Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  His wrists were burning, but he didn’t stop flexing, relaxing, flexing, relaxing. The rope was starting to loosen. Not much, but it was a start.

  “That may be true,” Swain said, “but I have to be certain, Jack. Especially considering the company you’ve been keeping.”

  “The girl? Just another hunch. I don’t even know her name.”

  “Yet the moment I walked into this room, the first thing you did was ask about her. I could hear the concern in your voice.”

  “She was screaming, for God’s sake! She’s a human being.”

  “An attractive one,” he said. “Though not for much longer. We’re just resting her for act two. Your capacity for empathy is admirable, but you can understand why I have to find out if there’s more to it than that. And then, of course, there’s Operation Roadshow. That’s a very sensitive subject in my world.”

  “What does the woman have to do with it?” Jack asked. Despite what was about to happen, he couldn’t help himself.

  Swain was surprised as well. “You amaze me. Here you are about to feel more pain than I’d wish on any human being—well, almost any—yet you keep asking me questions. At what point do you stop being a reporter?”

  “When I know the truth.”

  Swain nodded. “All right, then. Here’s your truth.”

  He gestured and the thug swung his arms, throwing the bucketful of water, drenching Jack’s hair, his jacket, his shirt, his pants. Then the thug pulled the baton free and flicked a switch in the base. It was an electroshock device. The click was the loudest, most terrible sound Jack had heard since the explosion in Iraq. It even beat the bomb back home because it was all about him.

  He’d heard of the Chinese using these batons against practitioners of Falun Gong, jamming them into their prisoners’ mouths and letting loose as much as 250,000 volts of electricity. It was the torturer’s preferred method because it reportedly didn’t leave telltale marks.

  He worked his wrists urgently, trying to loosen the damn rope. Ironically, the blood from the wounds that caused was helping to soften them. The wriggling was subtle, would look to the other men like anxiety, like panic—if they bothered to look. The room was poorly lit and their eyes were on his face, his pain. It helped that the chair was worn from repeated sessions like this one. Jack guessed that people had fallen over, taking the chair with them. The wood was slightly splintered, the armrests rough, providing an abrasive surface for his purposes. Whether it would be enough to cut through in time, or at all, was another matter.

  “Here’s something that might interest you,” Swain said. “Something you learn by trial and error. You know why we tied you to the armrests?”

  “To keep me from punching you in the balls?”

  “That, yes,” Swain said. “We found that when we tied peoples’ hands behind the chair, they arched their backs and fell over. This way, they kind of crumple in on themselves.”

  “Thanks for sharing…”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “… but you’re wasting your time,” he said to Swain, panic rising in his chest. His rapid breathing helped to cover the tactical back-and-forth, side-to-side motion of his wrists. “I swear to you, I don’t know any—”

  The ape touched the tip of the baton to Jack’s abdomen, letting loose a wave of agony that swept through every bone, every muscle, every blood vessel and nerve ending in his body. It caused his legs to twitch, not kick, an involuntary muscular reaction. He had no control over them, over his bowels, over anything. The closest he had ever come to feeling anything like this was when he accidentally touched the exposed prongs of a plug in the wall. But that had only been an instant of pain. This didn’t stop. This burned every piece of him without letup.

  He gritted his teeth against it; that lasted no more than a second or two.

  Then he began to scream.

  24

  The ape withdrew the baton and Jack’s body went slack, the relief so sweet he wanted to kiss the guy for being merciful.

  He felt strangely weightless. He could barely breathe and his abdomen throbbed. He felt as if a hole had been burned right through it.

  “Operation Roadshow,” Swain said. “Tell me what you know.”

  “… Nothing,” Jack managed, spewing strings of saliva. “Just the name…”

  “You’ll have to do better than that. I’m told Mr. Copeland called you the morning he died. And I can imagine he was quite talkative.”

  Jack shook his head. “He was drunk … drugged … He wasn’t making any sense … talked about a shoe.”

  He added any useless information he could remember, trying to buy time.

  Swain nodded, but clearly didn’t believe him. “Who else did you tell about it? Who are you working with?”

  “No one…”

  “Not even your friend from the yacht harbor? Or the black bird with the nice big neddies? You spend a lot of time with those two. Not that I can blame you in her case.”

  Jack thought of Tony and Max and felt panic rising. “… They’re just friends,” he murmured. “She takes video … he watches my dog … they don’t know anything…”

  “I really wish you’d be more forthcoming.”

  Swain flicked two fingers at the thug and the baton touched Jack’s belly again. Jack wailed, pride gone, dignity evaporated, his body stiffening against the pain as it raced through him. And just when he thought his skin might rupture, the ape pulled the baton away, well-being immediately flowing through him.

  Jack didn’t know how much more of this he could take. Two hits and he was about ready to sign over all of his real estate. His body ached from head to toe, his muscles twitching uncontrollably. He’d completely forgotten about loosening the ropes at his wrists.

  He thought about that poor woman in the other cell, how this was a strangely bonding experience. He realized that if she wasn’t dead, it was a miracle.

  “Anything else you want to share?” Swain asked.

  “I swear to you…” he wheezed, “I don’t know anything.…” Jack didn’t even recognize his own damn voice.

  “Then what are you doing in England, Jack?”

  “A fishing expedition … That’s all … I was … I was…” He thought for a moment he was going to pass out.

  “You were—”

  “Following al-Fida…”

  Swain nodded then flicked his fingers again. Jack tried to brace himself for the impact but there was no preparing for something like this. The baton touched his neck now, and a whole new level of pain shot through him. Flaming fingers reached into his brain, his lungs, rammed down to his stomach. He swore he could feel the shape of his own navel, ringed by fire. He felt himself slipping into darkness, running away to escape this agony.

  Then it was done and a hand slapped his face, keeping him from passing out. He jerked his eyes open and, through the smear of tears, found Swain crouched in front of him.

  “Not as easy as you thought, is it? Playing the crusading journalist. You’d think all those years, working all those wars, would’ve toughened you for this. But all I’m seeing is a weak little wanker about to piss his trousers.”

  “I think … I already … did.…” Jack gasped.

  His arms felt like putty but the cockiness of this son of a bitch pushed the right button. Jack rallied himself and started working his wrists again. If he could just get a hand free, he’d slap this prick so hard it would take a brain surgeon to repair the damage.

  “Last chance, Jack,” Swain said. “Tell me what you know and who you’re working with or my associate here will see to it that your last hour of life on this planet is filled with more pain than you can possibly imagine.”

  “I already told you … I don’t know anything…”

  “I wish I could believe you,” Swain said. “Truly. But I suppose there’s one way to find out.” He paused. “Do you ever watch films, Jack? Go to the cinema?”

  The question was so random that Jack didn’t have a response,
but Swain didn’t seem to expect one.

  “When I was a child,” he continued, “I saw a little English film on the telly about a man who hunted witches. Vincent Price roaming the countryside in search of demonic evil. Very traumatizing for a six-year-old. Witchfinder General, it was called.”

  “Is that you?” Jack asked, trying to buy more time as he worked the ropes. “Shouldn’t that … be … Spookfinder General?”

  “Cute,” Swain said. “I’ll always remember a scene where Price trussed up a woman who vehemently denied practicing witchcraft, and unceremoniously threw her into the river. Told his men, if she survives, she’s a witch. If she drowns, we’ll know she’s telling the truth.” He paused. “Typical British irony, don’t you think?”

  “That’s not the word I’d use,” Jack replied.

  Swain stood, smiling down at him. “No matter. I’m going to take a page from Price’s book. I’m going to stand here, and let my associate do what he does best. And if you die without telling me exactly what I need to know, I’ll have to assume you aren’t a liar after all. So apologies in advance if I’m mistaken. But if I’m not, do be sure to let me know.”

  He stepped back now, leaning against the wall as he nodded to the ape. But then a cell phone rang and Swain put up a finger, stopping him. After all, he couldn’t let Jack’s screams interrupt his call.

  Swain took the phone from his pocket and answered it. “Yes?”

  He listened a moment, then murmured a response and clicked off.

  “Seems I’m being called away,” he told Jack. “Which is a shame, because I felt we were about to come to an understanding. If nothing else, I would have enjoyed the show.”

  He turned to his man and gestured, and the two of them moved to the door and spoke quietly. Jack kept working on the ropes, ignoring the burn in his wrists, and finally, thankfully, felt them give again, offering him even more room. Whether or not it was enough to get a hand free was another question.

  As he continued to work, the two men broke from their huddle and the ape stepped over to him again. With a self-satisfied look, Swain was out the door and gone.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, mate,” said the ape. “And I’m not nearly as agreeable as Mr. Swain.”

  He flicked the switch on the baton.

  “They say these things never leave marks, but if you know how to use them you can cause quite a lot of painful scarring.” His smile widened. “I think most people are put off by the smell of burning flesh, but I’ve always found it invigorating.”

  Events happened quickly. As the baton was lowered toward his crotch this time, Jack screamed and pulled and managed to rip his right wrist free of the rope. His arm swung up, slamming the thug in the side of the head. His muscle coordination was a mess and the blow didn’t land with nearly the power he hoped. But it was enough to throw the guy momentarily off balance.

  Jack was still tied to one of the armrests. That worked in his favor. He got up and swung the chair around hard, and the ape went down like a sack of grain. He lost the baton when he hit the concrete floor. Jack raised the chair high and smashed it down on the bastard’s shoulder, shattering it and freeing his other arm. While the man lay there moaning, Jack recovered the baton.

  He stopped himself from using it. The baton was the ape’s way, it was Swain’s way. He didn’t want to be like them. He threw it down, kicked the ape in the head to make sure he would stay put—that was Jack’s way. Then he crouched and went through the thug’s pockets. He found car keys, a handkerchief, a cell phone, his Hamilton Gilbert, and a wad of folded pound notes—his money, no doubt, taken from him along with the watch while he was passed out. There was no wallet or ID, a sign that someone didn’t want to be identified. If these people really were MI6, Jack had the feeling they were working off the grid.

  There was also no gun, which puzzled Jack. He’d expect a guy like this to carry one, but maybe he preferred his trusty magic wand.

  Jack picked up the passport where Swain had dropped it. He pocketed the watch, phone, bills, and keys. He tore the handkerchief in half and wrapped it loosely around his bloody wrists. He looked for something to tie the ape’s hands, but there was only the man’s shirt. He decided that the time it took to bind and gag the guy was better spent getting the hell out. He gave the ape a parting kick in the ribs and moved to the doorway.

  His escape hadn’t brought anyone coming, and Jack guessed that no one was nearby. He carefully peered into the hall.

  It was too dark to see much of anything.

  Taking the cell phone out, Jack turned it on and shone the beam down the hallway. There were several doors with windows dotting each side and he knew he’d been right, that this was once the psychiatric ward of a hospital. From the run-down look of it, the place had been abandoned at least a couple of decades ago. At the far end was an elevator, a stairwell next to it. A straight line and he’d be down those stairs and out the door, assuming none of Swain’s men tried to block his path.

  But he couldn’t leave without checking on the woman. If she was alive, he needed to get her out of here.

  He moved from door to door, shining the light through the windows, and finally found her in the cell nearest the stairwell. She was tied to a chair, her head hanging forward and canted to one side, her dark hair wet and stringy. Her sweater, shirt, and bra had been stripped away, exposing her naked torso.

  Jack thought he saw movement there, the subtle rise and fall of her bare chest.

  Throwing the door open, he stepped inside, quickly untied her and slapped at her face. “Wake up,” he whispered. “Come on…”

  She didn’t respond.

  He slapped her again, giving it more force than he would have liked, but she finally stirred and blinked up at him with dull, nearly lifeless eyes, not really registering who he was or what he wanted from her.

  Searching the floor, he found her sweater, snatched it up, and quickly pushed it down over her head. Then he shoved her arms into it and pulled her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

  She seemed to understand but her legs were trembling and she stumbled, losing her footing. She fell against him and he held her steady, but his own legs weren’t quite back to normal yet and they swayed together, like a pair of saplings in a storm, her face falling against his neck.

  He felt the heat of her breath. “… Who…?” she croaked. “Who … are you…?”

  “The guy who was following you. Remember?”

  She stiffened slightly, but he pulled her close in the hope of reassuring her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not one of them. I’m a friend.”

  He had no way of knowing if that was true. She could well be a terrorist sympathizer or an extremist herself. But right now she was simply a human being who needed his help, and Jack decided they’d sort out the rest later.

  She started to straighten now, as if she were regaining strength, and he shifted her around, supporting her by the armpits. “We need to get out of here. Can you walk?”

  “I … I think so.…”

  They took a step together toward the door and she stumbled again, but Jack steadied her and kept moving them forward. Then they were out the door and headed toward the stairwell, Jack once again using the cell phone as a weak flashlight. Now that her legs were moving the woman seemed to be regaining even more strength.

  “This probably isn’t the time for introductions,” he said quietly, “but I need to call you something. What’s your name?”

  “Sara,” she told him.

  “Nice to meet you, Sara. My name is—”

  A roar of anger reverberated off the walls as the ape crashed into the hallway behind them. Jack spun around and saw the quick flash of a muzzle—

  The world exploded in gunfire.

  25

  “Down!” Jack shouted, pushing her forward.

  Sara didn’t need any encouragement. She dove toward the stairwell before Jack had managed to douse the cell phone light.

  The good news
: the ape was firing crazily into near darkness, making no attempt to aim—which wasn’t surprising, if he felt anything close to the way Jack did. The guy was running on rage and adrenaline.

  The bad news: he had a gun and Jack didn’t. And a stray bullet didn’t discriminate. Jack had no idea where the gun had come from, but that didn’t really matter much at this point. He also guessed he should have tied the bastard up.

  Hindsight.

  Sara was on her belly and clambering down the stairs, Jack close behind her. As they tumbled onto the landing, he jumped to his feet and pulled her up. They took off running as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them. They hurried down several more flights, occasionally gripping the rusty metal rail, struggling not to fall as the ape thundered down the stairwell after them, shouting in fury.

  One floor, two floors, three floors, four floors—

  —and then they were at the bottom and Sara lost her footing and yelped as her legs flew out from under her. She went sprawling, grunting in pain as she skidded across the dilapidated tile.

  Jack ran after her and pulled her to her feet. “You okay?”

  “I’ll live,” she told him. “Which is more than I could say an hour ago.”

  He thought he detected the faintest hint of gratitude in that remark; it gave his stamina a much-needed shot.

  They heard the ape no more than two floors above. Jack glanced around, trying to get his bearings. It was marginally lighter down here, moonlight coming in through broken windows, and he saw they were in the hospital lobby, about twenty yards behind the reception counter. The place looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane, trash and debris strewn across the floors, the walls and ceiling battered by years of neglect and bad weather.

  The main entrance was twenty yards to the left of the reception counter, at right angles. The doors that once filled the double-wide frame were missing, leaving behind a gaping rectangle, the floor in front of it littered with broken glass. Outside, punctuated by distant street lamps, the pale moonlight shone down on a gravel drive, three cars parked haphazardly near the entrance—two of which he recognized from the attack in the alley.