Captured(73)

“The classification level of what you’re seeing is off the charts, West. You get me?”

“Sir.” I signed a whole bunch of shit. I can’t say dick to anyone about this. Whatever. I just wanna go home.

“Take a look. Recognize him?” I register the voice of the spook or whatever he is, but I don’t look too closely at him. I don’t want to know what he looks like, don’t want to know his name or what branch he’s from. Don’t want to know what’s going to happen after I leave, or what happened before I got here.

I step forward, closer to the battered figure shackled to the metal chair. I swallow hard and pretend the sweat sliding down the back of my neck is from the heat. He’s in shadow, and I can’t make out his features.

A light is flicked on, and directed at the prisoner. He tilts his head away, eyes narrowed.

Look at him, *, I tell myself. Fucking look at him.

I finally take a look.

I blink, shake my head, stumble back, and swallow hard to keep my lunch down. It’s him. Fuck.

Then the flashbacks hit me.

Rapid Pashto, or Arabic, or whatever. Black eyes like empty space, darker than holes in the earth. Scarred upper lip curled into a sneer. Thin beard, long and graying near the roots. Pockmarks on his forehead and cheeks from childhood illness. He kneels in front of me, a red Bic in his hand. He chatters to me, as if I understand him. Laughs at his own joke. But the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. Nothing does. No light escapes the black holes of his pupils, no humanity reaches through. He grabs my middle and ring fingers, bends them back to the breaking point. Flicks the lighter; a flame spurts and wavers. Touches my skin. I grimace, grit my teeth. I can keep from screaming for a while. Until I feel the flesh charring, scarring. And then I cut loose. Scream. He moves the flame down to my palm, holds it there for a few moments, then cuts the flame and watches me heave for breath. Flicks the lighter to life again, but this time he holds the tip of a knife under the yellow heat and keeps it there till the blade point glows red. He rips open my shirt. Presses the flat of the blade to my nipple. Skin and hair sizzle. I don’t bother trying not to scream. Seeing my agony, the black eyes show humor.

My back hits the wall. I’m gasping.

“Yeah. You remember, don’t you?” His voice is raspy from thirst, low, evil. He only ever spoke English when he wanted to make a point. “Bet you like to kill me, huh? Try. Kill me.”

He’s the one who broke my finger, tortured me. Never asked questions, just the torture for the f*cking pleasure of it.

I’m unaware of moving, but somehow I’ve got my sidearm out and the barrel pressed to his temple. I’m gasping, sweating, seeing double. He’s laughing. He knows the effects he’s left on me.

Brutally strong hands pull me away, and I let them strip me of my sidearm. The hands shove it into my holster at my chest. I’m pushed out the door into sunlight so bright it hurts. Dust blows, grit crunches in my molars.

“So that’s him.” The guy in civvies. The spook.

“Yeah.” I turn away, back to the wind, spit, try to breathe.

I vomit, and when my stomach is done heaving, I straighten. Wipe my mouth on my sleeve. He hands me a bottle of water, and I rinse my mouth. Drink. He hands me the bottle of whiskey, and I take a slug. Chase it with water.

“He ever tell you his name?”

“No. He was the one who did all of the torturing, though. Let others do the beating. But he saved the fun stuff for himself.”

Spook nods. “He’s a sick f*ck.” He drags on the whiskey, then digs in his hip pocket for a pack of Reds. Lights one, hands it to me.

I was one of the few in my unit who never picked up the habit. I’d smoke one every now and again when we were all drinking, but it was never a habit. This is a unique circumstance. I inhale, cough, and the thick, unfiltered smoke stings my throat and burns my lungs. It makes me lightheaded, but the nicotine pushes the flashbacks down, down.

“Done with me, sir?” I crush the butt under my heel.

“Yeah.” He blows a stream of smoke out of his nostrils. Turns away from me, takes a few steps, then stops and glances at me. “Sorry to bring you all the way the f*ck out here for that. But we had to know for certain.”

I can only nod. But it’s not okay. I’m not fine with it. “Good luck with that f*cker.” It’s all I can think to say.

“I’ll make a call when I get back to Kandahar. See if I can get you rotated out sooner.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I’m sure you would. I read the debrief reports.”

“The reports.” I laugh, a bitter bark. “I couldn’t bring myself to talk about half of what he did to me.”

“Figured as much. Most of what we know about this piece of shit is from the bodies he leaves behind. You’re still alive. Says something.”

“Yeah. Its says I was f*ckin’ lucky.” I scuff my toe in the dirt. “Or unlucky.”

“You’re breathing. You’re going home. Got a girl. A piece of dirt to call home. Makes you lucky in my book.”

I just nod, give a two-finger salute, fit my balaclava back over my nose. I hop into the helo. I just traveled eight thousand miles to look into the eyes of the man who spent three years torturing me.

The flight out of the desert and through the mountains passes in a blur. I’m lost, trying to keep the flashbacks from surging up like hot puke. It’s not working. I keep seeing his face, the scar, the lip curling, the absurdly white teeth and the beard, the evil dark eyes. The lighters burning me, his fist snapping my finger again and again, just for the joy of watching me suffer.