Brad Taylor - Enemy of Mine

“What are the odds it’s the Lebanese authorities and not terrorists?”

“I’d hate to guess. LAF would be best case, but if that happened I don’t think she’d call Prairie Fire, and his phone grid wouldn’t be in a Palestinian refugee camp notorious for hiding terrorists.”

The national security advisor, Alexander Palmer, spoke up. “What’s this mean? Worst case? I get Pike getting killed, but that’s not worst case.”

He saw Kurt bristle and said, “Calm down. I’m not being callous, and we don’t have time for emotions. I want him back as much as you, but what’s it mean the longer he’s in custody?”

“Catastrophic. He’s been in the Taskforce since its inception. He knows just about every cover and front company we use, along with every tactic, technique, and procedure. We can’t do anything operational until we get him back and determine what he was forced to divulge. If we don’t get him back, we have to assume everything’s compromised. The Taskforce is finished.”

He saw a few eyes widen and realized they were thinking he meant the Taskforce would become public knowledge, along with their involvement.

“I’m not talking about an expose in the Post . If he’s been captured by Hezbollah or one of the Palestinian groups, they’re not going to brag about the intel bonanza. They’re going to use it to penetrate our counterterrorist capability so they can thwart it. That’s why I’m saying the Taskforce is finished. We’ll have to assume they know every method we utilize. It’ll be like us operating thinking we’re wearing camouflage when the enemy sees blaze orange.”

Palmer said, “Didn’t we already have an indication that there’d been a penetration from the operation in Tunisia? Didn’t he know he was being hunted? Isn’t that why you guys took him down as a fleeting target?”

Kurt said, “Yes, sir, we thought that, but we were wrong. Turns out Crusty was convinced he was being followed by the new Tunisian government for some heinous things he’d done in support of the old regime. It had nothing to do with terrorism. Just a coincidence. This, on the other hand, is the real deal.”

“How long to get a team in there?”

“I’ve got a warning order to Knuckles in Tunisia. He’s the closest one, but because he’s covered under the oil company, he can’t just pick up his team and fly to Lebanon without risking the exposure of the Crusty operation. Best case, I can get him in-country in forty-eight hours.”

“How long do you think Pike can last?”

“What do you mean by last ? You mean live, or keep his mouth shut?”

Palmer grimaced, then said, “I mean keep his mouth shut.”

“I honestly don’t know. Pike’s as tough a man as I’ve ever seen, but if they’re using extreme pressure, forty-eight hours is a long, long time.”

The old man shouted at the toughs to stop the ineffectual slapping and punching, seeing it was getting them nowhere. In fact, they were moving backward because I was now having trouble talking through my swollen face.

They sat back and studied me, waiting. Another man entered the room, middle-aged and carrying an old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag. With a chill, I realized that the punching had simply been for pleasure. They had no serious interest in my protests of innocence. They had been waiting on this man.

He talked to the old man for a moment, then opened the satchel, pulling out a scalpel. He sliced my shirt off of my body, exposing my chest.

Here we go. Need to focus. Need something to focus on.

In surprisingly good English, he said, “You know, we can keep you alive forever. In a state of perpetual pain. I have worked on many men and have gotten very, very good at walking the balance. Do you know of William Buckley? Hmmm? Of course, you wouldn’t admit it-not yet anyway-but he was one of my first patients.”

The statement made me physically nauseated, searing my core in fear.

He put down the scalpel and pulled out a handheld set of pruning shears.

“I like it when you know that death is coming. I’m humane that way. I don’t want you wondering each day if that day will be the last. I can’t imagine the mental pressure that would cause, so I’ve come up with a system. I cut off your fingers and toes as time goes on. Not in any systematic way, of course. You won’t wake up knowing today will be the day you’ll lose your pinky toe, for instance. You’ll just know that when you run out of fingers and toes, we have no more use for you.”

“Today is your first one.”

He approached with the shears, and I began to struggle, mightily trying to break my bonds. The two toughs clamped down on me, preventing what little wiggle room I had in my restraints. One shoved a piece of my shredded shirt in my mouth while the other held my hand steady.

The doctor took my left pinky finger and placed it in the shears. I began to thrash like a shark on a line, to no avail. He looked me in the eye and clamped the shears closed.

I screamed until my vocal cords felt shredded, the sweat pouring off of my face and the blood jetting out of my hand.

He held me by my hair, shaking my head.

“Look at me. See where this is going. You will talk, there’s no doubt about that. But you can die with nineteen fingers and toes, quickly and cleanly.”

His words penetrated my pain, and I realized he was right. I needed to die right fucking now, before I started spilling my guts. In my thrashing, I had felt my right leg not as tight as my left. I thought I could slip it down far enough to stand up and throw myself backward. If I could break the chair, I could make a run for the door and get killed quickly.

Before I break.

I couldn’t do it right now, with the two toughs on me. I would need to last until I didn’t pose a threat. That meant I needed to focus for what was to come. I ignored the words coming out of the man’s mouth, knowing it was just more fear talk, and tried to find something to anchor against.

I thought about Jennifer, about living to see her again, and felt nothing but despair.

They got her too. Because of Samir. That son of a bitch.

The fact that I wouldn’t get to punish him for his treachery made me see red, made me want to scream at the injustice. And I found my anchor.

Jennifer had told Samir that I held a rage like he did, but that had been a little bit of an exaggeration to make him feel good. When my family had been murdered, my rage had been much, much worse. A blackness that wanted to destroy everything it touched. And Samir’s betrayal caused it to stir. A feeling I had spent years fighting, I now stoked until it was white-hot.

Live long enough to kill Samir. Live to see him die.

The man with the doctor’s bag had put down the shears and picked the scalpel back up. He saw the emotion flit across my face.

“Oh? A tough one. I guess you don’t want to die with nineteen fingers and toes. We’ll see about that.”

Deep inside the Ain al-Hilweh camp, Jennifer stayed underneath a moldy wool blanket, hidden from view. It was now past eight o’clock at night, but there was still enough light out to make her worry should someone look inside the van while they were stopped.

True to his word, Samir had managed to talk to the Lebanese Army guards outside the camp and had gained access. She didn’t know what he had said and didn’t really care. All she cared about was Pike, and her imagination was running wild with the thoughts of what was happening to him. Every second was precious.

She heard Samir say something and stuck her head out. He held her tablet in the passenger seat, directing the driver. He turned around.

“That’s it. At least, that’s where his phone was today when you called.”