These guys liked hurting people. What sort of sick fuck enjoyed inflicting pain?
When his dad taught them to hunt, he’d always emphasized the importance of making a clean kill. If you didn’t have a clean shot, you let the animal go. It was a reverence for life these Russian assholes didn’t share.
As blows rained down on him, Anton dully realized this was his chance. The chance he’d waited for his entire life: a chance to outshine Leo.
Leo had all the advantages. First, he was the oldest, which meant he literally got to be first at everything. Second, he was so fucking good at everything. Whether is was playing ball, snagging the hottest girl, or—shit—he was even good at apple farming. He made his own compost from turkey shit. In just one year, they’d seen a fifteen percent increase in crop yield from that pile of shit his brother had cooked into fertilizer.
But Leo had never been to a Russian torture chamber. Nope, that was Anton’s honor.
Here was his chance to be first.
Finally.
A wild laugh broke from his throat. It was a manic realization of just how fucked up his world view had been all these years. Always secretly competing with Leo. It wasn’t Leo’s fault he was so fucking good at anything. It’s not like he ever held it over Anton’s head or rubbed his nose in it.
Anton loved his brother. He loved him with everything he had. And he would not betray him. No fucking way.
“You think this is funny?” The KGB agent snubbed out another cigarette on Anton’s neck. “I think this is funny.” He chuckled as he relit the cigarette. “Hurting American scum is a good time. Don’t you think?” He glanced at the soldier who was laying into Tate’s chest and torso with his fists. The agent rattled off a string of Russian.
The soldier paused, flashing a quick grin at the agent. He said something, then went back to beating Tate.
“He thinks this is a good time, too,” the agent said to Anton. “And you know what it’s like when you’re having a good time. You never want it to end.”
The cigarette came down again, this time on the side of Anton’s throbbing jaw.
“You’re such a pretty boy,” the agent purred. “I’m going to enjoy ruining this pretty face.” The burning butt was relit and reapplied to his jaw.
Anton nearly choked on the agony. Sweat rolled into his eyes. His body trembled from the stress. He kept his teeth clamped shut as the Soviet fucker lit a new cigarette.
“You can end the pain anytime. Just tell us the location of your home base.”
Breath rasped in and out of his nose. He was dimly aware of saliva dripping from his mouth. Even though his head was a throbbing mass of pain, Anton managed to twist his face into a defiant sneer.
“Go fuck yourself.”
The agent sighed dramatically, even though his eyes glinted with glee. The accumulated embers on the end of the cigarette crunched against the side of Anton’s face, burning him yet again.
“There. You’re not so pretty anymore.”
Another blow came down, hitting him so hard his chair tipped over.
The agent crouched over him, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket. The cigarette was back in his mouth. He sucked in gulps of smoke, exhaling out of his nose. A smoke wreath crowned his head, backlit by the flickering light bulb.
Watching the fucker slowly roll up the sleeves of his jacket was like watching an on-coming car in slow motion. Anton tensed, preparing for the blows. He held onto the images of his family members, drawing strength from them. He would not betray them. He might die like a beaten animal, but he would never betray them.
Nonna—Leo—Dal—Lena—
Agony rained down on him. More fists. More burning cigarette embers. Even boots were thrown into the mix, kicking Anton over and over in the chest, stomach, and ribs.
He released himself to the pain, giving himself over to the tide of it.
Out of the depths of fear and anguish came a long-lost voice. It was the voice of Coach Brown, his dead football coach.
At the end of the day, no matter the game, your biggest opponent is yourself.
That’s what Coach Brown said to them at practice nearly every day. He was right.
Anton was gonna win this. No matter what.
Even if that meant dying.
8
Darkness
Anton wasn’t sure how long the torture went on. It felt like years.
When the Russian assholes finally left, they switched off the light. The cell would have been entirely black if not for the faint light drifting in from the hallway outside the cell.
The taste of blood in his mouth had become a permanent fixture. He thought he might be missing a tooth, but couldn’t be sure; his tongue was too swollen and numb from the beating.
How many times had he been burned? He’d lost count after twelve.
He was lying on his side, hands and feet still bound to the chair. His body throbbed and ached everywhere. Until today, he’d never known how much a body could endure.
Neither he nor Tate had cracked. Not even a little. They’d suffered their torture in defiance, but they hadn’t cracked. They were fucking warriors. Dead warriors most likely, but warriors all the same.
The concrete floor was cold against his skin. He was pretty sure his head was in the dried urine he’d smelled when he first woke up in this pit. The weight of the chair rested on his right wrist. The pain might have bothered him if there hadn’t been parts of his body that hurt ten times more.
“Anton?” Tate’s voice was raspy in the dark.
“Yeah?”
“I have to piss.”
For some reason, this struck him as ridiculously funny. “Me, too. We should just piss ourselves.” Why
