Marc Cameron - Act of Terror

Threaten pain and the mind takes over, filling in the blanks left by a skilled interrogator with all sorts of horrific details.

Quinn pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, listening for the sound and feel of his own heartbeat. It was a technique he’d used to stay grounded when he’d been “captured” by PRONA-People’s Republic of North America-forces during training. There was a lot going on inside the human body and, with the mind turned inward, it was a pretty interesting place to visit.

Quinn had no idea how long he listened to his heartbeat and the gurgling of his own gut before the lid to the box came off. Harsh light clawed at his eyes and the heavy thump of a bass note assaulted his ears. Coming from an environment with no stimulation, the effect was like sandpaper on the skin. Hands grabbed at each shoulder and he was hauled out the top of the enclosure like a slippery fish only to be dropped unceremoniously on the ground.

Angry male voices barked opposing orders.

“Be still!”

“ON YOUR FEET!”

“Why are you here?”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

The shouting, combined with the pounding beat of the music, gave the impression of dozens of other men in the room. Quinn believed there were four. He recognized one of the voices and made a mental note of its position in the room.

Naked, he sat on the floor and did his best to ignore the screaming. He saw nothing but blinding white light. He focused, working to control his breath.

The blaring music suddenly stopped. A deep, disembodied voice came across some sort of loudspeaker.

“SIT!”

Quinn scanned the room and found a gray metal chair directly in the center of the glaring pool of light. Before he could move, the voice boomed out again.

“I SAID SIT DOWN!” Without warning a shadow strode from the wall of light and struck him across the thigh with a length of rubber hose.

Quinn scrambled for the chair, his leg on fire.

“TELL US YOUR NAME!”

Quinn coughed. Arms on the chair, he hung his head. If they knew who he was, he wondered why they hadn’t restrained him.

“You know my name.”

The rubber hose caught him across the left shoulder this time, coming from another direction. Quinn didn’t even try to deflect it.

“YOUR NAME!”

“Jericho Quinn. Captain, United States Air Force.” He gripped the chair, swallowing hard as the nauseating effect of the blow seeped into his bones.

“See?” the voice said, normal now, without the aid of a loudspeaker. “That wasn’t so difficult.”

Quinn nodded.

“Is this about Drake’s list?”

He heard a shuffle in the corner.

“Normally,” the voice said, “you’d have been struck for unsolicited speaking. Consider this warning my gift to you.”

Quinn nodded again, catching his breath.

“Now,” the voice continued. “Let’s get down to business-”

“Let’s do,” Quinn said, unsolicited.

When the punishing shadow appeared again, Quinn was ready. He grabbed the hose and wrested it from the attacker’s grasp with a quick flip of his wrist. Striking quickly, he felt the satisfying thud as the hose struck home. There was a heavy groan as the man collapsed into the pool of light.

Quinn spun, launching himself wildly into the light. He crashed into the wall, falling back to the concrete floor. A Taser crackled from somewhere behind him and his body went rigid as a board. Molten heat shot up his spine. Fingers clenched around the hose in his hand. Toes curled inward from the pulse of fifty thousand volts that coursed through his muscles.

When it came to being Tased Quinn had the advantage of experience. The moment the shock ended he rolled, sweeping the hose behind his back to break the hair-like wires that connected the barbed darts to the Taser itself. He scrambled to his feet, roaring as he heard another crackling sound to his left.

Muscles spent, the second jolt of electricity affected him exponentially more than the first. He fell forward, his rigid body bridged on forehead and the tips of his toes. His face slammed against the floor once the shock was over. Saliva and blood dripped from his mouth and onto the gleaming concrete.

Naked and exhausted past the point of caring, he lay still.

“Foolish, Mr. Quinn,” the voice said again from behind the light. There was almost a hint of pity in it. “I think this is enough for now. You should spend some time in the box.”

Black boots tromped toward him. Strong hands pinned his shoulders while someone slipped a black cloth bag over his head. Lolling from the two bouts of Taser therapy on top of his recent battle with the weather in Afghanistan, he put up no more resistance as they secured him back in the box.

They pulled off the hood before closing the lid. Scowling down at him was a bald man, a scorpion tattoo running up the side of his thick neck.

“I want you give you something to ruminate on,” the man said. “Before we turn out the lights, so to speak.

“We had a bit of a time locating Kim,” the man went on. “Until she made a phone call back to some friends in Alaska.” He grinned broadly. If evil had a face, this was it. “You should have trained her better than that, my friend. I am so looking forward to spending a little quality time with her and young Madeline. I know you’d like to stop me… It must kill you that you’re here… powerless…”

The box closed leaving Quinn alone, floating in the dark with the screams inside his head.

Dr. Badeeb rested his arm against the cheap laminated motel dresser. Curling fingers of blue-gray smoke wafted around his sweating face as he puffed the last inch of his cigarette. He breathed deeply, screwing up his courage to talk to this dear one who’d come at his bidding.

Tara Doyle sat on the edge of the bed, her head covered with a drape of green pashmina. She wore a simple white blouse, unbuttoned at the collar, and navy slacks. She stared at the floor as Badeeb spoke.

He couldn’t help but think that the brightness burning in her eyes might set the soiled carpeting ablaze at any moment. Perfectly suited physically, as well as emotionally, for the job with which she’d been entrusted. He could not think of a better student to come out of his school. Her birth name was Tara; it meant star in Tajik. She’d smiled when she found out she could keep it in America. It gave her something to hang on to.

“You have done well, my child,” he said, lighting another cigarette. In truth, spending even a few moments with Tara set his nerves on fire, stoking his desire for tobacco-and other things-more than ever.

Badeeb moved to sit beside her. In the past, when she was younger, she had been a more willing participant in their meetings. She’d revered him when he went to visit, climbing up in his lap, taking his presents. Even later, when she’d become a woman at thirteen and their relationship had become physical, she would lie beside him and discuss politics, scheming on ways to cut the head off the American beast that had murdered her parents. She could never know that it had been his men, Tajik and Chechen fighters, who, dressed as American soldiers, had raped her mother and slaughtered her parents like goats.

“I am ready for this to be done,” Tara said. “I’m sick of it here. It makes me tired.”

“Soon, child,” Badeeb said, turning his head to blow away a plume of smoke. “Very soon.” He put his arm over her shoulder, caressing her with the hand that held the cigarette.

She shrugged him off.

“I cannot think of such things now,” she said, still staring at the floor.

Badeeb took a deep breath, clenching his teeth. He was not used to rebuffs. He could have tried to coerce her. He’d done it several times before, but decided she would kill him if he did such a thing. She was different now, stronger. When he thought it through, that was exactly the sort of person he needed-wanted-her to be.