held the knife up in front of him, admiring the shiny and polished blade. He then looked at the driver and pointed the knife at him. “He was punishing his son…for being my friend.”

  Morgan paused and held the knife pointed at the driver, staring him in the eyes, unblinking. The driver’s respirations increased and his forehead showed beads of sweat heading toward his eyes.

  Morgan kept the knife pointed at him and said, “I decided to teach dear old dad a lesson. I grabbed him and threw him to the ground. Abbas screamed and ran out, but I didn’t pay him any attention. I saw red. Pure red. I grabbed the father and stripped him down, naked. I tied him to a chair…”

  The driver started shaking and breathing in short breaths. The red-headed man sat still, but his breathing picked up.

  “…I grabbed my knife…”

  The driver started whimpering.

  “…and I started cutting.” With the knife still pointed at the driver, Morgan held his gaze. He held this look for half a minute. Then put the knife down. He continued, “Anyways. I learned that the small intestine is almost five times the length of the large intestine. I always thought it was the other way around, but then again, I’m no doctor.”