by Carl Bowen
Following the jumpmaster’s pointed finger, Brighton located a tiny clearing a few hundred yards from the bank of the muddy river below. From its center, a small infrared beacon blinked. That was the signal the Colombians’ advance team had set up to guide Brighton to them.
It was visible only via night-vision equipment from above, thankfully. Brighton didn’t want to land amidst a team of armed hostiles.
Clearing his thoughts, Brighton readied himself to jump. From this height, it was going to be tricky hitting the bull’s-eye on the clearing, but he wasn’t worried. A pre-dawn precision jump into heavy jungle was nothing compared to having to deal with drug-dealing guerillas shooting at you. So, with a well-trained and fully confident mind, he awaited the signal.
“Go!” the jumpmaster yelled. A moment later, Brighton hurled himself out the door and into the darkness. The elation of his first few seconds of free-fall made Brighton’s head swim. Skydiving had always thrilled him, ever since his first tandem jump with his father at age fifteen. He loved to let the thrill of the descent fill his mind as the earth soared up toward him. But this time, he allowed himself only a few fleeting moments of joy before he let his training take over.
Brighton spread his arms and legs to right himself in the air and maximize wind resistance. Then he checked the altimeter and GPS device mounted on his wrist. Finally he shifted in the air until he located the target beacon with his goggles once more.
The easy, gradual turn gave him a good opportunity to observe the lay of the land. With his eyes, he traced the many river inlets and outlets, memorizing the few landmarks he could make out with his night-vision mask. When he was low enough, he opened his chute.
Brighton bent himself into a wide downward spiral. He was confident that would put him within ten yards of the clearing, if not dead center. Easily, in fact. The tricky part, however, was the actual landing. All of Brighton’s gear made him heavy under the chute.
As expected, Brighton managed to hole-in-one the small clearing. But when he hit the muddy ground, the extra weight made him stumble. A gust of wind pushed his chute into the branches overhead. Brighton was forced to leave it dangling for a moment to set down his secondary pack and squirm out of his rigging. Standard procedure was to bury his jump gear after landing in order to minimize the chances that enemy forces would discover his intrusion. He had just opened his pack to grab his shovel when he heard several pairs of boots squelching through the mud.
Brighton saw a group of eight men in old-school camouflage uniforms emerge from the jungle shadows. They were ragged, hard-looking men. To Brighton, they looked more like hardened special forces troops than policemen. And they all looked like they were quite a bit older than Brighton, though that could just be due to the wear and tear of years of combat experience.
“Hey, fellas,” Brighton greeted them in Spanish. “Could you have picked a smaller clearing for my landing? I could almost see this one from the sky.”
“You’re the one Gaitan sent?” the one closest to Brighton asked. He had the gravelly voice of a lifetime smoker.
Brighton nodded. The man said nothing, but instead signaled to another soldier behind Brighton’s back.
“Give me a sec to set up my radio,” Brighton said. “If one of you could pull that chute down and bury it for me, I’d appreciate it.”
Brighton knelt beside his pack. He’d just opened the waterproof flap and turned up the whip antenna when a man came up behind him. Without thinking, Brighton handed the folded-up shovel over his shoulder.
“Here you go,” Brighton said. “I appreciate the help —”
Fifty thousand volts of electricity surged into Brighton from between his shoulder blades. Every nerve and muscle in his body blazed with pain. Brighton collapsed in a heap. He felt like he had no control over his own body.
He had endured this exact sensation before during his training. Otherwise, he wouldn’t even have known what had just happened. But in the back of his mind, far from the pain, Brighton understood he’d been zapped with a stun gun.
No sooner had Brighton come to this realization than he received another jolt. Brighton tried to yell, but his mouth wouldn’t open. His teeth were clenched shut due to the muscles spasming through his entire body. While Brighton lay gasping, one of the Colombians turned him over onto his back. The rest of the soldiers gathered around to look at him. One of them held the flashing IR beacon in his hand. At this close range, its intense glare stung Brighton’s eyes through his night-vision mask.
A man knelt in front of him. He held the stun gun up where Brighton could see it. “He’s still conscious,” the man said, sneering. He lowered the stun gun toward Brighton again.
It’s not a knockout wand, man, Brighton thought. But he was in too much pain to move, let alone speak. Fortunately, one of the other soldiers grabbed the stun gun out of the man’s hand before he could zap Brighton again.
“Stop playing around,” a voice said. Brighton glanced up to see the butt of an M16 assault rifle just as it came down hard on his night-vision mask. Brighton saw stars and heard the sickening sound of shattering glass at once.
Then he fell into total darkness.
* * *
When Brighton finally regained consciousness, he had no idea how long he’d been out. It could have been hours. Or even days. It probably wasn’t days, but Brighton had no way of knowing.
The only thing Brighton knew for sure was that his head felt like it had been split open. A heavy, blinding throb emanating from above his right eye pounded in time with his pulse.
That would be where the Colombian smashed me in the face with the butt of that M16, he realized.
As his senses returned, Brighton scanned the area to take stock of his situation. Turning his head gingerly on his stiff neck, he saw that he was inside a large ten-by-ten room on top of a concrete slab. It had a corrugated metal roof and walls.
The air was filled with jungle humidity, and the room lacked any sort of ventilation. What the room did have was bright lights on the ceiling and on the wall in front of him. They shined right in his face. Brighton could also hear a generator rumbling behind one of the walls. He tried to raise a hand to shield his aching eyes from the glare. But when his hand didn’t move, he realized his wrists had been handcuffed to the chair he was sitting in.
The old dentist chair was upholstered in cracked, faded vinyl. As he glanced down at his ankles, he noticed they were cuffed to the footrest sticking out in front of him. His boots and socks were gone.
“FARC,” Brighton grumbled.
There was no question he’d been captured by the very same FARC rebels that Shadow Squadron and the Colombian government were working together to bring down. The only real question was what the guerillas who’d captured him had done to the real joint military and police task force. They were supposed to meet Brighton at the drop point. The fact that the FARC guerillas had been waiting around the IR beacon for Brighton implied that much. And the fact that they’d mentioned Major Gaitan by name proved that Brighton’s capture hadn’t been a result of dumb bad luck.
Brighton figured that someone on the advance team was a traitor. That person could have easily warned the rebels about Operation: Nexus. But the sinister feel of the room in which Brighton found himself suggested that FARC had probably used torture to extract the information.
And Brighton fully expected that he would be next. As if on cue, Brighton heard a door open behind him. A Colombian man slowly walked around him into view. He wore clean olive-drab fatigues, rubber gloves, and a baby-blue surgical mask. Only his eyes were visible beneath the brim of his hat. He was writing a note in a small, spiral-bound notepad when he noticed that Brighton was awake. The man tucked his pad and a pen into his hip pocket and checked Brighton’s pulse. Then he prodded gingerly at the lump over Brighton’s right eye. Brighton eyed him warily through his examination. The man said nothing.
“Can I get some water?” Brighton asked.
The Colombian still said nothing. “Maybe a sandwich? I’d name some names for a Philly cheese steak right about now.”
The Colombian stood up, then walked behind Brighton toward the entrance without a word.
“And get me some aspirin when you come back,” Brighton called out. “My head is killing me.”
The door opened behind Brighton, then quickly closed. “All right, take your time,” Brighton said. “Think about it.”
Another ten minutes or so went by. Then the door opened and several sets of feet shuffled inside. Nobody came around into Brighton’s field of view at first, but he heard them moving around behind him. Someone kept making trips in and out. The person’s breathing was strained by carrying something heavy.
It took a couple of repetitions before Brighton figured out what it was. Someone was carrying in heavy plastic carboys full of water, like the ones that plugged into the top of office watercoolers. By Brighton’s count, they brought in a total of six containers. When that was done, someone dragged in a rolling cart then shut the door. Only then did the visitors finally come into Brighton’s line of sight.
On his right came the same Colombian who Brighton had seen before. Now the gloves and mask were gone, but the pen and pad were still in his pocket. He wore a stethoscope around his neck and held an ophthalmoscope in his hand. The man leaned over Brighton and used the opthalmoscope to peer into his eyes. Then he checked Brighton’s heartbeat and breathing with the stethoscope. Not once did the man’s eyes meet Brighton’s.
Behind the “doctor” stood two more Colombians wearing camo fatigues. Brighton recognized them from the clearing in the jungle. One of them was the guy who’d zapped him with the stun gun. The other was the one who’d knocked him out with the rifle.
“Hey, man,” Brighton said to the man examining him. “Where’s my aspirin?”
Someone else came up on Brighton’s left. “Good morning,” the voice chirped.
Brighton was quite surprised by the voice. For one thing, the speaker used English with a Spanish accent. Brighton wasn’t all that great with languages, but he was pretty sure the speaker was Mexican, not Colombian. That almost certainly meant she was on loan to the FARC guerillas from the Sinaloa drug cartel in Mexico.
More good news, Brighton thought sarcastically. That means she’s experienced — and a hired professional.
Yet Brighton was more surprised that the speaker was a woman. As she stepped into view, Brighton saw that she appeared to be in her mid-thirties and in excellent physical shape.
“My name is Morgan Saenz,” the woman said. “I represent the Sinaloa cartel.”
Brighton grimaced. I hate being right all the time, he thought.
The woman pushed a steel tray on a rolling metal cart up to the side of Brighton’s chair, then stood next to it. A white hotel-style hand towel covered a handful of mysterious lumps on the tray. Her fingers danced over them while she looked Brighton right in the eyes.
“It doesn’t concern me that you know my name, young man,” Saenz said. “Let that explain to you the situation you are in. It doesn’t matter how much information you learn about me or our operation here. That is because you’ll never have an opportunity to reveal it to anyone.”
“Why’s that?” Brighton asked despite knowing the answer perfectly well.
“Because we’re going to kill you,” Saenz said flatly. “Only the circumstances of your death are up to you. If you answer my questions freely and in detail, I’ll see to it that you drift off to peaceful sleep and never wake up. If you resist me at first but eventually break down and cooperate, I’ll reward you with a large-caliber bullet through the head. An equally quick death, if not so peaceful.”
Saenz paused a moment for effect and stood in front of Brighton’s chair. The harsh lights on the wall behind her cast her face in shadow. It made a halo of light shine through her long, black, shining hair. Brighton had to admit that it was an intimidating sight.
“But listen carefully, though, to what will happen if you test my patience,” Saenz told him. She leaned over and gripped the arms of Brighton’s chair. She put her face right in front of his. “I fully expect you to resist at first. I wouldn’t respect you if you didn’t. But if you keep it up too long, I will punish you. If you still refuse to cooperate, your punishment will get worse. Eventually, there will come a point when I’m no longer interested in your cooperation.”
Saenz stood back, then paused. She placed her hands on her hips, and said, “When that happens, I’m going to see to it that you die in more pain than you can possibly imagine. Nothing you say or do can save you at that point. Even if you try to cooperate, I won’t change my mind. Do you understand?”
“You’re making yourself pretty clear,” Brighton said quietly.
“Good,” Saenz said. She slowly stood. “Now, this will be your best opportunity to start talking. Do you have anything to say?”
“Yeah, actually,” Brighton replied. “For an evil person, you’re pretty hot.”
Saenz shook her head in disappointment. “Oh well,” she said with a sigh. “It was your opportunity to waste.”
Brighton gave his best attempt at a shrug. “I got to be me,” he said with a grin.
Saenz looked over to the doctor and the two FARC guerillas behind Brighton. At a nod from her, the doctor pulled down the back of Brighton’s chair. Brighton now lay on his back staring up at the harsh lights on the ceiling. He struggled against his restraints and tried to pull himself back upright, but he couldn’t move. He could only watch helplessly as the camouflage-clad guerillas shifted behind him.
Saenz lifted the hand towel from her tray and handed it to the doctor, who came around to the top of Brighton’s chair. The doctor wrapped the towel around Brighton’s face. He fastened the towel in place and stepped back. The guerillas moved forward.
When Brighton heard the sound of sloshing water, he realized what was about to happen. He took a deep breath. A second later, the guerillas popped the valve in the top of the plastic carboy they carried between them and upended the whole jug over Brighton’s head.
The water was shockingly cold. It immediately soaked the towel over Brighton’s face, turning it into an icy hand clamping down over his mouth and nose.
The water came down and down and down, threatening to go on longer than Brighton could hold his breath. It ran up his nose and would have made him panic if he hadn’t been expecting it. Fortunately, the water in the carboy ran out before he had to breathe again. His lungs burned, but he made it through the first torrent without freaking out and filling his lungs with water.
“Are you new at this, or something?” Brighton asked, spitting out water and trying not to gasp. “You’re supposed to ask me some questions before you waterboard me.”
“That was just a demonstration,” Saenz said as she picked something up off the metal tray beside the chair. “I want you to understand that we’re not opposed to hurting you.”
“I’ll remember that if you ever do hurt me,” Brighton joked. That comment got a chuckle out of Saenz, which Brighton considered a small victory.
“Our purpose is to gather information,” Saenz said. “The soldier we brought here before you — the one you were supposed to meet, in fact — was not very helpful to us before he died.”
“I wondered how you guys got the drop on me so fast,” Brighton said. Behind him, he heard the guerillas picking up and opening another water carboy. Still flat on his back, Brighton listened for sound cues that they were about to dump it on him so that he’d know when to hold his breath.
“You know I’m not going to talk, though, right?” Brighton said.
“Not at first,” Saenz said. “But do remember what I said about resistance. A stubborn waste of my time will be punished severely. So, let’s start simply with some control questions. W
hat is your name, what branch of the American military do you represent, and what is your rank?”
Brighton took a moment to collect his thoughts and prepare himself for what was coming. In his torture-resistance training, his instructor had taught him to think of something he loved that made him happy. By holding onto that thought, the pain was easier to manage. For Brighton, that thought was the superhero comic books he read every chance he got.
Brighton grinned. “My name is Bruce Banner,” he said. “And you’re starting to make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”
Saenz frowned. She gestured to the men behind Brighton. Instantly, a gallon of water came down on him. Thankfully he heard the carboy slosh, so he was able to get a small breath in before any water hit him. He expected it to go on like it had before, but it stopped suddenly and the guerillas backed off.
Brighton expected the question to be repeated, but Saenz had another idea. She hit the trigger on a stun gun and let the electricity sizzle for a second so Brighton could identify the sound.
He didn’t even have time to struggle before Saenz turned the crackling weapon on him, touching his left thigh just above the knee. She only did it for a second, but it was more than enough.
The second she stopped, the guerillas poured out water again. This time, Brighton had no way to hold his breath. Wracked with pain by the stun gun, his body instinctively tried to breathe. He sucked in water instead. His body immediately switched to panic mode. His mind began to scream that he was drowning, drowning, drowning!
It was all Brighton could do to force himself not to breathe in or out. He just locked his chest muscles and willed himself not to cough, not to gag, not to cry out. He forced himself just to hold on and ride out the pain as best he could. Fortunately the second rush of water stopped as quickly as the first one had. He held his breath another couple of seconds just to be sure, then sucked in an icy, wet lungful of water that made him cough and choke.
“Perhaps you misunderstood the question,” Saenz said. Brighton’s heart was beating so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear her. “What is your name, what branch of the military do you represent, and what is your rank?”