by T. C. Edge
In such cases, suitable implements to inflict pain would be brought into the room, usually accompanied by a man skilled at wielding them. It would thus change from a prison to a torture chamber. Truly, both functions were served down here. The dried blood that decorated the walls and floor were testament to that.
Right now, however, no such implements of torture were present, nor was any man to use them. Instead, a figure sat slumped in the chair, arms and legs locked in place, head hanging a little forward. He did, however, appear to be conscious, a few mumbled words falling off his tongue, viscous drool dangling from his lips.
Ragan didn’t get a good look at him at first - his face was mostly obscured by his sunken posture. Then Captain Maddox stepped forwards and slapped him in the face, sending spittle to one side.
“Stop your babbling,” Maddox grunted. The man in the chair went still, and slowly - fearfully - lifted up his eyes.
Those eyes - dull brown, narrow and rather too close together - belonged to none other than Captain Quinn of the Crimson Corps. A man who had long hated Ragan, and more latterly attempted to kill him on several separate occasions, almost certainly under the direction of Colonel Slattery.
His face was dirtied by stormwater and grit from lying face down on the streets of Cincinnati, his already crooked nose cut and bleeding and bent even further out of shape by the fall. An already ugly man had made further progress in that regard, a network of burns and scorch marks peppering his face and arms, skin singed by Chloe’s attack.
He stared right at Ragan, eyes dark, lips still quivering slightly as if wanting to mumble, but fearing to do so with Captain Maddox looming above him. He seemed…stricken, somewhat, as though the lightning issued forth by Chloe had temporarily - or permanently - frazzled his brain.
The sight gave Ragan some hope, which was a rather cruel thought, though one now forced upon him by the instinct of self preservation. Perhaps, he wondered, Quinn had only mentioned Ragan in babbling form thus far? Perhaps his testimony and recital of events could be discounted?
Clutching at straws, maybe. But Ragan had little else to go on.
“I can see that you know each other,” said Wexley, studying the staring match between Ragan and his fellow Crimson Corps soldier. He moved over to Captain Quinn, whose eyes shot up to him as he approached. Wexley spoke gently, leaning down and setting a hand to Quinn’s arm. “Now, you know this man, don’t you?”
Quinn’s eyes darted to Ragan. He nodded.
Shit.
“Now tell me, how do you know him?”
Ragan frowned, set his jaw, and stared directly at Quinn. Clearly, he’d barely told them anything so far. Please, Ragan’s expression said, don’t reveal anything more. Don’t do this, Quinn…
Quinn looked at Ragan, though gave no indication that he took any meaning from his expression. His eyes were flat, and not like their usual self. Back at base, Quinn would commonly regard Ragan with a mixture of contempt and envy. They’d never gotten along, largely due to Ragan’s position and importance among the corps, and his lead role in the Hunt for Chloe Phantom. An older, more experienced man like Quinn found it hard to reconcile being subordinate to a man of just twenty three.
Over the last week, that deepest dislike must only have grown stronger. Quinn was just the type who might be happy to kill Ragan and his crew even without Colonel Slattery’s consent.
Really, he was the worst person for the CID to have taken in. If he was in his right mind, he’d take great pleasure in seeing Ragan found out and executed.
If…
Captain Quinn took a little time to speak. A bit of coaxing from Captain Maddox helped in that regard, the chin-scarred man administering another fierce slap across the face, before gripping his hair tight, tugging his head back, and forcing his eyes on Ragan.
“How do you know this man?” Maddox growled. “Answer the Commander immediately!”
Quinn’s eyes fell behind a shadow, his eyebrows falling as he looked directly at Ragan.
“They’re all dead,” he whispered, voice distant. “All…but me.”
Maddox and Wexley shared a look. Wexley nodded to the man.
“Your men?” growled Maddox, tugging at Quinn’s hair, drawing his eyes to his own. “Yes, they are all dead,” he said bitterly. “All of them burned by lightning back in Cincinnati. Who are those men. Who are you? Answer!”
Wexley drew back a step, leaving Quinn in Captain Maddox’s hands. He seemed to want to let things play out, hand Quinn over to the more violent man, then perhaps step in and coax out the information more gently. Classic good cop, bad cop.
Ragan watched on, tense. When Quinn didn’t answer immediately, he decided to get a few words of his own in.
“Commander, I don’t know this man,” he said, as earnestly as he could. He looked at Quinn with pitying eyes and shook his head. “He’s clearly…not in his right mind.”
Ragan felt a jolt in his side as one of the Panthers thrust an elbow into his flank. He lost air, then gulped to replenish his stocks, flashing the soldier a glare.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” said the Panther with a grunt. He had similar eyes to Captain Maddox - disdainful, almost disgusted. These men really hated him.
Wexley looked again at Maddox, who pulled at Quinn’s hair and drew a knife. He placed it to Quinn’s neck, drawing a faint red line.
“You want me to make you even prettier?” Maddox growled. He leaned in, voice a tight, threatening whisper. “Who are you?”
Quinn grimaced at the feel of the knife slicing skin.
“I…I…” He trailed off.
“Bah!” growled Maddox. He pulled the knife away, then threw a heavy fist across Quinn’s face, rattling his jaw and dislodging teeth. “That’ll jog your memory.”
Quinn spat blood, lips curling to reveal crimson-stained teeth. The punch had seemed to rouse something in him. Ragan had never known Captain Quinn to be a man to take anything lying down. He looked directly at Maddox, and sent a spray of blood into his face. The Panther roared and lunged forward with his knife, aiming for Quinn’s throat in a stabbing motion.
“Captain!” bellowed Wexley, stopping the man in his tracks, arm fixed in midair. Maddox lifted his eyes, seething, breathing heavily. He gradually lowered his knife-wielding arm, and then he stepped away, wiping his blood-stained face.
Wexley took his place instead, shaking his head like some rebuking teacher dealing with unruly students. He moved in and placed a hand once more to Quinn’s person, resting it this time on his shoulder. He leaned in and smiled - he could smile, but mostly when done so artificially to portray an appropriate expression.
In this case, he was trying to show sympathy.
“You said earlier that you knew Ragan Hunt,” he said softly, drawing Quinn’s narrow eyes. “All we want to know is how. Who do you work for, my friend? Tell me, and I’ll be lenient with you. Tell me not, and I won’t hold my soldiers back.” He glanced at Captain Maddox, seething to one side, knife brandished menacingly.
Quinn looked at Ragan again, held fast by the two Panthers by the door. Ragan could do nothing but hope now. Hope for Quinn’s temporary madness to endure, his befuddled mind to stay confused and clogged up.
If he had his wits about him, surely he’d give Ragan up? He’d been chasing him for days now, trying to kill him for goodness sake. What would stop him from enjoying this final victory, seeing Ragan’s eyes change as he revealed the full truth of his perfidy.
Wexley pressed again, staying gentle and calm. He continued to whisper quietly, softly, trying to draw some answer from Quinn’s lips.
Eventually, Quinn’s voice came again, mumbling into the room.
“I…my men are dead,” he said. He stammered. “All are dead…and we have failed.”
He shook his head, eyes turning down. Wexley lifted his chin.
“You were trying to find the data, weren’t you?” he asked calmly. “You were there for Mikel…in Cincinnati?”
Quinn’s head lowered. It seemed like a nod. Wexley took it as such.
“And yet, you attempted to kill this man, Ragan Hunt,” Wexley went on. “I wonder why that is?”
Quinn lifted his eyes to Ragan, bloody drool dripping from his lips. He stared at him - just stared - and did nothing else.
Wexley’s expression grew exasperated. He lifted a hand to gesture Captain Maddox back over.
The captain stepped forward, knife still grasped to his hand. He shared a look with Wexley, who gave him some non-verbal order, dipping his chin and looking down at Quinn’s right arm with a slow blink.
Immediately, Maddox went to work, slamming the knife down into Quinn’s flesh. It pierced through the bicep, arm clamped down in place. Quinn let out a muted roar, body quivering, eyes widening in shock and pain. Slowly, surely, Maddox began turning the knife, several inches of it buried into Quinn’s flesh.
Ragan could almost hear it scraping on bone, its serrated edge scratching as it turned. Quinn’s eyes weren’t dull any longer. An intense pain poured from them, though he refused to bellow and scream. He gritted his teeth, clamping his jaw shut, staring right at the floor.
“Come on, just speak,” whispered Wexley, still hovering nearby. “We know you know this man.” He pointed to Ragan. “Tell us who Ragan Hunt is to you, and we’ll set you free. I have no interest in you, my friend. I only want to get to the truth of what my agent has been up to.”
Wexley turned to Ragan with a narrow, distrustful glare. How much was Ragan showing on his face? He’d lost focus - that sudden stab to Quinn’s arm had seen to that. Had he shown his colours now? Had he proven beyond all doubt that he and Quinn knew each other, purely by the look on his damned face?
He recomposed himself, feeling a terrible stab of pity for Quinn. The knife turned a little more, opening up his flesh. A lower rumble of agony fled up his throat and slipped through his thin lips. Yet still, he didn’t speak.
But why? Was he truly lost in there, in his head? Or was there something else at play? A man like Quinn had been taught to withstand torture. Maybe all he was doing was defending the Crimson Corps and Project Dawn, as he was sworn to do. Maybe this wasn’t about Ragan at all, but about something much bigger?
The answers, if they came, were beyond Ragan’s control. All he could do was stand there, wrists tied behind his back, and watch as Captain Maddox set about his torture; twisting the knife, drawing it in and out, scraping the tip along the bone. And all the while, Wexley whispered questions, soft words in Quinn’s ear to counter the searing pain in his flesh.
But nothing came from Quinn. Nothing but mumbles of distress and pain and random words. Words of failure and death; of his friends, his brothers. He shook his head, and blinked his eyes, and became increasingly incoherent, until Wexley stepped back, sighing, and moved over towards the door where Ragan stood.
“You truly don’t know this man?” he asked.
Ragan stared at Quinn, hating himself. He shook his head.
“Are you certain of that, Hunt? You can save him, you know. You can stop his pain, even if he won’t do so himself.”
Ragan knew that wasn’t true. Quinn was never leaving this place, no matter what Wexley said. He would die down here in the subterranean levels of this building. It pained Ragan to think it, but there was no need for him to join him. He had to deny knowledge of the man. He needed to do it, not for himself, but to fall into Wexley’s favour once more, if only to a small degree. To make certain that his old commander took the necessary measures to find, and destroy, the MSA’s secret facility.
So he continued to shake his head. There was nothing else he could do.
“I don’t know him,” he whispered, as if he didn’t want Quinn to hear. “He must have been there for Mikel. We just…got in their way.”
Wexley pursed his lips, thinking.
“Strange that he mentioned you before, then,” he murmured.
“Not that strange, sir,” said Ragan. “I’m known to several security networks. And my recent behaviour has made me somewhat notorious around here.” He glanced at the Panthers, regarding him contemptuously.
Wexley nodded slowly.
“Perhaps,” he whispered. “But something isn’t adding up here, Hunt.”
“Sir,” said Ragan firmly. “This…is a waste of time. You’re trying to find something that isn’t there. Is it so hard to believe that I made a few mistakes? I’m here now, sir. I’m here to help you find the data.”
“And destroy it,” added Wexley with a pointed look. “If what you’ve told me is true, there’s no retrieving the data anymore. It’s out of our grasp. We can only destroy it now.”
“Yes,” said Ragan, trying to sound solemn. “Unfortunately, I fear that that’s the case. Have your intelligence officers made any progress yet? In finding any secret facility?”
Wexley regarded him carefully.
“Not yet,” he said. “We are dealing with huge areas, without much direction. I’m loathe to trusting you, still,” he grumbled, “and adding further resources to the search by virtue of your word alone. President Rashmore won’t like it if he finds out.”
“With all due respect, sir, President Rashmore has no business interfering with military and intelligence matters of this nature. He’ll only slow things down.”
“Perhaps,” said Wexley. “But I’m not about to circumvent his authority either.” He turned his eyes over towards Maddox, still torturing Captain Quinn with an unpleasant expression of joy on his face.
Did the man like doing this? What sort of person got pleasure from such a thing?
By now, Quinn’s arm was half-severed, his head rolling weakly, eyes falling shut. Blood was drenching the left side of the chair and dripping into pools on the floor. Quinn’s mumbling had turned all but mute, blood drooling from the corners of his mouth.
I’m sorry, Quinn, Ragan thought, barely able to watch. I’m so sorry.
“All right, Captain, that’ll do,” called Wexley.
Maddox stopped and looked up, casually drawing his knife from Quinn’s ragged flesh.
“Sir?”
“I said that’s enough. We’ve confirmed what we needed. Dispose of him quickly. There’s no sense in tormenting the man any further, and we’re not going to get anything out of him.”
“But Commander…I may yet…”
“I said dispose of him,” grunted Wexley. “I’ve heard what I needed to hear.”
Maddox scowled, though didn’t speak again. Wexley turned to the Panthers to Ragan’s sides.
“Unchain him,” he said to them. They frowned, but didn’t disobey or question the order.
Ragan’s wrists were unbound. He drew them up, rubbing the skin.
“You two,” Wexley said, looking at the Panthers. “You’re his shadow.” He referenced Ragan. “You’re never to be more than ten feet from him, OK?”
The men nodded.
“And me, sir?” asked Captain Maddox from across the room.
“See to this man,” Wexley said. “Then join us in the command centre. It seems we have important work that needs doing.”
As they ventured off up the corridor, Ragan breathed out a sigh of relief. He’d dogged a bullet, and Captain Quinn had taken it. Now, he had to figure out just what he was going to do next.
87
Chloe sat with the dim light of the falcon to her back, cup in her hand, Nadia to her side.
The plains outside were barren, vast, endless. The sky was a canvas of deepest black, lit with a sea of stars and a bright, vibrant moon, shimmering and twinkling overhead. There was no wind, no breeze, the night silent but for the clicking of insects, the occasional hoot of a distant owl. A calming setting to end a hectic, terrible day.
And the whisky - Tanner’s whisky - was helping too.
The falcon sat far from any semblance of civilisation, its door open. The girls sat there, feet dangling over the edge to the scrubland floor, looking out in silence. It had been many hours
now since they’d patched up Tanner’s face, though Nadia did most of the work.
His nanites would now be working hard to close and heal the wounds, a process the girls had no control over. They could only sit, and wait, and hope for the best. With regards Tanner. With regards Ragan. With regards this whole damned mess.
Chloe lifted her cup to her lips and sank a sip. The whisky didn’t burn. Not after two rounds. It drifted down her throat, calming her further. Nadia grabbed the bottle and offered a refill. Chloe didn’t refuse.
She sighed, setting her cup back down, her thoughts taken off in so many directions. Once, not so long ago, her life had been more simple than this. Run, hide, escape. Keep on moving, and don’t get caught.
Not a great life, granted, but a simple one. Just her and Remus against the world. It was a life that had no end in sight, no real resolution. But one that offered few highs and lows compared to the one she’d now stepped into.
Her thoughts were split. They settled largely on Ragan, somewhere out there, most likely back in New York. She had no way of contacting him. No way of knowing if he was alive or dead, if his plan had succeeded or failed.
She could only sit and ponder and speculate, and merely hope for the best. Hope wasn’t a word she liked. Her life on the run had been in her hands. If she screwed up, and got caught, that would be her fault, and no one else’s. She had no one to think about, nothing to do but stay alive, stay safe, stay hidden.
No longer.
She thought, too, of Tanner. How would he look when they took the bandaging off? How well would his nanites heal him? Would he be as scarred as Chloe feared? How would he react upon seeing his face, once so handsome, now so deformed? She felt heartbroken at that thought, and had to turn away from it.
It spoke volumes that her thoughts centred mainly on the two men and their safety, and not the larger threat, the bigger picture. She’d barely spared a moment imagining just what was being done right now to combat this burgeoning threat in the MSA. She thought of Mikel, yes, but those thoughts were of hatred and revenge. The grander scale, the great threat to the world that was brewing in the north, hardly registered.