Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

“Get the motherfuckers, sir.”

“Bet your ass on that, Staff Sergeant.” Sims climbed into the rear seat of a cockpit unlike anything he had ever seen, and ground crewmen reached around him to hook up the hoses and belts.

“Ready back there?” Dillon asked, face-to-face over the televised intercom.

“Let’s do it, Billy. I’ll see if you’re lying about the speed.”

The cockpit hummed down and locked into place, the instrument panel glowed green and red, there was the hiss of cool oxygen into the mask, and the radio came to life in his ears. “Hold on, then. We don’t call her ‘Greased Lightning’ for nothing.”

KYLE SWANSON DROPPED HISpack as softly as a mouse’s footstep, and moved to the side of the bed. His night-vision glasses gave a clear, green view of the bearded man sound asleep beneath a cotton sheet, and Swanson brought his big pistol down hard on the crown of the man’s head. He needed a few moments to set up, so the guy had to stay asleep.

He ripped off a strip of duct tape and pasted it across the man’s mouth. A broom leaning against a corner went behind the shoulders, and he secured the wrists to it with flexicuffs and duct tape. He cinched the ankles and the knees together with more tape. Duct tape had many uses. He wound more of it all the way around the bed and secured the torso and legs. Almost ready. He clicked on a single bedside lamp and covered the shade with a towel to cut down on the glow. It would be important that the Frenchman be able to see what was about to happen.

Moving to the stove, he lit a propane flame and propped the largest spoon he could find to roast over it.

Back at the bed, Kyle hauled the sheet up to the man’s neck and straddled the chest, his weight pinning the edges of the sheet to the bed like a giant sleeve. With one hand, he poured a cup of cold water on the man’s face, while the other hand kept the pistol right between the eyes. Hell of a way to wake up.

The eyes flew wide open in surprise. Kyle said nothing. He knew the value of silence to an interrogator and wanted to establish the parameters of the session before the man even started to think he might have a vote in what was happening to him.

Kyle returned the pistol to the shoulder rig and withdrew his long, sharp knife. He grabbed the left hand secured to the broomstick, and took his time sawing off the thumb. The victim yowled behind the tape as blood spurted out in a dark stream. Swanson got off the guy and brought over the large spoon from the kitchen, holding it up so the Frenchman could see it glowing with heat. Tears of pain and shock and fear spilled from the eyes. Then the spoon went against the bleeding stump, where it sizzled, and the muzzled man screamed again.

When he calmed down, Kyle said, “ Bonjour , asshole.”

He pulled up a chair and looked the man in the face. “That was just to save us some time. We’re both professionals, so let’s make this as painless for you as possible.” He wiped the blood from the knife on the man’s hair, pressing the flat of the blade against the skull. “Still going to hurt, though. You decide how much.”

Swanson held up the small photograph he had received during the pre-mission briefing. “Recognize this dude? Oh my God, it’s you! How about that for a coincidence? Your name is Pierre Dominique Falais, an ex-Legionnaire who is now an intelligence snitch for whoever will pay you. You speak Arabic, French, English, and German, so don’t insult me by saying you do not understand what I am saying.” It was easier to break a prisoner early in the interrogation if he thought the questioner already knew everything. Falais had no idea that the French had given up his entire record.

He mumbled.

“Ummmm,” said Kyle, sniffing. “Smell that? The unmistakable odor of burning flesh. I smelled it only a few hours ago when I got out of that fucking helicopter. A lot of Marines who were my friends were killed out there, and were burned worse than you.” He leaned across and laid the razor-sharp knife blade on the pinkie of the mutilated left hand and cut that off, too, then took his time reheating the spoon before stanching the flow of blood with it. Another scream.

“Okay. You have eight fingers left, ten toes, a nose, two ears, two eyes, lips, legs, arms, and of course your dick and balls, which will go into your mouth or up your ass, I haven’t made up my mind yet. But that would be a lot of work, and you would experience some discomfort. So you answer my questions and I won’t chop you up like frog legs. I’m going to remove the gag now, and if you try to shout, I will ram this big knife through your cheeks and knock out a few teeth. Then the questioning will resume. Understood?” The man nodded a vigorous yes. Kyle tore the tape off so that it clung to one cheek in case he needed it in a hurry.

The Frenchman sucked in some deep breaths. “Who are you?”

“I ask the questions. Where is General Middleton?”

“You’re an American,” he protested. “Americans don’t torture prisoners.”

Kyle felt a wave of revulsion when he decided to hurt the man to get the information, but steeled himself for the job by reasoning that it would take hours to make him talk any other way. He did not have hours to spare, so he slapped the tape across the mouth again. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, Dominique. Not because international laws might be bent enough to allow it, but because, thanks to you, I’m dead. I don’t exist.” The knife flashed and he sliced deeply through the left ear. The ear is a bleeder, and a crimson pool spread out beneath the man’s head, the warm wetness scaring him more than the cut.

After the expected scream, Swanson tore off the tape again and let it dangle.

“The next ‘procedure’ is something you will recognize, because I learned it while I was on assignment with the Foreign Legion myself. A deep cut down the underside length of a finger all the way to the palm, severing all those nerves on the way.” He leaned forward, almost nose to nose. “So once again, asshole. Where the fuck is General Middleton?”

Falais gave up and answered through gritted teeth, “In the house of the Americans.”

The mercs! “Well done, Pierre. Now, who are they?”

“There are two of them. Victor Logan is the biggest, and he is crazy dangerous, a former SEAL in your navy. The other man is Collins, ex-army, but really just an extra set of hands for Victor. They work for Gates Global, which also hired me.”

When Kyle did not reply, Falais panicked. “Wait! I have money. Lots of money! I will give it to you!”

“No. I’m not in this for cash.” Kyle jammed his left forearm into Falais’s mouth hard and slapped him on the wounded ear.

The scream was muffled. “ Merde !” The Frenchman groaned with the searing pain. “Look. I can help. I can help you! I will take you to them.”

“Where is the general kept in their house?”

“A small room in the right rear corner, handcuffed to a bed. They have not harmed him greatly, although Victor really wants to. Victor is a killer.” The dark eyes studied Kyle’s face, seeing if a deal was possible. “You will have to hurry because the jihadists are to behead your general in the morning.”

“What kind of security do the Americans keep?”

“None. Everybody here is afraid of Victor, and they have plenty of guns. No one bothers them. Again, let me help.”

“How?”

Pierre Falais detected a faint opening, a chance. “I will take you over there and distract the Americans while you attack. We kill them, get the general, and I will guide you safely to Israel. People in the villages know me and will help. I’m the one person around here who can get you out.” He was breathing heavily.