by David Perry
The truck that had delivered him many months ago had swerved and jostled along a sinuous roadway, climbing a steep incline. Cyclops had formed a theory as to their general location by studying the climate, the surrounding landscape, and his position relative to the sun. He was still in the United States. After being taken into custody two years ago, he had been rushed into emergency surgery to repair his obliterated eye, and his other wounds had been attended to.
A few days after that, they stopped giving him pain medications and the intensive interrogations began—the water boarding, the electric shock, and painful insertion of all sorts of probes into his anal cavity and penis. He’d broken, of course. Everyone does. The only question was how long you lasted. It had taken them over forty hours.
Cyclops adjusted his eye patch, buried the painful thoughts, and turned back to his observations about his surroundings. He’d been driven by secure bus to a second safe house and ultimately to the Red Onion. The COs had told him the name of the site, but not the location. A precaution, he guessed, that would keep him from communicating his location to anyone wanting to break him out. Not that he’d ever been allowed to speak with anyone not connected with the prison
The security measures here had been designed for society’s most violent criminals. Serial murderers and rapists, men with no consciences. Their every movement was regulated and watched. If he had been allowed to mingle with the general population, the prisoner knew he would not last a week. But there was no general population here—everyone was in solitary confinement.
His attempted crime, though murderous and brutal, was not warped. His was a political statement, an act of war against a nation whose imperial proclivities needed to be thwarted.
And yet he was not one of these brutal, antisocial degenerates. He was a thinker, elegant and refined, well trained in the art of killing with a body that was strong, athletic, and well-cared for. His swarthy skin was not riddled with piercings, facial hair, or tattoos, except for the small squiggly line on the palm of his hand. It was the same marking that his sister, his mother, and Oliver all possessed. And now, the guard who’d served him breakfast had shown him the same marking on the palm of his hand.
The seemingly insignificant act had caused Cyclops heart to soar. His dream of getting out of this Underground, once remote, now seemed real. Outside the prison, forces were at work to free him. He’d looked at the special gift he’d found with his breakfast and read the simple instructions.
Cyclops had recorded a simple recording to be delivered to the object of his scrutiny. A short message with enormous consequences.
Stepping into his private cage, he flexed his tight muscles and squinted against the bright sunlight with his one good eye. He worked his neck, tilting his head back and forth, cracking the bones of his upper vertebrae before he began his walking laps around the cage. His yard was one of six that lay side by side. Six chain-link cages. His target was two cages away.
The object of his scrutiny had once been a protégé, a fellow conspirator who had collapsed under the pressure of the moment. A weak American with no stomach for the dirty work of a bloody coup d’état.
Cyclops, once known to the Americans as pharmacist Sam Fairing, but whose real name was Sharif al-Faisal, had not spoken to the weasel Steven Cooper since they’d been captured. The two men communicated across the expanse of concrete, chain-link, and concertina wire through looks and slight facial movements. Cooper (Faisal was sure that was not his real name) always held a pleading, sunken gaze, begging for forgiveness. Faisal always smiled a reassuring grin along with a nod, as if to say, “Everything is alright.”
He placed his hand in his jumpsuit pocket and fingered the tiny envelope that had been folded many times into a ball of paper.
Cyclops moved to the corner of the cage, near his neighboring inmate’s. The communication was quick and whispered. They had developed a connection over the last two years because each was brought to his exercise cage at the same time every day. It could not be called friendship. You didn’t make friends here.
The COs were always watching, monitoring every move. Though they were separated by wire and fence, they were not allowed to engage in conversation or to stand near the fencing or each other. But there was no other way to accomplish his task.
The two men made some oval laps inside the cramped space of their cages. Cyclops moved clockwise, while his neighbor moved counterclockwise. Their laps were timed so that they arrived at their common chain-link wall simultaneously with their backs to the corrections officer standing watch. As they converged on their first lap, Cyclops whispered a statement.
“I have a gift for you my friend.”
The two prisoners circled again.
“What is it?” his neighbor replied.
On the next lap, Cyclops began to explain. “I need you to deliver something to someone!”
And so it went. With each lap, Cyclops laid out instructions for his neighbor to deliver something to Steven Cooper two cages down.
The inmate in the neighboring exercise cage moved to within four feet of the fence near Cyclops, as had been pre-arranged. Cyclops did not know he’d done it, but his new CO Griffin had somehow reconnoitered the situation and arranged a special present for the neighboring inmate’s assistance. The neighbor had eyed Cooper, bringing him in on the plan. As each man lapped their cages, word was eventually relayed to Cooper that a small present was coming his way.
“It will be done. Give me three minutes,” the neighbor explained to Cyclops on one of the last laps.
Without he or Cyclops ever having set eyes upon each other, the neighbor moved off toward the entrance to his private cage. He began shouting and spreading his arms, drawing all eyes and attention to him.
“Rejoice in the Lord …”
Everyone looked, including the two corrections officer in the area, casting their eyes toward him and not on the eye-patched Cyclops. Cyclops slipped the small wad through the fence. It fell to the concrete and came to rest in the corner of his neighbor’s cage as he continued to rant. Cyclops quickly turned away, continuing his exercise laps and smiling at the apparently crazed inmate.
Delilah Hussein circled her prey, showing no emotion.
Pierre had been allowed to sit alone with his thoughts for a few hours in a dark windowless room in the residence guarded by several sentries. Oliver had told him that Madam Hussein was asleep and she would deal with him when she woke. Now, she had been pacing around him for five minutes on the lawn outside the residence
She’s very controlled, Pierre thought. No anger in her voice. Maybe I have a chance.
He knelt before the matriarch of The Simoon, avoiding eye contact, waiting as she made each circle. Oliver was behind him, but close. The warm breeze evaporated the sweat as soon as it formed on his body. The bloodied bandage angled over his face covered his eye and temple. The wound throbbed and radiated pain in every direction.
With each question she tossed in his direction, her words cut. “And this was all Charlie’s idea?”
“Oui, Madame. I took the boy out to make urine. While I was gone, Charlie decided to … have his way with the woman.”
“And he told you nothing of this?”
Pierre lifted his head and managed a quick glimpse as she passed in front of him. He lowered his eyes, seeing only the flow of her silk sari and the dark skin on her sandaled feet.
“Non. Il était un cochon,” he declared. He was a pig.
“Je vois,” came the soft reply. I see.
Her soft footfalls circled again, stopping directly behind him. Pierre did not move a muscle.
Hussein spoke once more. “You understand that in order for our plan to work. Monsieur Rodgers must know that his son and girlfriend are in our custody and are safe. He must believe that he will get them back in one piece … or we have no ability to control him, n’est-ce pas?”
“Certainement, Madame.”
“Now I am told the boy is missing … escaped. Yo
u allowed him … a thirteen-year-old … to overwhelm you. You were bested by a pubescent teenager.”
“Oui,” Pierre replied in a throaty whisper, barely audible above the breeze.
“I suppose,” Hussein continued, “I should consider his escape from you a stroke of good luck, because the young man was able to stop Charlie from raping the woman. Had he not escaped, he probably would have completed the task.”
She completed another lap. Pierre studied her feet and the hem of her sari.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
Pierre lifted his head as far as he could and looked into the dark gray eyes.
“Was it not fortunate that the boy was able to stop Charlie?”
“Oui.”
“Your job was to look after our guests, n’est-ce pas?”
Pierre did not have the courage to speak. He nodded, moving his head only an inch.
“Où est le garçon?” Where is the boy?
He felt a soft, warm dribble of urine slip down his pants. The breath in his chest caught.
“Je ne sais pas.” I do not know.
“Tant pis.” What a shame.
Pierre lowered his head, avoiding her penetrating stare. “Look at me, Monsieur.”
Pierre complied. When their eyes met again, the gaping bore of a handgun was directed at the furrowed space between his eyes. Her hand twitched as she pulled the trigger.
A brilliant flash erupted from the dark circle of metal. An incredible agony coursed through his skull.
Then he saw nothing.
The sight stirred Michael’s gut.
He had been peering around the doorway for ten minutes, waiting and watching. Afraid that someone was there, lying in wait for him. The thirteen-year-old stood frozen in the doorless entryway.
Acid welled in his throat. He suppressed the urge to vomit. Miss Christine was chained in a sitting position to the wall; this time her back was against it and her arms were splayed like Jesus on the cross. She was gagged and blindfolded once more. Her head rested on her chest. From the slow, soft heaving of her chest, Michael guessed she was asleep.
Charlie’s body lay a few feet in front of her, untouched from the moment he’d died. The pool of blood around it was a large round circle, mixing with the dust and dirt. The pitchfork lay a few feet away, covered in his crimson hand prints.
Deciding it was safe, Michael moved toward her. He stepped on the balls of his feet, his strides short and tentative. He swiveled his head, checking every angle. His heart thumped in his chest. After ten feet, he stopped and listened. He swiveled his head again and checked behind him.
He resumed his journey across the wine-cellar floor through the racks of wine bottles. The body loomed in front of him, getting larger and more gruesome. The pool of blood around the dead guard had stopped expanding. It was impressive and nauseating in its size. The edges of the puddle became damned up as the dirt impeded its progress. He couldn’t avoid looking at the ravaged flesh of the face, bluish in death. The lower lip had been devoured. His naked legs and butt were pale and blue. Lifeless!
Michael gave the corpse a wide birth. So wide, he stumbled into the far wall. The wall he’d been chained to not long ago. He fell to his knees, scuffing the rough concrete.
Miss Christine jumped at the noise. “Who’s there?”
Her head whipped back and forth, trying to ascertain the direction of the sound. She drew her legs in close to her body, readying for a kick.
“No, please! Not again!”
“It’s me, Michael. Miss Christine, it’s me,” he whispered.
Miss Christine cocked her head, then smiled. “Michael?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Can you free me?”
“I think so.”
Michael circled the corpse and knelt by her side. He removed the chain of keys from his pocket and began inserting them into the lock restraining her left arm. Two minutes later, both arms were free.
“Where are the guards?” Michael asked.
“Probably outside. Everyone is looking for you! Let’s get out of here.”
They crept up the steps to the large wooden door. Christine peered through the small barred window cut in the horizontal planks. Two different guards sat there in place of Pierre and Charlie. She ducked back out of sight and motioned for Michael to follow her.
They made their way once more past the body and returned to the back room filled with discarded wine barrels. The rear door was dead bolted and secured with a large rusting padlock.
Michael gave her the key ring. She tried several keys with no success. Then she tried the largest, oldest looking key, inserted it, and turned. The mechanism was corroded and rough, but the lock dropped from the U-shaped hasp.
Christine pushed at the door. It did not budge. She tried several more times, again with no luck. Michael pressed his back against it and exerted all the pressure he could summon using his legs, while Miss Christine drove her shoulder into it.
After several minutes, they dropped to the floor in exhaustion. Sweat poured from their skin.
“What do we do now?”
Miss Christine looked at Michael. She crinkled her face in the dim light and sniffed.
“Can I tell you something, Michael?”
“Yes.”
“Promise you won’t get mad?”
“I guess.”
She smiled. “You stink.”
Michael looked down at his wet, stained clothing. He sniffed. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
They both chuckled.
“Let’s keep trying,” she said.
Three hours later in the mountains of western Virginia, Steven Cooper sat back on his uncomfortable cot inside the Red Onion, looking at the tiny gift.
The guard had deposited him back in his cell fifteen minutes earlier. He waited that long before he stood and turned away from the camera mounted in the corner. He removed the wad of paper, setting it on the desk across from his metal cot.
His heart thumped as he studied it.
This was the first communication he’d received from Sam Fairing since they’d been captured in the fourth-floor condo in the north spire of the Windsor Towers on that fateful day. Cooper had tried many times to communicate with small gestures and facial expressions across the exercise yard.
Though communication of any kind was forbidden and punished, Cooper had used facial tics, half-smiles and small shrugs to show Cyclops that he was remorseful for his cowardly actions, including spilling everything he knew about the failed operation.
The technique used to extract information—Cooper was quite familiar with it—was effective. Hypothermia: standing naked in a cell kept at a constant temperature of fifty degrees and regularly doused with cold water to accelerate heat loss. Cooper knew what was coming and did not want any part of it. He’d cracked in only an hour.
But despite telling them everything, he had not been spared. Next came being forced to stand, handcuffed, with his feet shackled to an eye bolt in the floor for endless periods of time. He had to balance his weight on one or two of his foot muscles. It created an intense amount of pain in his legs. Eventually, they failed him.
Cooper couldn’t tell for sure. But it appeared that Cyclops had forgiven him for his transgressions using similar gestures and looks. He sported mixed emotions about the contact Cyclops had made. For some strange reason, he wanted the Muslim to forgive him. Cooper chided himself. When a man makes a choice to commit an act and then shows his cowardice in the heat of battle, it leaves an indelible sense of failure.
He recalled a quote he’d read from one of the books in the prison library:
Burn from my brain and from my breast
Sloth, and the cowardice that clings,
And stiffness and the soul’s arrest:
And feed my brain with better things.
Cooper wanted to feed his brain with better things.
He picked up the clump of paper and unfolded it.
A small disc slippe
d from the folds and fell into his open hand. Cooper studied it, then turned his eyes to the hand-scribbled words on the page. The writing was miniscule, barely readable. Because his eyes were going bad, he wore reading glasses. Even they were unable to magnify the text enough for him to read it. So he grabbed a large magnifying glass and began studying the message:
My fellow brother-in-arms:
I am happy to see that we are incarcerated together. Our cause is still alive. You have a second chance to make good. Another mission is upon us. We are to be freed to continue our journey. The small disc you have received is a small transmitter containing a message from a secret friend. Place it in your ear and hear the instructions for our next mission.
Allahu Akbar!
Cooper picked up the small disc, the diameter of a pencil eraser. From the pad of his index finger, he examined it. One side was sticky and coated in some kind of glue. The opposite side looked like a miniature circuit board.
He sniffed it. It smelled sweet and acidic at the same time.
Cooper looked up at the camera keeping constant tabs on him and back at the disc on his forefinger.
Could it be? Was he being given a second chance?
He placed the disc on the skin at the entrance to his ear canal. With a gentle pressure, he pushed it in. Almost immediately, he felt a sting, a tiny electric shock.
A weak, tinny voice spoke to him, emanating from the tiny disc. Cooper had not heard the voice since he’d been brought here. He recognized it despite the poor quality of the recording.
It was Sam Fairing! Sharif al-Faisal! Cyclops!
The timbre of the first words sent a calm through him.
“Hi, Steven!”
That feeling lasted a moment as the next words spilled out. An icy chill sliced up his spine.
“Vengeance is mine!”
Cooper scratched at his ear, trying to remove the disc. But it had slipped deep into the ear canal. The stinging sensation in his ear spread throughout the skin of his head and face. In a matter of seconds, his whole body began to crawl as if covered by thousands of insects.