Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

Another voice came through, “Alex, this is Das.”

Alex said, “Alex here, go.”

“We have an extraction team en route. Fifteen minutes will get them there.”

“That’s ten minutes behind us.”

“Understood. I must advise you that you are not on military contract and do not have engagement privileges.”

“Meaning we will observe as long as feasible, or the lawyers will have lots of work to do.”

Das sounded tense but sympathetic. “I understand your concern but there will be trouble if you breech status of forces.”

Bart cursed. Yes, rules existed for a reason, but this was not a military engagement, it was a criminal incident. It was probably even harder to find a political agreement regarding that.

Before Alex could reply, Elke said, “Hostiles are gone.”

“Retreated?”

“Yes. They have Musketeer, as far as I can tell.”

“Shit.”

Bart’s chills turned to burns. This was unprecedented.

“Arriving in two minutes,” he said, as calmly as he could.

Alex said, “Babs, can you meet at your reported location?”

“I am two hundred meters from there and prefer to meet at this location. Advise when you need directions.”

Bart nodded, and said, “Tell me in twenty seconds, which turn to take.”

Elke coolly guided him in to a stop next to an alley. She darted out with a box and ruck and was aboard at once.

She heaved for breath and there was a chemical stink of explosive over the perspiration. Her hair was greased with sweat, she was scuffed and dusty, but alive and intact.

“Reporting,” she said. “We were corralled by four vehicles at the same time you reported notice of us. Either the military has a leak or the hostiles have similar sensors. We entered the building ahead, where the traffic jam and dust is. I left a distraction device outside, two inside. There was no good barricade or roof, and pursuers triggered the devices. We attempted to leave out the back. Aramis was hit with a combination of two heavy stunners and an impact projectile. I shot and hit two hostiles, outcome unknown, then shot and blasted through the wall into the crawl alley to the south. I made a short chimney ascent, entered a first floor window, exited the rear behind the hostiles. I covered in a trash abutment and held them with fire. I made my report, then they departed, presumably with Aramis.”

That was so precise it was frightening, Bart thought, but not as much as Aramis’s abduction.

“Can we trace him with that stuff?” Alex asked.

“He will have residue, yes. His clothes especially will be impregnated.”

“They’ll probably ditch those if they smell them. Channel, Das, sir, what’s the recovery unit ETA?”

“Three minutes.”

“This is our location,” he said, and pinged it through. “We need to search the contact site.”

“They see you and are arriving.”

Aramis awoke nauseated, in throbbing pain, stripped to underwear, wrapped in cargo tape restraints at wrist and ankle, sitting on a cold floor. He could vaguely identify others. Two people were in front of him, well-built, probably military. One lurked behind. Two? others were off to the left.

Ohshitohshitohshit. It kept tumbling through his brain.

No way out. Not a chance. The restraints wouldn’t yield, and he was quite sure the one at the back would happily shoot anyone he tried to grab as a shield. Assuming he could see anything. He wasn’t sure how he knew the man behind had a gun, but he knew.

His wrists ached, his head had that burning pain that felt as if it were bleeding from trauma, but often meant only a concussion.

A voice from the left said, “He’s awake, get to it.”

Another voice, in front, said, “I need her movements.”

He understood that was addressed to him, and replied, “They’re chosen at random, even when there is a schedule, and I am not told until we are en route.”

A tremendous slap rocked his cheek and jaw, like fiery gravel. He’d been hit with some kind of heavy glove.

“Ridiculous. You have to know.”

He sweated and teared up through the bursting pain, which was triggering his pulped skull again. “The Agent in Charge knows, or his deputy. The rest of us do as we’re told.”

He stood there. He knew what was coming, and it terrified him. Combat was one thing. To be bound helplessly and…

The blow felt as if a car hit him in the cheek. He grunted, convulsed and lay out on the floor, trying to get into a fetal position to protect himself. His ears rang, eyes blurred, he thought his cheek probably broken. The pain was a lance, and then a suffusing pulse of agony, fading slowly to a burning sting.

Someone hauled him to his feet, and he tried to clench his abs, just in time for a massive punch that paralyzed his diaphragm. He gaped like a fish and did nothing for what felt like hours while boots and sticks thudded and cracked his ear, shoulder, spine, all over. The pain was warm and sharp.

Then he was hauled to his feet again.

“What is tomorrow’s schedule?”

He was angry and hurt. He cried and sobbed. “Dammit, I don’t know. Even if I did, it would have changed by now. This is fucking stupid.”

The pain, the disorientation, the fear was beyond anything he’d ever felt. Nausea collided with anger, terror, and he hyperventilated. They helped him with that, with plastic over his face until he passed out watching purple blotches as he surged against it in panic. He’d stayed still to conserve oxygen as long as he could, but there were limits, and his left cheek was stabbing agony…

He woke upright, his hands now bound on an overhead rail, helpless to protect his torso from crashing impacts. Blindfold off, he saw a stick line up and was too restrained and hurt to cringe. He watched in slow motion as it arced full force up toward his crotch.

He didn’t pass out, but he did throw up. A heated rush flooded his brain as his panicking body tried to compensate.

It was terrifying and surreal, like falling off a cliff.

It didn’t end with that, and he never got past it all feeling like a dream, an hallucination, an unreality that he couldn’t wake up from and desperately wanted to.

He took a full look at each of the three attackers. They were local, muscular and southern European in ancestry. That might make them Christian or Muslim, no way to tell. He memorized their faces. Then…

Got to leave, he thought. Not physically. He couldn’t. That sensation, though, that crazy, mind-warping sensation, he’d felt that before and it hadn’t been bad.

Sticks smashed under his armpits and across his shoulders. He passed out again.

He woke slightly and heard, “Shit, I think this pervert enjoys it,” accompanied by a thumping blow to his groin. He grunted out breath. Yeah, he actually was erect. Apparently the distraction worked.

I probably shouldn’t tell Caron about that, he thought.

He settled for keeping his eyes closed, easy through the bruises, and breathing slowly and steadily, tough to do through his battered nose and painful as the air flowed over his wounded teeth. Apart from that, his whole body was a quivering nerve, aware of every current of air, every gradation of temperature, every bruise, fracture, laceration and contusion. He found he wasn’t worried about getting hit again; that was just part of this reality. He’d ride the wave of pain and appreciate the surreal sensation, and let that take his brain back to Caron and Ayisha, their full, painted lips colliding around him, with each other, tongues swirling…

Yes, someone had hit him, he vaguely realized. He’d blacked out from the pain. Pain, shooting up his spine, just like that sensation when he looked over to see Caron, mouth open and tongue probing, curiously and nervously…