Here's the next installment in "Let's thump poor William Brandt for a while". This chapter came together pretty quickly, and I can't promise that'll always happen. But I will update as often as I can. Thank you for reading! It's really appreciated.
A bird was whistling.
Pwee-pwee, pwee-pwee, pwee-pweee! A pause. Pwee-pwee, pwee-pwee, pwee-pweee! A pause. Pwee-pwee...
The sound faded in to his consciousness so gradually he couldn't tell how long he'd been hearing it.
But now that he'd noticed it, it was as persistently irritating as a dripping faucet.
Pwee-pwee, pwee-pwee, pwee-pweee!
He was on his back, on a firm but not uncomfortable surface. It was quiet- except for the damned bird- and still- except for a brush of air across his skin.
His mouth was dry; a taste/scent like Freon coated the back of his throat.
His head hurt. Badly.
He shifted, cautiously, experimentally, and the rasp of fabric against skin was abnormally loud to his strangely sensitized hearing.
He wasn't restrained, though.
He wasn't sure why that thought should even have occurred to him, but the fact that he wasn't did bring a small measure of comfort.
The bird (a cardinal?) gave a last, truncated whistle and took wing, with a 'skritch' of claws and a rustle of feathers that was disconcertingly audible. The faint breeze he could feel drifting past him sounded like a gale force wind against his eardrums and the light pressing on his closed eyelids was painfully bright.
His thoughts were skipping along the surface of his brain, slipping away when he tried to pin them down. Who...? How...?
He lay still for another stretch of time.
He surfaced from the effort of grasping just exactly what was going on to the realization that the gratingly loud sounds pounding his ears had diminished. He shifted and the fabric beneath him rustled, but faintly now, not as if someone was dragging a metal rasp over a microphone. The blaze behind his eyelids seemed to have subsided, as well as the vice around his skull.
William Brandt, IMF team member, field agent, former analyst, eased his eyes open and glanced around.
A room, pine-paneled like the mountain cabins of his childhood vacations, and small, not much larger than the bed he lay on. A tiny square window, open from the top by three inches, high on the wall above his head. Probably the source of the birdsong and breeze. It was covered by heavy metal mesh, and Will could see the shadows of bars, also.
Slowly he rolled his head to take in the rest of the room. An object poked up above the foot of the bed; beyond it was a door- heavy, no visible hinges or handle, a slot near the floor and a safety-glassed peephole window two-thirds of the way up. A recessed light fixture, unlit, was behind more of the mesh in the center of the ceiling.
Will's arms lay flat at his sides; he rubbed his fingers against the surface of the bed and felt thin cloth covering pliable vinyl. He slid his hands outward; the right one bumped up against the wall, the left dropped down a few inches and encountered concrete floor, cool and slightly gritty. The bed was merely a thick pallet laid on it, without a bedframe or blanket. He moved his hand again, bumped a plastic object that teetered, and raised his head.
A water bottle. Thirst, banked while Will finished waking up, suddenly reasserted itself viciously. He closed his hand around the bottle and reeled it in.
Just an ordinary Poland Springs water bottle, the cap still sealed. He pushed to a sitting position so he could drink and realized he was naked except for his shorts.
He'd been wearing clothes... before... hadn't he?
Yeah, of course he had.
But when he tried to remember what exactly, and when he'd had them, the memory slid away, elusive as chasing minnows with his fingers.
Will turned the bottle upside down without knowing why he did so; and then his knowledge caught up with his action and he knew he was looking for a droplet to leak out, to show where a needle-hole could indicate the bottle had been tampered with.
Nothing.
He slid his thumb beneath the label and stripped it off; there were no odd marks or residue under it. The water inside stayed clear and colorless when he shook it.
IMF's training had taught him that, he knew. He could remember his recruitment, the training and bootcamp, the years spent as a field agent and the ones as a desk jockey. He knew he was back in the field again, could remember the last mission clearly- the objective, the operation, Benji's delight at being in Scotland despite the damp chill, Jane's impatience to wrap things up because she had a wedding to go to. Ethan had done a glory-hounding flying leap off the boat and Will had had to follow with a knife when Ethan had gotten snagged by a net; it was really aggravating to end up in freezing water yet again.
They'd made it home in one piece, though. Debriefed. He'd run errands and gone shopping- the farm stand was overflowing with produce and they'd tucked a free zucchini into the bag along with his tomatoes.
There'd been paperwork. And notes to organize for a presentation he was going to give in the days after returning stateside. He'd left open the slider to his balcony while he worked from home, and the sounds of the nearby high school marching band practicing had drifted in along with the balmy evening air.
That was where the clear memories ended, though.
Had he given the presentation? Had he even gone in to headquarters the day after that evening's work?
Will cracked open the water bottle. He breathed in- no odor- and took a purposely small sip- no taste beyond clean liquid.
He was parched, and he'd taken what reasonable precautions he could. He tilted the bottle and nearly emptied it in one long draught.
The water cleared away the last of his mental fog. He'd been drugged, that was clear, but how, and when, and by whom, was lost in a mess of fleeting, disjointed images- little flashes of sight and sound with no context.
He slid his feet off the pallet and worked his way upright. No dizziness, no nausea. The last of the fierce headache evaporated.
There wasn't much more to see once he was on his feet. The object at the foot of the bed was a plastic camping toilet; a half-dozen packets of wet wipes lay on the floor beside it. There was a second water bottle by the door, so Will walked over and examined it as he had the first. It seemed untampered with as well, so he drained the first and kept the full one as he made a full circuit of the room.
Single window, single door. Floor, four walls, ceiling. There weren't any visible cameras, but that didn't mean they weren't there. The door was solid metal, handleless, and locked. The peephole window was blocked by something on the far side. Will got down on the floor and tried to peer through door's slot- like in prisons for sliding food trays through- but it was covered by a metal flap that didn't budge beneath his probing fingers.
He tried the window over the bed next. It was high on the wall, and there was just enough of a lip below it that he could reach overhead and grasp it, hauling himself up. He braced one forearm along it and his toes against the wall. The mesh covering was welded to a metal frame; the bars were sunk into concrete. The lip of the window ledge was too narrow to offer much support and after a swift glance, Will was forced to slide down. He reached and jumped again and this time got a brief glimpse of tall trees, close to the building imprisoning him, and the tops of some underbrush, before his weight pulled him down once more.
Deciduous trees, in full, late-summer leaf. That and the temperature and the cardinal hinted he was probably in a temperate zone, Northern Hemisphere.
Somewhere rural. The window being left open meant no one cared if he shouted- there wouldn't be anyone to hear him.
There was no point to kicking up a fuss. For now, the best he could do was conserve his energy, stay alert, and wait.
Will settled on the pallet with his back against the wall, legs outstretched, water bottle clasped loosely in his hands.
Hours passed. The light in the room brightened and dimmed subtly as the sun moved behind the trees. Will sipped water and got up now and then to pace the room, stretch, do pullups from the window ledge and pushups on the floor. He could hear birds- robins and blue jays mostly, sparrows, another cardinal; crows also, calling back and forth from a distance, and a catbird, nearer. Once the staccato tapping of a woodpecker, and later, far away, the sharp yelp of a fox.
Rural. Forested. Remote.
And then a door clanged open, then shut.
Will was on his feet before the reverberations died away, springing to a vantage point just short of the door. Footsteps- heavy, likely booted- vibrated the floor beneath the bare soles of his feet.
There was a rattle, and the covering blanking out the window flipped back briefly, and then closed again before he could see out. Another rattle and the metal plate covering the door slot slid back.
""Hey!" Will said sharply. "Who's there?"
There was no answer. A cardboard tray holding a disposable plate, napkin, and bowl was pushed through the slot, followed by four flattish foil packets.
"Who are you? Why are you keeping me here?"
Still no answer. The metal flap started to slide closed again and Will flung himself forward to peer through it.
Not fast enough. The flap clicked, blocking any view of what might be behind the door. "Hey!" Will shouted. "Who's there? What do you want?"
Nothing. The footsteps receded; the unseen door clanged and silence descended.
Will knelt for a moment with his face pressed to the door. He thought he could hear- or maybe feel was more accurate- a low-pitched mechanical humming coming through the metal and concrete. Like from heavy-duty HVAC equipment, or a server room... or a generator.
Generator would make sense if he was being held in the ass-end of nowhere.
After another full minute of listening, he rolled to a seated position, forearms propped on his upraised knees and head drooping. Drew in a breath. Breathed out.
He'd been here- awake here, anyway- less than a day. Except for the drugs, he hadn't really been hurt. The room wasn't unpleasant, just bare and locked, and he'd been given water. He breathed in again, catching new scents; now he'd been given food as well. Will raised his head and nudged the tray closer.
Some kind of rich stew in a the Styrofoam bowl. Thick slices of bread and a pile of carrot and celery sticks on the foam plate. No utensils, even plastic ones, but, incongruously, a generous square of chocolate chip cookie bar.
As if it were a cafeteria lunch at sleepaway camp. It even came with bug juice- Will gathered up the foil packets containing juice and tossed them on the bed. The cardboard tray was flimsy; he had to lift it carefully so it didn't crumple when he moved to sit cross-legged on the pallet.
Whoever was holding him wasn't taking any chances of him fashioning a weapon.
The stew was venison; Will tipped the bowl and drank it down, then mopped the bowl with the bread, which tasted homemade. Someone living off the land, maybe? Survivalists? Anarchists?
Was he chosen randomly, or because someone knew who his employer was and held a grudge?
Will finished the food, wiped his mouth, and set the tray on the floor beside him. He scooted back to sit against the wall again. The room dimmed as twilight fell; he guessed it to be around eight o'clock. And as the light fled, so did the warmth- the air flowing through the window chilled rapidly.
A long night stretched ahead of him.
Just as real darkness enveloped the room, two things happened. The overhead light clicked on, startling Will enough that he jumped slightly.
And a car was approaching.
Will sprang up and stood beneath the window, head cocked to listen. A big engine, moving slowly. Taking a while in its approach, so probably traversing a long drive or roadway. Tires crunching over gravel, so probably unpaved. The engine grew louder, then faded again- the car had approached, then passed, the building Will was held in. He hadn't seen the sweep of headlights, so the drive wasn't too close to the building. He stood listening for long, long minutes but heard nothing more- no voices, no doors slamming.
The car didn't leave again, either.
The unseen door clanged open/shut roughly an hour later. Will had sunk down to the pallet once more; now he shot to his feet again, hands tightening involuntarily to fists. Footsteps marched down the hall, two pairs this time. The covering on the peephole window swung away and Will saw a face behind it, just visible behind the thick glass. It stared for several beats and then dipped away. A key clicked, and the lock tumbled open.
Will stepped to the side, feet apart, hands fanned from his body in an unresistant stance, just as the door swung inward. A man burst through- Will's height but broader, carrying a scoped rifle and dressed in S.W.A.T gear. Military boots, polished to a hard shine, fingerless gloves, a dark blue cap pulled backward on his head. "On your knees!" he barked. "Down! On your knees!"
Will dropped. Without being prompted, he laced his fingers behind his head. Blue Cap swept him with a glance, then the room, then returned his gaze to Will. The rifle was raised, pointed at him. Only after another beat did Blue Cap take one step out of the doorway to stand at ready alertness.
The man who entered behind him was taller, thin, with hollowed cheeks and a prominent, beak-like nose. A fringe of closely-shorn grey hair ringed the bald dome of his head. He stared down that nose at Will with cold dark eyes.
"William Brandt. IMF agent of the United States government."
Bald Man spoke with a hint of New York accent coloring his words; New York Italian, Will thought, and not Brooklyn or Bronx, more like Long Island.
He was probably not being held on Long Island, though.
It was hard to look dignified when you were nearly naked, down on your knees with your hands locked behind your head, but Will gave it his best shot. He raised his chin and met Bald Man's flat gaze squarely. "That's me, yeah. And you are?"
If he expected an angry reaction for his challenging tone, he didn't get it. Bald Man replied evenly, "Welcome to The Lodge, Mr. Brandt. I arranged for your stay here." He inclined his head in a genteel little nod. "I am the Coordinator."
"Coordinator, huh?" Will unlaced his fingers and started to lower his arms. "You coordinate what, exactly? Kidnappings?"
Blue Cap leapt forward the instant Will's arms dropped. "Hands up!" he screamed, rifle leveled at Will's forehead. "Up! Up! On your head!"
Bald Man- the Coordinator- tsked as Will instantly complied. "It's for your own safety that you remain compliant, Mr. Brandt. We- an assistant and I- have thoroughly researched you and conducted a deep-level background check. I'm very familiar with your skill-set." He gestured at the pallet. "But as long as you understand that- while regrettable and wasteful- I will have you killed if you attempt to use any of those skills on me, you may move to the bed to be more comfortable while we talk."
Will glanced from the imperturbable face of the Coordinator to the stormier one of Blue Cap. Slowly, very slowly this time, he unlaced his fingers and eased his hands out, away from his body. Blue Cap, eyes burning, remained alert but motionless, so Will drew one leg up and pushed himself off his knees. Arms still outspread, he backed slowly to the pallet.
"All the way back!" Blue Cap snapped, with a sharp motion of the rifle barrel. "Sit! Hands behind your back, shoulders on the wall. Legs spread- wider! You shift 'em, you get a bullet to the brain."
Will settled into the dictated position. This was easier on his knees, but he was still looking up at the Coordinator. The other man towered above Will.
The Coordinator rested the heels of his hands on his hipbones, fingers tucked into the pockets of his dark brown canvas pants. They were work pants, Will noted, as were the olive drab shirt and the boots the other man wore. Work clothing that looked clean and pressed but well-worn, a habitual outfit rather than one worn for show.
His fingers were long and knotted, nicked with a few paler scars. A plain gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand peeked above the edge of the pants pocket. The backs of his hands and the top of his head were spotted with darker patches from hours, over many years, spent outdoors. A working man's clothes, Will thought, and a working man's body.
"So, you never answered my question," he said, letting an edge of insolence creep into his voice. "What are you a coordinator of? What's the whole objective here that you need to coordinate?"
If the other man had noticed Will's scrutiny and cataloging of details, he didn't seem bothered; nor did he object to Will's tone. He stood easily, shoulders slightly stooped, face blank of any expression, and spoke in a measured voice. "I'll explain. No interruptions, you understand? I explain, you listen; you can ask questions at the end." Will didn't bother with a response, and the man continued, "It's simple, really. You are an asset in a service I offer. The main attraction, actually." The Coordinator paused, regarding Will with remorseless eyes. "You're a soldier, but an undercover one," he said softly. "A warrior in the trappings of a pencil-pusher. We- again, my assistant and I- have perfected the art of identifying, tracking, and procuring such warriors. Because they're the best kind. Ones who look ordinary on the outside but possess extraordinary skills within. Those who are unpredictable. Unexpected." He paused again. "Entertaining."
The menace in that one word startled Will into speech, despite the earlier warning. "Entertaining, how?" he asked. "Who are you planning to entertain?"
"My clients," the Coordinator replied. "Customers, really, but for what they pay, I flatter them with a classier name." He rocked a little on his heels. "You're familiar with the phrase 'The thrill of the hunt'? That's what we offer here at The Lodge- a challenging, private hunting experience."
Will jerked forward, just barely refraining from yanking his hands from behind his back. "Are you nuts? I'm a government agent- I don't contract out for private hunting duties, especially in this kind of scenario!"
The Coordinator's eyes glowed with real emotion for the first time since he'd walked through the door. "Oh, you misunderstand me, Mr. Brandt. You're not here to be the hunter." His lip curled in a faint sneer.
"No, you're the prey."
tbc
