by R. K. Syrus
After each question, Ghazan’s thin, bony hand slaps Sienna’s head.
“Americans?” Slap.
“Zionists?” Slap.
“Russians?” Slap.
“Saudis?” Slap.
The amateur geographer tries his best to give her a world tour of pain. She snaps back to the singular flash of blue light into which her previous reality had vanished. Maybe the RAPTEK power shorted out. Whatever it was, she did it to herself. If they’d only kept course straight for the Lee, it wouldn’t have happened at all.
Ghazan rocks backward on his heels and nurses his aching hand. “You think you are better than us? I went to the Sorbonne in France. I am educated. I left to follow higher laws. To become a fighter for ideals greater than your pathetic rights and freedoms.”
He’s just given Sienna more intel on himself than he’s ever going to get out of her.
“Well, I didn’t go to no Bon-bonne college,” she says. “But I do know somethin’. And I knows it real strong. The one thing that gives me the edge.”
“Ha!” Ghazan pokes Rasul. The Chechen seems to be dozing. “And what is that?”
From under her mass of filthy hair, she fixes him with a gaze that seems to heat up her own eye sockets. “You’ll kill anyone,” Sienna tells him. “I’m just gonna kill you.”
Ghazan’s pupils dilate even more in the dim light. Instinct tells him to be afraid. He’s never been threatened quite like that, certainly not by a bound prisoner, a female one at that. Then, reason lulls him back into confidence.
You should have gone with your instincts, bud.
Ghazan looks at the bored Chechen. “Hey, I suppose that means you, too, Rasul.” He laughs nervously. “Do you feel the danger? Do you feel maybe we should let her go? Save ourselves?”
Ghazan takes a swig of water and smacks his lips. “This is the sort of farce that happens when they send peasants to battle the blessed elite.” He leans even closer. Oral hygiene is a sacrifice he is making for the cause.
“As soon as you are no longer useful, then we are going to make a movie.” He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a video recorder. “Maybe it does not win any prizes at Festival de Cannes. Heh. But my people will give it, how do you say? Five stars.”
Sienna’s prepared; she’s made herself ready. But thoughts of sadistic execution videos go through her mind and nearly bring her to the edge of the pit of despair.
Sarge Bryan, Annalies…
“Now, how did you say you were going to kill us?”
24
Sienna does not respond. The gulf between her and them is too wide. They think they know about hate. For them it’s something learned. They were each taught their particular brand. Its power helped them fill some void. The thuggish oaf Rasul. The out-of-place Ghazan. After they had enough of Khorasan they could leave. She is different. There is nothing between her and them. Nothing to say.
Her silence makes them laugh. The cinderblock rectangle echoes with mirth, as hollow as dried bones, emptied of marrow. Ghazan’s bluffing. He won’t do anything until he’s told.
Tumblers clank. The door and the lock set are not rusty. Both are new. Brushed stainless steel. She’ll need the key or have to ask someone real nicely to open it when she checks out.
The man who enters is different. He carries his weapon on lean shoulders, like it’s part of his body. One of the local fighters. He prowls like a voracious sand lynx next to two domestic house cats with a poor attitude.
His face causes images to burst through Sienna’s mind:
six gently sloping hills,
a burnished cane of ironwood with more than a few skull splinters in it,
and something vast that understands her completely. She can feel it stir… the earth.
McKnight! Snap to! You’re still on the Army’s clock. Hallucinate crazy shit on your own time. Sienna obeys. Her head creaks sideways on swollen neck joints.
The village fighter looks at her, at Ghazan, at Rasul, then back at her. He closes the door and locks it from the outside. Sienna gets a glimpse of her third guard. In the corridor is a guy with a really round, shaved head. He could be the dullard brother of the village fighter. They’ve put outsiders in with her and put a trusted man, Round Head, in place to watch all of them. Smart. Cautious. Dangerous. The real threat is not down here with her but up in the streets of this charming little hamlet.
Her hosts clam up. Sienna looks to the only source of daylight. Crossbars block ports along the top of the far wall. Sienna cannot consider them windows. There is no way she could ever crawl out through them, even if they starve her down to the size of a supermodel. Adding to the ambiance, dark plastic has been taped over these.
Sounds carry down from what must be the main drag. Several well-tuned vehicles arrive. Nobu might have been able to suss out the make and model. Her radio operator spends enough time immersed in games like Road Rage Cataclysm V. She can only tell they are SUVs. High-end civilian ones, not local military.
Tires kick up sufficient wind and dust to blow in the plastic sheets covering the grates. Ghazan takes a good blast of grit and starts coughing like he’s been hit with mustard gas. The goof gags for a full thirty seconds. A blob of snot ends up on the skanky beard he’s been trying hard to grow. Despite her pains and more pressing items on her to-do list, Sienna thinks it would be nice to have that little video recorder just then. Khorasan’s Funniest Terrorist Videos would have a new star.
Sienna gains a narrow view of the street. By the angle of the sun, she gauges compass directions and time of day. The newcomers decide to park with their backs to what is likely the sturdiest building in town—her jail.
Rasul looks up suspiciously. He does not understand much local Persian. The Chechen does get that his position as a foreigner is tenuous. He brought Ghazan here for a fee and now has nowhere to go, if the villagers let him leave at all. Rasul’s main fear is that the college dropout’s money runs out and Ghazan is seen as more valuable locked inside a cell awaiting his own ransom. Rasul has no currency value. As soon as he appears useless to Artuk, a peckish sand lynx might be gnawing dinner off a thick Chechen skull.
A voice speaking clipped Dari comes through the grates. “Master Artuk.” The guy sounds arrogant and is likely the leader of the visiting group. “I bring greetings and blessings from ‘one who is known.’”
Sienna watches through the gutter-style openings. A second set of feet, in dusty leather shoes, walks up to the man in the new desert boots. A walking stick poks along. Below frayed pants legs, tanned skin covers sturdy ankles. Artuk.
Sienna can just make out the opposite roof. On it, a local gunman adjusts position. He does not sight in on the newcomers. That’s as cordial a greeting as anyone can expect in these parts. Below the gunman, the sign of the silversmith’s shop rattles. Heavy, rolling shutters slam down. The most prudent businessman in town locks up, just in case. The back room of that shop has tools which could pry apart her chains.
The local chieftain stands a moment, sizing up the situation that has rolled into his town. Finally he says, “Khalid-ban, your presence honors us. Let us have tea in my son’s house and discuss what brings you all this way.”
Artuk does not sound honored at all. He uses the local diminutive “ban.” That’s appropriate when you’re talking to a shopkeeper’s assistant.
Ghazan understands most of what’s being said. He is too distracted to think of sticking her head back in the bucket. Sienna drinks in every scrap of information. Anything can be useful.
“This will not take long, honored grandfather,” says Khalid. “You have something that has fallen to your hands but belongs to one who is known. I have come to retrieve it, in this.” Khalid drops an empty leather carry bag. “While our mudarris owns this item, he has decided to allow you some compensation for keeping it safe.”
Another s
atchel falls to Khalid’s feet. This one is not empty. Artuk prods it with his walking stick. A multicolored bank note flutters over the edge.
Sienna’s grip on her chains tightens. Not just because a generous offer is being made for her by a motivated buyer. The new guy, Khalid, said “mudarris,” an Arabic term meaning teacher. It is sometimes used as a cover name by despicable evildoers. One in particular. Must be a coincidence. Judging by her bruises and state of dehydration, she’s only been here a few hours. There’s no way Scythe could know where she is.
On the other hand, it looks like she has other fans. The empty bag sports a snowflake-shaped button next to the fancy label. It has a self-chilling cryo mechanism. They sell knock-off versions on late-night shopping channels. These bags are for housewives who want to look stylish. They keep meat and fish cold, even on a hot day. This one looks to be an authentic fashion item. It is just the right size for stashing and delivering a human head. Who would show up so soon with a small fortune and a designer decapitation tote bag?
In his arrogance, Khalid has made a huge mistake. He’s shown the lean, hungry men of the village a bag of money. Artuk and his men surely count it as theirs no matter what happens. If some of them have to die to get it, so be it. The only question is, how much more does Khalid have for the local sand cats to take?
Sienna watches the two men’s feet. Khalid’s boots stand solid, cautiously tense, not jumpy. Artuk shifts his weight from left to right and back again, like he’s uncomfortable with newcomers being so close to the cell holding his most valuable commodity.
If Artuk is the sneak she hopes, he’ll try to move her to increase his negotiating position. Once Khalid finds himself outmanned five or six to one and the package he came for spirited away to some hole in the hills, then the real negotiations will begin. To move her, they’ll have to unchain her. Could be my chance! Greed and violence to the rescue.
Artuk convinces Khalid to have some tea and discuss their business off the common streets. The new guys look intimidating. They are better armed, with at least one crew-serviced heavy weapon. Judging by how the second SUV rides low on its shocks, this could be a .50 cal or a Dushka 1938. Even so, the newbies are at an overwhelming disadvantage.
“You must see the Russian samovar in my son’s house,” Artuk says with pride as he and Khalid walk away. “Its operation is quite complex. As a young man, I asked the general in whose camp I found it to explain its workings more than once before I cut his throat.”
Sienna’s throat feels seriously parched. There is a plastic water bottle next to the disassembled AK. But neither Rasul nor Ghazan have thought to torture her by pretending to offer her a drink not containing urine.
The most pointed of her pains, strangely, is the hard clamping on her wrists. The chains are new. The big shackles are old and encrusted with enough rust to come with a free tetanus shot. Her hands and arms are filthy. She feels worse than barnyard rank. Her befoulment is worthy of that crazy hillbilly Glantzer.
Her injuries are surprisingly minor. Shoulders and back have a good range of motion. After that fall and undoubtedly being handled like a sack of potatoes by her rescuers, she should have ended up in as bad a shape as Roger after Antarctica. Getting away without a major compound break or massive internal bleeding is a huge bonus. All things considered, she should really be ecstatic.
These shackles are her impotence. And that’s what Sienna can stand least of all. She has to find a way out. She tests her bonds. They are tight. Slipping them would mean breaking or gnawing off her thumbs.
And they’ve been good thumbs; no sense getting rid of them now.
Rising heat and the closeness of the cell have worn down Ghazan’s zeal. He must also be pondering the cryptic transaction between Artuk and the new arrivals. Dealings he is not part of. He sits on the bench set into the wall opposite Sienna, idly cleaning the rifle. He’s so far out of his element, Sienna nearly feels sorry for him. Nearly, except for the whole execution video thing he has planned for her. The aspiring director must have been waiting for just the right subject.
Mr. DeMille, I’m not ready for my close up, thank you.
The Chechen, having no specific task to occupy his beefy hands, takes to thinking. This he can’t do without rambling.
“You know how we fix up people in Chechnya?”
Sienna quietly takes measure of her captors.
“We shoot them.”
Bribery? Rasul is greedy, but won’t take risks. The other one? No way. He’s probably rebelling against rich parents.
“We shoot them early.”
Distraction? Can’t start a fire.
“And many, many times.”
Fake illness? They’d only laugh.
“Until they stay fixed up.”
Wait, then. Wait for a mistake or a miracle. Wait and survive.
“Tell me, I forget,” Rasul says with genuine curiosity. “Why is this one still alive?”
“Commander Artuk said keep her,” Ghazan says. “Try to make her talk, but keep her.”
“Maybe he gives me some fun time with her,” Rasul says, looking at her with red-rimmed eyes. “This Colonel Bitch?”
Sienna’s stomach heaves some more as he approaches her with a hideous curiosity.
“What is this stuff on her arms?”
He investigates the only way sensible to him, by digging into her bicep with a bayonet knife. Sienna gains a new sharp pain to go with all the others. Completely awake, she pretends to be groggy. Pretty quickly, the area he’s jabbing at becomes a bloody mess. The would-be surgeon abandons his idea, sensing a more urgent calling. She, on the other hand, is intrigued. Furtively, Sienna looks at her arm closely for the first time since waking. A line of fiber-optic relays seems to be melted into her skin.
The guts of the RAPTEK.
Last time I saw that, it was ON me. Now it’s IN me? Maybe it melted like plastic in a fire.
Unlike scalding from hot metal or blistering from burning body armor—both of which she’s familiar with—these areas of her arms do not hurt at all.
She studies her fingers through swollen, grit-filled eyes. The dim light does not help. Scraps of her gloves hang down. And something else. Something pulses beneath her shackles, underneath the dirt and crusted blood.
That strange fire. The same thing must have happened on her hands as on her arms. More bits of the RAPTEK. Whatever the crud is, she can scrape it off later. Experimentally, she grips and flexes quietly. Bones and tendons are intact, working well enough to press a trigger. She looks greedily at the field-stripped vintage AK and the tantalizingly full magazine next to it. Well maintained, an AK is the workhorse of personal killing machines. Many of them have much longer lives than their successive owners, and they have been notching kills for generations in the hills and plateaus of this place.
The Chechen turns to the far wall. He prepares to urinate. And keeps preparing. He has trouble getting a good stream going. His hip gyrations and whispering to his privates are so morbidly comical Sienna nearly laughs out loud. She stifles a spasm of inappropriate hilarity. This pains her bruised ribs. The ironic jabbing in her midsection only makes her want to laugh more.
Talk about gallows humor, as the Brits say.
Rasul’s persistence pays off. Pee dribbles into the floor gutter. Only a prodded squirt or two actually make it to the cinderblocks. To distract herself, Sienna goes through a more detailed inventory of available weapons, tools, and her injuries. It could come to a close-quarter fight—she should be so lucky. The mechanisms binding her wrists are no more complex than the spring ratchet of a standard handcuff. But she can barely put her hand to her face, much less touch the left shackle’s lock with her right hand. Her mind works furiously. Her arm oozes blood. She remains motionless.
Finally, Rasul gets a good finishing stream going. Droplets, colored dark yellow and green by the lousy
light, splash against his trousers.
Damn, these guys know how to show a girl a good time in a hurry and on a budget.
Rasul pees on the dead mouse and snickers.
Right.
She evaluates her head and neck. Her cheek could have been hit by a baseball bat. Hematoma swelling has levelled off. It affects her vision as much as it’s going to. There is another pain. A cracked jawbone? That could be bad. She’s relieved when one of her back teeth comes loose. She spits. Out it comes with a stringy gob of bright red saliva. It plops into her right palm.
Over by the wall, the Chechen wraps up what seems to have been a thoroughly enjoyable bladder emptying. His boots slosh in muck.
Of the two men, she feels more kinship with the one fiddling with his zipper. His brutality and his aims are unrefined. He has no veneer of ideology besides his pride in his countrymen “fixing people up.” Sienna can’t help thinking this makes him more like her. So she hates Rasul the most. With contempt and a juicy sliver of hate, she flicks her tooth at him.
Here. You knocked it out. Have it.
She aims at the back of his head. At four yards she hardly expects it to hit—
splutch!
As though struck by a cattle-slaughtering bolt gun to the back of his bald scalp, Rasul’s grin explodes in a geyser of gore. What looks like a vapor trail traces back to Sienna’s manacled fist. The body, still standing, twitches for a nerveless moment then collapses into an unsightly heap. The thump Rasul makes greeting the floor is louder than the flight of the molar missile that killed him. Sienna’s forearm, hand, and fingers tingle with energy.
That felt like… like the RAPTEK, but different. Stronger.
25
Ghazan’s features twist into a rictus of horror decorated with pink spray. Aerosol of Chechen brains.