The glare of white-washed walls pressed uncomfortably against Becker's eyes as he made his way through the underground corridors. He moved quickly, knowing that there were cameras down here having placed them himself. At this point he could only pray that Johnson was short-staffed enough to not be monitoring all cameras. A quick crack of his gun's magazine revealed a disappointing three bullets remaining.
He knew these passages well enough to be sure that he was nearby a satellite phone. The ARC kept these communicators on hand in case of a power shortage or cell tower failure. Now with any luck Johnson didn't know about then. . .
Becker found his way to the satellite box. It was perched on the wall in a small alcove. He looked both ways down the corridor before sticking the gun in his waistband and using the handcuff key again to jimmy open the locked box. He really didn't want to have to shoot the lock off. A few more pries with the key and he was able to jam one of the cuff loops under the lid and apply enough leverage to wrench the small door off. Again, Becker glanced uneasily both ways, uncomfortable with the apparent slackness of Johnson's soldiers.
He reached inside and took the clumsy satellite phone from its cradle. The phone was based on GPS tracking coordinates rather than traditional phone numbers, so Becker knew he could reach Danny at the pre-arranged safehouse.
He keyed in the first coordinate, the phone's screen showing a pixelated zoom. Becker was still uncomfortable. The soldier's sense at the base of his neck prickled.
He keyed in the second coordinate, the phone's big screen zooming in further.
He raised his hand to key in the third coordinate for triangulation.
Becker stopped. The sweat trickling down his neck was cold.
He lowered his hand. This was the reason there were no soldiers around. He reached for the gun at his waistband but wasn't quick enough. A barrel clicked above his head.
"You didn't seriously think we would let you escape that easily, did you Captain?"
Becker turned his head slowly, then up. The air vent above him had swung open and a gun pointed down from the darkness.
You fool.
They roughly tied Becker to the straight-backed chair that faced Christine Johnson's desk. The glass walls meant that Becker could see the whole central hub of the ARC and just how many men Johnson had.
She slapped Becker to get his attention.
"I'm losing my patience, Captain," she said in a low voice, "Tell me the third coordinate." She held out the satellite phone with the two already-typed coordinates pulsing gently, her finger ready to key in the next number.
Becker let all of his disgust show on his face as she circled him. He felt, rather than saw her beckon to a couple of her men. One grasped Becker's hair from behind while the other swung his fist into Becker's jaw.
"The coordinates?"
No answer. They hit Becker again.
"I'm not playing at this Captain, I intend to get what I want."
Nothing.
Another blow.
Becker's nose and mouth were bleeding now. He refused to make a sound, but that resolve was wearing thin.
"Anything you want to say, Captain?"
This time the soldier drove his fist against Becker's ear, the force hard enough to tip his chair over and leave Becker lying on his left side, still tied. All his weight bore down on his left arm, trapped between the floor and the chair's back. Becker clenched his teeth. The fall had knocked most of his breath out, and recovering meant straining his shattered ribs even more.
Christine Johnson knelt down next to his head. A strand of dark hair had fallen over Becker's eyes and she gently brushed it away. Becker recoiled sharply at her touch. Her hand lingered on his temple, invading his space. After several beats, she withdrew it. Her touch left a sick feeling in Becker's stomach.
A soldier handed Johnson a clumsy-looking box with wire trailing from it.
"Thank you," she murmured, placing it on the floor. She reached for Becker's shirt button.
Realizing what the box was, Becker struggled against her prying fingers. It didn't matter. She swiftly unbuttoned his combat jacket, exposing his undershirt. Lifting the hem, she attached two wires to his chest and two to his stomach. Her touch on his torso was cold. Johnson smiled. She knew Becker was breaking.
Sitting back, Christine Johnson took the generator in her hands and turned the dial a quarter of the way up.
Becker's back arched, his eyes wide. In his head he heard someone yelling . . . was it himself? The electricity burned through his body, a white-hot pain that filled every inch of him.
Then it stopped. Panting, the pain in his ribs forgotten, Becker looked up at Johnson and found her smiling down at him. He was trapped, immobile. He tried to remember that he was doing this for Danny and the team, but as the dial was turned up again he found it harder and harder to remember.
Twenty minutes later, Becker's screams still echoed through the atrium of the ARC. Some of the soldiers were uncomfortable, some didn't care.
In Christine Johnson's office, she turned the dial down from its three-quarter setting and sat back, dispassionately observing her handiwork. Moisture beaded in the corners of Becker's eyes, his angry tears unshed. He was shaking uncontrollably. He spat at her, but no saliva came out.
Johnson's eyes narrowed, her mouth a tight line.
Becker knew that pulling at his bonds was useless, but his spasming muscles kept trying anyways. Christine worked her fingers under his shirt and and slowly peeled the electrodes off his stomach. The burns were fresh and raw. Becker whimpered, hating himself instantly for being so weak, but he couldn't stop.
Christine Johnson smiled at the pathetic noise, leaning closer and enjoying the suffering in Becker's dark eyes. He shivered at the naked greed in her face, realizing properly for perhaps the first time that she was going to make him do something he didn't want to.
