Dead Six

The prisoner’s eyes grew wide again when Sarah stepped into the light. He stared up at her shapely figure, and his mouth fell open again. She was taller than he was. She looked back down at him, not saying anything. Wheeler pulled up a second chair, and slid it next to her. She sat in it, crossing her legs and laying the clipboard in her lap. She clicked open a pen, leaned forward, and spoke to Al Falah in Arabic.

He looked back at us, then back at her, then back at us again, seemingly confused. Sarah repeated whatever it was that she’d said, her voice a little bit harsher. Al Falah seemingly balked at this and said something back.

“What’d he say?” Hudson asked.

“He just called me a cunt,” Sarah said. “Said he doesn’t have to answer to a woman.”

“Really?” Tailor said. Without another word, he stepped forward and punched Al Falah across the face. The terrorist’s head snapped to the side, and he cried out in pain. “Ask him now.”

Sarah repeated whatever it is she said to Al Falah. His voice wavered, but the young terrorist apparently didn’t tell Sarah whatever it was she wanted to hear. She looked up at us and just shook her head.

Tailor shrugged. “Okay, asshole,” he said and punched Al Falah again. Hudson stepped around Sarah and violently struck our prisoner himself. Al Falah’s head snapped back, and the young Arab cried out. Tailor and Hudson took turns hitting him a few more times. Hudson was strong as an ox and had to take it easy. A real shot from that man would have cracked Al Falah’s skull.

“What are you asking him?” I said, looking down at Sarah.

“This kid is just a small fry. His uncle, Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah, is the real target. I’m asking about him.”

I looked back up at our prisoner. Tailor and Hudson had stopped pummeling him for a moment. One eye was puffy and swelling shut, and blood was running from both his nose and lip. It was unpleasant, but this was war. If any of us were captured, we could expect worse. Sarah remained cool but seemed uncomfortable with what was happening. Nonetheless, she repeated her question, her voice sounding cold and harsh.

The young Al Falah spent a few moments staring at his lap, breathing heavily, blood dripping onto his clothes. He lifted his head back, still panting, and looked over at Sarah. He took a deep breath. Sarah lifted her clipboard just in time to block a blob of spit and blood. I had to give the kid credit; he’d certainly found his backbone. Not that it was going to do him any good.

“Oh, that’s it,” I said, speaking to Al Falah for the first time. I lifted my right foot and booted our prisoner in the chest. He gasped in pain, rocked back on his chair, and fell over backward, smashing his hands between the chair and the concrete floor. I moved forward, planting my right foot into his chest again, and drew my pistol. Holding the Sig .45 in both hands, I looked down at Al Falah, the sights aligned with the bridge of his nose.

“Valentine, no!” Sarah exclaimed, coming up out of her chair and putting her hand on my shoulder. “We need information from him.”

“Tell him if he doesn’t start talking I’m going to blow his head off,” I said coldly. The Calm had overtaken me, as it often did right before I had to shoot someone. Sarah had sensed the change. She hesitated. “Tell him,” I repeated, more firmly. Sarah stepped around me. Al Falah’s eyes were focused on the muzzle of my pistol and nothing else. Sarah leaned down and spoke to him. Al Falah sputtered something back.

“What’d he say?” Hudson asked.

Sarah stood up and sighed. “He says he’s prepared to die. I think he wants to. He’s scared shitless. He thinks it’ll make him a martyr.”

“Fuck that,” Tailor said, squatting down next to our prisoner. He reached into his pocket and drew his knife. With the push of a button, the blade snapped forward out of the handle. Tailor reached down and grabbed Al Falah’s face with his left hand. “Tell him that if he doesn’t start talking, I’m going to start cutting parts off him. Tell him we’re not going to kill him. I’ll just cut off his ears, his nose, his tongue, and put out his eyes, and knock out his teeth, and dump him on the side of the road somewhere. He can live the rest of his shitty life as a beggar, or he can kill himself and not get his virgins. I’m not gonna do him no favors.”

“I . . .” Sarah said, hesitating.

“Tell him!” Tailor shouted, poking the very tip of his blade into Al Falah’s face. There was no doubt that Tailor would do it.

Sarah steeled herself, leaned back down to our prisoner, and spoke to him again for a few moments. His eyes grew wider as he processed her words. He looked over to me, with the muzzle of my pistol still pointed between his eyes, then over to Tailor and the knife poking into his face. Apparently the short, scary Southerner with the disfiguring razor was the more frightening prospect of the two of us. Falah hesitated for what seemed like an eternity.

“I . . . I . . . okay,” Al Falah then sputtered, speaking English for the first time. “I will tell you. I will tell you! Please . . .”

“That’s more like it,” Tailor said. He pushed the switch on his knife, and the blade disappeared back into the handle. I took my foot off of Al Falah’s chest and holstered my pistol. Tailor and I then grabbed the back of his chair, hoisted him up, and set our prisoner upright again.

“Your uncle,” Sarah said, sitting back down in her chair. “Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah. Tell me everything you know about him.” The young Arab took one last look around the room, lowered his head slightly, and began to talk. He had a lot to say.

Stepping onto the roof, I saw Sarah silhouetted against the lights of the city. She was standing by the wall that ran around the roof of the house, smoking a cigarette. Hearing me open the door, she turned around briefly and nodded. I returned the nod, and stood beside her.

Below us was the small villa that we used for a safe house. The house itself was big, with no less than six bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and a big common area downstairs. In addition to that, it had a huge basement. Basements were rare in homes in the Middle East. The safe house also had a tall wall around it. Next to the house was a large carport that held four vehicles. In front of the house was a sort of garden with a grove of tall palm trees and a mess of ferns at their bases.

“Are you okay?” I asked, looking out over the city. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t,” she said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I mean, I quit years ago. I bummed one off Tailor. I just . . . sometimes when I get stressed I have one. That’s all.”

“Oh, I see. What’s wrong?”

“I thought you were going to kill that guy.”

“Sarah.” I paused for a moment while I struggled to find the right words. “I did kill a man tonight. One of Al Falah’s bodyguards.”

“I know! I ordered you to. It’s just . . . I don’t know. I’m being stupid. I’ve never been part of an interrogation like that before.”

“I was a little surprised to see you here,” I said.

“I was surprised when they called me out. I guess the other Arabic speakers were busy. Walker was probably busy pulling somebody’s fingernails out. I was told that normally I wouldn’t leave the compound much. I’m not even supposed to know where all of the safe houses are!”

“You’ve never done an interrogation like that before, have you?” I asked.

“No. I suppose you’ve done a lot of them, right?”

“Not really,” I said truthfully. “I was mostly a trigger-puller. We had intel specialists do that kind of thing.”

“Tailor seemed like he was enjoying himself,” she said hesitantly.

“Well . . . Tailor is crazy. He’s always been like that.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Years now. Since we were in Africa together.”

“Do you really trust him?” Sarah asked, putting out her cigarette on the top of the wall and looking over at me.

“With my life,” I replied. “I don’t know if I’d trust him with anybody else’s, though.”

Sarah looked at me sideways, eyebrows raised. She then let out a sardonic chuckle. “You’re funny, Mike,” she said, calling me by my given name for the first time. We stood together, looking out over the lights of the city, for