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…
The intense jolt made him scream, the pain was in his hip, his muscles cramping up in gripping waves, tight under his balls, and..
“I swear this sick fucker is getting off on being hit. Either I kill him or we stop.”
“He’s not really of use. Hit harder.”
The next blow broke his focus. Ohshitfuckmebitch that hurt. Shooting hand. Writing hand. Hand I used on Caron to… to…
A rain of blows with a hammer started at his feet, ankles and shins, working toward his knees. He could feel tears streaming down his face. He wanted release even if it meant death, because he knew he was crippled, probably going to be emasculated, and left in a heap in a gutter, probably set on fire to twitch and scream, and these fuckers called him a pervert. He was going beyond anything he’d ever imagined, and this wasn’t real, except it was, and Caron’s ass was amazingly toned and taut and…
CHAPTER 11
Two other grumblies arrived mounting guns. They were followed momentarily by two armored hex-wheels. Four machine guns, a grenade launcher and a multicannon were not artillery, but were more than enough for this street. The civilians were surprisingly scarce, having cleared the outside entirely, and probably all hunkered down inside.
An officer swung out easily, in gray splinter camo. That was reassuring. Not only wasn’t it the insane pink, it was private purchase. That meant they weren’t too hung up on Military Instructions, hopefully.
“You’re Marlow?” He was a captain, lean and fit, seemed competent and that scowl was probably permanent. He was an older careerist, face a bit craggy.
Alex said, “Yes.”
“Captain Jay Roye.”
“Glad to meet you; thanks for being fast.”
“Yeah, we’ll cover that later. You have one MIA?”
“Correct. Here’s his info.” He’d have to make sure to recover that later, under BuState privacy laws. For now, he needed to save Aramis.
“Any leads?”
“They didn’t tell you? The same explosive trace you followed should continue.”
“Stand by.” The captain raised a hush hood and spoke to base. They spoke back. He spoke some more.
Alex clenched his jaw and took slow, measured breaths through the anger thudding through him. There was nothing he could do to speed up the process, and any complaints might hinder things. It was almost a full minute before the captain spoke.
“It goes north. Intersperse and follow.”
Bart said, “I will take second position.”
Roye agreed, “Good, do it.”
They found a lieutenant suddenly holding the door for Shaman and Elke, and sliding in behind them. Or he tried to. Elke arranged for him to step in as she slid under, taking the door herself.
“Lieutenant Eranio,” the man said. “I have a briefing summary for you.”
“Go ahead, sir,” Alex said, hoping he sounded polite and interested. Eranio came across as prior enlisted. He wore big glasses and had that scraggle that suggested he’d always be in need of a shave.
Eranio said, “For joint operations in the AO with contract personnel, Military Instructions are in force, and the on-scene military commander will determine operations within standard guidelines. All Law of Armed Conflict and Conventions Pursuant to Hostile Engagements are to be observed. Contractor personnel will limit their activities to observation and reporting, or noncombat support activities as described in MI Two-Five Dash Seven One Nine Bravo. End quote. The captain will not allow you to proceed without acknowledging this.”
“Not only do I acknowledge it, I leave the engagement to you,” he said. Would they take the bait?
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Our specialty is getting people into cover, and as you’ve said, there are Instructions that must be followed. There are undoubtedly multiple hostiles waiting.”
Eranio said, “I understand what you mean.” In moments, he had a hush hood up, and was talking to the captain. Alex was sure of that, because the model was cut rate and didn’t have a shimmer screen. Alex could read lips. They thought it was a shameless attempt to pass casualties and possible blame onto the military.
The lieutenant dropped the hood and said, “Given the nature of the incident, and that it’s your agent who’s the captive, we’ve been instructed from higher up to have you conduct the raid.”
Thank you, Captain Das.
Straight-faced, he said, “If you believe that’s best.”
“No, I’d rather we did it, but I have instructions. You will conduct the entry, we will support and observe, and document.”
There were too many snide comments Alex wanted to make, so instead, he nodded and turned.
