seven

They’d headed on out towards the southwest, driving for several hours with one stop to buy supplies, although Tommy-Lee hadn’t known much about that; he was sleeping off his bender in the back surrounded by half a dozen or so sealed cardboard boxes and a shrink-wrapped pallet of bottled water. The first he’d really known was when they’d pulled up in the middle of the night in this nowhere place, surrounded by a silence so intense it was almost painful on the ears.

Bill and the skinny geek had unloaded the supplies, which included some prepacked pants, underclothes, and shirts for Tommy-Lee, along with the water and juice and a crate of canned food and some fresh fruit. The cardboard boxes, he noted, had remained outside. That done, the two had wandered off to check out the area, Paul explaining that they needed to make it secure. While they did that, he’d shown Tommy-Lee the layout of a small building that, from the smell of oil, he’d figured had once been some kind of workshop.

It was tight on space inside, mostly because of two beds and not much else apart from the supplies. But the sight of the handcuffs on one of the beds had done a whole lot to sober him up, and he’d listened carefully to Paul’s instructions. Shit, this was for real!

The prisoner, Paul had said, was coming in the following day. He would be dropped off and handcuffed to the bed, and under no circumstances was he to be allowed free except for when he wanted to use the latrine bucket or to wash himself—and even then with one ankle restraint in place. He’d leave a key, of course, once the man was delivered and secured. The sedative he’d been administered would keep him quiet for a good while, and other than dripping water into the man’s mouth every hour or so to keep him hydrated, all Tommy-Lee had to do was let him come to when he was good and ready.

Then they would be back.

“I got it,” Tommy-Lee had muttered. “Secure at all times. I know the procedure.”

“Good.” Paul had nodded. “You are also to stay in here with him. No going outside, even under cover of darkness. There are farmers here and occasional passing traffic, so you sleep, eat, and drink inside.” He’d paused for a couple of beats and stared hard with eyes bright as a buzzard Tommy-Lee had once seen in a wildlife center. “To make sure, I’m going to lock the door from the outside. But you’ll be okay with that, right?”

“Sure.” Actually he wasn’t, because even with his background he hated being locked up. Didn’t matter that it was a wooden box he could probably bust out of if he had a mind. But no way was he going to say that to this guy.

“And I need your cell phone.”

“Say what?” Tommy-Lee didn’t exactly have a busy address book of people he liked to touch base with, but the idea of handing over his cell came as a surprise.

“You’ll get it back, I promise. It’s just a precaution. In any case, out here there’s no signal.”

Tommy-Lee shrugged, suddenly too tired to argue. “Sure. Why not?” He handed it over. Battery was near dead, anyway. He’d left the charger at Dougie’s place. He’d probably sold it on eBay by now.

“Good. Any questions?”

He shook his head. Truth was, he had a whole lot of them, mostly about who the prisoner really was and what was going to happen to him aside from being locked up in this shitty box. But with the look Paul was giving him he didn’t figure it would be a good idea to ask. He also wanted to point out that there was a whole ton of laws about kidnapping and taking a person across state lines and probably even more about messing with military brownnosers. But that, too, could wait.

“No. Everything’s cool.”

Now the smell of fear and piss was hanging off the man on the bed like a cloak. It was humiliation, the first part of a process Tommy-Lee had learned in Iraq a long time ago while interrogating insurgents. He’d been good at it, too. Had gotten himself a good rep for making prisoners talk, even when they didn’t want to. Some had said he was the best there was. But that was before one of the inmates had gone and died on him and an investigations commission had brought the roof down on his head.

He spat on the floor and stepped over to the other bed, hunkering down so that his eyes were on the same level as the prisoner’s. Time to earn his money. He was holding the hunting knife in front of him so the man on the bed could see it clearly, and he smiled at the way the guy’s eyes went wide and wild like a cow about to be slaughtered. It was another part of the process: the threat of imminent punishment.

The man was making grunting noises and shaking his head, and Tommy-Lee watched, fascinated, as he tried to shrink his body away through the wall behind him. It was a reaction he’d seen and enjoyed countless times before; the response to absolute power over another human being. He reached for the bottle of water and dribbled some across the man’s face, deliberately hitting his eyes and nose. More grunting noises, this time high-pitched like he was about to explode.

Not quite water-boarding, Tommy-Lee knew, but the threat was the same. Block up a man’s nose and mouth and they can feel death sitting right there on their shoulder, waiting to take over.

He waited for the man to go still, then reached over and ripped the tape away, taking some skin and stubble with it. He held the knife right in front of the man’s eyes so he could see it close up, see his own shit-scared reflection in the blade’s shiny surface.

“Be still,” he cautioned and was surprised at how good it felt to actually speak in this tiny airless space; how clear and commanding his voice sounded. “I’ll give you a drink, cross my heart. And I’ll take off the cuffs so you can piss and wash yourself. But first you have to know something that might just save your life. You listening to me?”

Another part of the process: the offer of potential release. Didn’t matter how tough a man thought he was, how committed or brain-washed by hate or politics or religion or arrogance; they all wanted to grab a hold on life. On freedom.

The man nodded and went still.

“First thing is, you should know that there’s a bunch of ragheads out there who I think want to do bad things to you.”

The man’s lips parted and a noise came out, but it was unintelligible, a croak through dry vocal chords and a gummy mouth.

Tommy-Lee held up a finger. “Don’t speak. Just listen. If we get along here, and you cooperate, everything will be just fine.” He dribbled more water over the man’s lips and averted his head when he choked and coughed, spraying the liquid into the air. “Easy, pal,” he said softly. “You gotta calm down. Spit on me again and I’ll leave you to go dry. Hear me?”

Another eager nod, this time with eyes fixed on the water bottle in Tommy-Lee’s hand. The man’s tongue flicked out, fissured with dehydration, and dragged itself across cracked lips.

“Please.” The word was squeezed out, the whisper no louder than a breath of air.

Tommy-Lee tilted the water bottle, slowly this time, so the man didn’t convulse or choke. Last thing he needed was for the guy to die on him before Paul and his pals got back. A dead body would probably get him nothing but a whole lot of trouble he didn’t want.

Ragheads. As the description entered his head, he wondered for the first time why his subconscious kept seeing those words. Then it hit him. On the way here from Kansas City, the men in front had barely spoken to each other. But just once, through the alcoholic haze that had taken him in and out of sleep, he’d heard some vaguely familiar words coming from the one called Bill, before Paul had choked him off and told him to shut up, but in English.

Tommy-Lee had never learned much Arabic, other than a few brutal commands needed to get a prisoner’s attention. But he knew enough from what Bill had said to have guessed which part of the world these three men really came from. And it blew any story about friends and military jail and an overeager officer right out of the water.

What surprised him more than anything was that he really didn’t give a damn.

He had a job to do and he was going to do it.