"What's your background?" Abram asked. He wasn't so much of a talker, but maybe he could glean some information about the other recruits the company went after.
"Army Rangers," Rick said. "Just got out not more than a month before they approached me saying I could make a bigger difference than I ever did in the Army. And you know what, I bought it. Now look where it got me. Stuck in the hull of some transporting vessel.
"How do you know we're in the hull?"
"They didn't have me blindfolded when they brought me onboard. I guess they didn't think there was any need, seeing as I would never see the light of day again."
Strangely, Abram just then realized he was still wearing the hood. His hands and feet weren't bound, and they hadn't ordered him to keep it on. So, why was he still wearing it? Another mantra played in his head: control what you can, everything else is meaningless.
Leaving the hood on allowed his mind to be free of the reality. Seeing where he was would only add to the possible anxiety. By keeping his hood on, he actually gave himself sanctuary. He didn't remove it now. He left it on.
"Aren't you going to remove that thing?" Rick asked.
"No," Abram said.
"You're crazy, you know that," Rick laughed.
You don't know the bit of it.
The ship rocked back and forth as it sailed through the sea. Rick didn't speak any more, which worked well for Abram. Distractions played against you. The more you could stay within yourself, the better. Abram played the conversations with Scott Train, if that was even his real name, over in his head. The whole ordeal and interaction had happened so fast. And yet, this worked well for Abram. The more time he had to think about something, the harder it would be to do what needed to be done. A pang of regret sprouted from those thoughts. He had intended to clear some of the dead weight from the inauguration, but he had failed to take action. He had allowed himself to be distracted. Distraction leads to inaction, inaction to confusion, confusion to failure. And in his case, potentially death.
He focused his thoughts on his breathing and the sway of the ship. With each breath, his mind cleared of the doubts and he became centered with his body. The hatch to their cell opened and someone walked in. Abram knew they were coming for him. And when he felt their hands on him, he wasn't the least bit surprised or worried. In the end, he won. If they killed him, he won. If he made it through the training, well, that was still up for debate. But for all extensive purposes, and his sanity, he went with a win. His two escorts led him through the ship, his shoes clanking on the metal.
One of the men opened a door and spoke in Arabic.
"Our new recruit," his escort said.
Another man from inside said, "Why is his hood still on?"
"He didn't take it off," his escort said.
They exchanged small chatter before Abram was shoved inside. He was left with his new master.
"So," the man began with a thick middle-eastern accent. "I hear you were a Navy SEAL."
Abram didn't respond.
"It's okay to talk. We already know everything about you. There's no need to keep quiet."
"Yes," Abram said. "I was a SEAL, but not anymore."
"Only one tour. Normally I get recruits with much more experience than that."
"Sorry to disappoint," Abram said.
The man let out a sort of laugh-groan.
"Duration of time served is no testament to a man's will and skill. Tell me, Abram Kinkaid, are you a man of strong will?"
"You tell me."
The man was standing next to him, leading him by his ear. Abram could smell the garlic on his breath.
"I think you are. It's not every day you meet a Medal of Honor recipient. And the Navy Cross, too. How it is that someone who only serves one tour receives the MOH right after he's medically discharged from the Navy?"
"It's in my file. Why ask me questions you already know the answer to?"
The man squeezed Abram's shoulder like a coach does an athlete right before he runs back on the field.
"Every detail matters, Mr. Kinkaid. Even the smallest morsel could be beneficial for our cause. Tell me," he continued, circling away, "why haven't you taken the mask off? No one has forced you to keep it on, and yet, here it remains."
"I like the dark," Abram said.
"You SEALs really are a strange bunch. But I like that. Disciplined and resilient to the end. There's no obstacle you can't overcome. Is that right?"
"Something like that."
"I'm curious though, why not apply to the agency? Someone of your skills would no doubt be a hot commodity. Why the garbage?"
"I don't like the trash in the government. I prefer the smell of real garbage that doesn't hide behind a facade."
"I could respect that, but still, don't you think you could have done more with your talents than picking up garbage? After the awards you were given, I'd think you'd be living the life in the spotlight. You could have had any position you wanted with the agency."
"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it doesn't matter now."
"How so?"
"I'm here now."
The man tapped something metallic on a table.
"You're an interesting man, Mr. Kinkaid. It's going to be fun breaking you."
The man pressed an intercom.
"He's ready for you."
The door behind Abram slid open and he was yanked backward. This time, they weren't easy. His hand smacked the metal walkway. As he tried to gain his feet, someone kicked him in the gut and smacked the side of his head with a blunt object. The pain was instantaneous, as was the blackness.
Chapter 6
Abram came back to consciousness with the wave of water rushing down his throat. He tried coughing, but his body was held down. The ropes bit into his skin as he yanked to break free. The hood clung to his damp face.
When the suffocating wave came again, he knew what was happening. Waterboarding. A classic torture tactic to break the enemy.
He smiled within the hood. His body was used to this kind of stress. One of the tests he’d had to complete in BUD/S was an underwater demolition extraction, all while being smacked by paddles and the instructors ripping his air tube from his mouth. If you surfaced, you failed. If you passed out, you failed. If you succeeded in keeping your air tube on, but did not complete the task, you failed. As Abram saw it, he failed no matter the outcome. And as he discovered, that was the point. They wanted to instill in your mind a sense of fearlessness of water. That drowning was not the worst thing that could happen. Not completing your mission was.
The third torrent came crashing down his throat. His lungs cried out for oxygen, his muscles spasmed, but he refused to relent. Seeing the water as the source of pain is what breaks you. Seeing it as just an obstacle to overcome makes you unbreakable.
Three of them. All talking in hushed tones.
"Don't tell me you're quitting on me now. The fun is just getting started," Abram spat. The hood's thick fabric was clawing at the back of his throat. His cheeks burned from it rubbing back and forth. That got him another bucket of water down the mouth. At this rate, he'd never have to drink water again.
The coughing got worse, the pain in his chest felt like a fire was set ablaze in his lungs, all while his lips were held tight. This time it took longer before Abram managed to get control of his senses. Exhaustion was setting in. He knew there was only so much anyone could take before it was too much. The body would go into shock. He needed to shift the power.
"Don't you fools realize that water to a frog is heaven? Stop wasting both of our time. What else do you got?"
At this, the hood was yanked from his face.
"Let me show you," his torturer said. It was the same man from the interior room.
"Ah, finally a face to that pretty voice. I thought I'd never get to see you."
"It'll be the last thing you see if I have anything to do with it," he said.
"You promise?"
Abram winked. Then his
head snapped sideways from the blow to his temple.
"I guess I deserved that," Abram said.
The man's chest rose and fell as he steadied himself.
They were professionals. Good. That meant they would only go so far. A dead recruit would be useless.
Abram held the gaze of his assailant with a newfound understanding and appreciation. They both were professionals. No doubt, this man had been some kind of translator for the military at some point. Maybe even a part of one of the units in Guantanamo. Abram didn't want to know the things he had witnessed or inflicted to get the answers they wanted during the war. He had his own demons to face. Abram could see the hunger in his eyes. He was trying to control it, but the obsession was taking over. He prided himself on breaking his victims.
"Before we continue," Abram said suddenly, catching the man off guard. "I'd like to thank you."
The man's brow furrowed.
"It's not every day someone gets to experience a professional like yourself. No doubt none of your victims ever appreciated the skill and dedication that you put into your trade. I never had the privilege to work with your kind, but I respect the sacrifice."
The man was stunned. Abram could see his ego billowing like a storm cloud on the horizon. Abram doubted the man had ever been congratulated on his work. But the hesitance lasted only a few seconds before the man regained his composure.
"Nice try, Mr. Kinkaid. But your flowery tricks won't work on me."
"Ah, and here I thought you were the sentimental type."
"I am."
Then he punched Abram in the face. When the man had finished, he collapsed in the chair nearby, panting. Abram wasn't unconscious, but he certainly wished for it. He couldn't feel his face. His cheeks felt like bricks were shoved in his mouth, and his eyes filled with grout. There was no need for the hood now. His eyes were swollen shut.
"Take him away," the man said.
Abram was lifted by his legs and shoulders, and wheeled out on a cart. The gate to the cell slammed with a loud clang. Abram lay in the corner, his body calling to the waves to drown him now.
"Looks like they did a number on you," Rick Sims said. "Dang! What did you do, insult their mothers? I've never seen someone in such bad shape after a meeting with the crew."
Abram moaned. His lips wouldn't budge, nor would his throat allow for him to speak.
"Don't say anything," Sims said. "Here, drink this."
Sims placed a bowl against Abram's lips and tilted. The cool liquid burned, but Abram managed to hold most of it down.
"Thanks," he groaned.
"Next time, don't be such a smart ass. Then you won't have your face beaten to the meat."
"No promises," Abram said.
"You SEALs are crazy, you know that!"
Sims let out an exasperated sigh and went back to his corner, leaving Abram to his own torment for the night.
Chapter 7
Abram slept very little that night. Every time the ship would rock, it jolted his body against the side of the vessel, only inciting more pain. Abram couldn't remember the last time he’d felt so much pain. That was a lie. He remembered.
Six years ago, to be exact. The doctors told him it was a miracle he was still alive. He said it was a mistake. He had no memory of the events that led up to his emergency flight to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, but he was told all about it. Supposedly, a grenade had knocked him off the mountain. And when two Taliban soldiers found him, they were debating whether to kill him or take him hostage. Their hesitation cost them their lives. Abram had shot them both in the head with his sidearm. The next bit was harder for Abram to accept, and the reason for receiving the Navy Cross, Purple Heart, and the Medal of Honor.
Accounts of that night in the Hindu Kush came from first-account witnesses: his team. Each man said how they were pinned down by enemy troops, and that Abram single-handedly took them all out. He was shot multiple times but kept fighting. Several of his men were severely injured. and Abram dragged every one of them half a click to be evacuated from the mountains. He saved the lives of all of his team members and stopped one of the Taliban's elite cells from dispersing 100,000 tons of ammunitions, nuclear grade explosives, and children. When the Army came in later to filter through the rubble, the Hellfire missiles had dislodged a huge slab of rock that was shielding a secret tunneling system in the cave. When the Rangers followed it, it led them to the stockpile of weapons and 200 young women and children scheduled to be sold.
Abram always brushed the stories aside. He couldn't remember any of it. How could they be true? He refused to believe he was a hero. Heroes don't make it out alive. They die a warrior's death in battle. The next eight months that followed were the most painful Abram had ever experienced. Many times he contemplated suicide just to alleviate the pain. The doctors told him they had given him as much morphine as they could, but it wasn't helping. After undergoing more than thirty surgeries, they believed they had removed most of the shrapnel from his body. There might have still been tiny pieces here and there, but nothing to cause too much concern.
Now, lying against a stack of wooden crates, tossed to and fro by the violent sea, his lost friend returned. The pain was only a nuisance. An inconvenience to his current situation, a necessity. He had endured much worse. He would get through this too. Several days went by and his tormentors didn't come for him. Twice a day, someone would come in and drop two trays with a bowl of soup, a loaf of bread, and water. Abram hadn't been hungry the first two days. His body ached and his lips refused to part for any sustenance. Sims helped him get some water down, and even tore the bread into smaller, more manageable fragments. Slowly, his strength returned and the swelling eased up. By day four, he was moving about the cell freely on his own. The food wasn't great, but it wasn't bad either. They may have had them locked up like prisoners, but they still treated them with a form of respect that only came from this line of work.
They aren't here to kill you, Abram reminded himself. This is all just a test. A very long and exhausting test. The days went by one after the other until Abram lost track. It was impossible to know if it was night or day, but somehow, Sims always seemed to know. He said he had worked out a method to determine the time even in the dark. In fact, he had carved rows of tallies along the interior wall with a piece of metal he had found in one of the crates. It turned out the crates were full of potatoes and linens, as well as other assortments of trade goods. This only added to Abram's hypothesis that they were on a cargo ship heading to who knew where.
He had thought maybe they'd go to Guantanamo or one of the many other remote islands where the military and U.S. government conducted special assignments away from the prying eyes of the press. But they should have made those already. They were going somewhere else. Somewhere much farther away. The question that nagged the back of Abram's mind the most, though, was not where they were going, but why.
Abram noticed the ship wasn't swaying as much anymore. Actually, it didn't feel like it was moving at all. He gazed up through the cracks of the walls to get a glimpse of what was happening outside, but nothing.
"I think we stopped," Abram said.
"It's probably just a calmer water," Sims said.
Abram snaked around the cramped storage room used as their holding cell and pressed his ear against the door. He could barely make out the voices of the men responsible for their transport. Abram was caught off guard when the door suddenly swung open and he came face-to-face with Amir, his torturer. Amir's facial expression revealed his shock, but he replaced it within an instant with a determined scowl.
"It seems your stay with us is up," he said.
"Where are we?" Abram asked.
"Morocco."
Abram nodded at that. He had been to many places in the Middle East, and Morocco was far from one of the worst options they could have chosen. Sure, it had its problems, but the Berbers were friendly enough.
Abram met Amir's eyes and the two men exchanged kn
owing glances. Amir was a professional, just like Abram. The two knew what had happened between them wasn't personal. Amir was only doing his job.
"There will be a caravan waiting for you on the dock. Find a man named Jihir. He'll help you find a place to stay for the evening."
Abram nodded and brushed past Amir. The Arab man stepped aside and waited for Sims to join.
"Morocco, eh. I've never been. I wonder why they brought us here," Sims said.
"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," Abram said.
Abram squinted and held his hand over his eyes as they ascended from the dark room below and into the beating sunlight. The back of Abram's neck speckled with sweat as his body met the heat. It was dryer here, but the sun would still cook you if you weren't careful. Abram snagged a rag hanging over a box and wrapped it around his neck.
Amir led the two men to the unloading dock.
"Here is where I leave you," he said.
He outstretched his hand and Abram took it. Amir squeezed just enough to let Abram know he had his respect.
"Until we meet again," Abram said, and released the man's hand.
Abram walked down the gangway and onto the dock. The wooden beams shifted against his weight, but they remained sturdy enough. Abram headed down the dock toward the wharf, where several sellers were situated. He walked up to the first stand and noticed it contained several of the local fruits. One gentleman ushered him to try one of the dates. He accepted only as to not offend the man. He thanked him and continued on.
Abram assumed the contact Jihir would introduce himself, but so far, he hadn't shown up. Perhaps this was another test, or maybe Jihir didn't exist. Either way, it didn't much matter to Abram. He felt a tug on his sleeve.
"We're supposed to wait for Jihir," Sims said.
"I'm sure if he wants to find us, he will. I'm going to stretch my legs."
Sims hesitated on the dock, glancing back at the cargo ship and at the many dark faces around him. He threw up his hands and ran to catch up to Abram.
"If you screw this up for me..." Sims said.
Kill Shot - An Abram Kinkaid Thriller Page 3