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Chapter Seven
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It took Colonel Franklin Clay two days to finally pin his sniper down. And, in that time, Grey's men and Clay's men had "accidentally" ran into each others' fists at least four times. Five of Grey's were in the infirmary. Pouch had a black eye and Roque was taking a three day cooling off period in with the MPs. General Morrison was hoping to be rid of the DOD presence before Army regulations said he had to release the Captain or officially charge him with something he couldn't shake off.
All in all, finding Cougar had been the first bit of good news Clay had had in what seemed a very long time.
Turned out Cougar had actually gone hunting! For meat! And not long pork, though still of the swine variety. Word was spreading like wild fire through the base that an impromptu Luau was on for the next night.
Cougar looked rough, as if he had taken down the beast with his bare hands. And, though there were some long distance thanks and good hunt, no one dared to get close enough to actually disturb the man everyone knew as rattlesnake deadly.
Clay had caught up with him on his way out of the mess after seeing the giant wild boar handed off to the cooks. "Damn it all to hell, Cougs! You had me fuckin' well out of my skull! I thought you went after Grey and his dumbshits!" he complained falling in step beside him as he made his way to their barracks.
Cougar just grunted. It wasn't really an apology. More of an "if I had gone after Grey, he'd be dead by now."
And Clay understood every bit of it. "You can't kill them." he told the man. "Already have Roque in the clinker. And we're down a tech... Lose another body and we might as well pack up and go home, 'cause there won't be a team left."
Cougar stopped at the mention of the tech. When Clay stopped to look back at him, he ground out in a rough voice not used in two days "J is not dead!"
Clay sighed. He took the couple of steps back to face off with Cougar, something not even Roque would attempt. "I don't know if he is or isn't. God's honest truth, I just don't know! What I do know is that somewhere out there is a raving lunatic snatching and selling kids barely old enough to shave. I want that bastard! I want to make sure that this does not happen again! Ever again! Under my watch! You tell me that isn't what you want and I'll get you transferred to some other team! But, if you want that Blond bastard half as much as I do... for taking Jenson, for everything he did to him, what he might still be doing to him... Then get the fuck on board! I need a team! And I'm not waiting for you all to get your panties unbunched enough to think straight!"
For a moment of held breaths, the two men glared at each other. Then Cougar actually smiled. He reached up to scratch at the stubble of his chin, before asking "So, how Roque get locked up?"
It took Clay another breath to translate the change of topic to its proper "I'm with you, Boss." He had to force himself to relax and take a step back. "He couldn't find a pig to shoot." he finally answered. The two men continued on towards the barracks. They had walked a ways in silence, before Clay spoke again, admitting "I don't know how or why his records said that was Jenson, but my gut tells my it's wrong. It might be just wishful grumbling, I don't know. There's a whole heaping that I don't know right now. What I do know is that Mr. Blond has all the answers. We find him, we find the truth." He glanced sideways to see Cougar's reaction.
As usual, the sniper's reaction was barely noticeable, even to those who knew him best. The man was as stone faced as ever.
So, Clay continued "I've convinced the General that the Losers need some down time. Well, Doc Myers practically beg for it. Said we're all suffering PTSD."
"Humph." was Cougar's response.
The Colonel smiled. "Well, play it up. We get a few weeks or more on our own, without government over sight, and we'll get a hell of a lot more done. Before we hit the road though, we need to borrow one of Taylor's hackers. See if we can't find ourselves a few human traffickers."
Cougar rested his rifle up on his shoulder. "So... goin' huntin'?"
Clay bobbed his head. "Goin' huntin'." he agreed.
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The Shower Room.
The name in itself wasn't really something that struck fear in most soldiers. Fact was a soldier out in the sweltering ass end of the world, whether it be jungle or dessert, cherished the few times a shower could be had. First few minutes on any new forward post were sure to hold the three most important questions: Food? Shit? Shower? Depending on how long a troop had been out in the wild, so to speak, the questions were often answered without the need to ask: Mess there, Latrine over there, and, God, man, you stink; Shower there! Now! Please! That's an order!
So, when one Corporal Jake Jenson was shown to the Shower Room, even in the company of his current tormentors, he had trouble mustering the dread he knew he should have been feeling.
That didn't last long.
Mr. White had lead him by the chain attached to his shackle, like a dog on a leash, out the door of his room and into a long hall. There were only three doors to the hall. His room door, a large steel door half way down, and, at the far end, a door with the upper half being fogged window.
Jenson had been amazed by that window and the orange light that illuminated that end of the hall through it.
Orange light!
Either they were some real weird decorators, or that was sunlight!
That door lead out!
Outside!
Freedom!
Home!
But it was the steel door that Mr. White had stopped them at.
The cold air that hit Jenson when he was shoved in was almost a slap to the face. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he suffered yet another shock: "Shower room, my ass. You boys all gone Fifty Shades of Crazy in here!"
It was a large room, floor and walls all cold cement. There were no windows, the only light coming from an inlaid bulb behind wire mesh at each of the four corners. The floor slanted down to the center where a small drain was found. Hanging from the ceiling, above the drain, was a hook, supposedly to hang something... someone... from. Above the hook was a rather large shower head. Two pressure sock guns aimed at the center of the room from opposite walls, cold water dripping from their nozzles. Hanging from the walls was a variety of "toys" that any torturer would giggle with glee at the sight: cattle prods and defibrillators, whips and riding crops, bamboo sticks and mallets of all sizes, tongs and knives, pokers and screws, hoses and a blow horn, cuffs and chains, candles and matches, salt and vinegar, and he was pretty sure those were a collection of varies sizes of dildos (J was about to crack a joke about those, but decided he really didn't want to draw any attention to them).
Jenson forced himself not to look at it all. Clay had once told him that a good interrogation was done before a hair was out of place, using only the fear of what could happen. Roque followed that lesson up with "but, sometimes, demonstrations, just to show you ain't foolin' is needed."
Even looking away from the wall of horrors he found yet another horror: an actual Stretch Armstrong rack! And an odd looking chair with a hole in the seat and a padded, triangle shaped head piece with tubes dangling from it.
If intimidation was the goal, then they had won. Jenson was most definitely feeling intimidated!
Mr. White tugged him to the center of the room and jerked his chain up and over the hook. It took three or four grabs to snatch Jenson's free hand which he latched to the end of the chain, leaving him to dangle, toes barely touching the floor. Satisfied that his captive was secure, Mr. White bent down and yanked Jenson's boxers down, throwing them off into the shadows, never to be seen again.
"Hey... least you could do is buy me a drink first." Jenson joked, though his voice squeaked just enough.
Unlike Mr. Pink who seemed to relish in using words as a torture, Mr. White preferred the silent treatment, delving straight into his cold hearted work. He stepped back behind the nearest water canon and flipped the handle.
Jenson was suddenly pounded by a spray of icy cold water with enough force that it would raise welts across his skin. He gasped as the cold seemed to cut right down to the bone and stole the air right out of his lungs. He tried to twist away from the spray, protect some of his more sensitive areas, but then the other water canon was turned on and he was pinned between the two powerful sprays.
The twin sprays compressed on his chest so he couldn't take anything more than a shallow breath, and the heavy with the water in the air. One pounded his kidneys from behind while the other was gut punching him. While one seemed to be driving icy nails into his butt cheeks, the other struck at his gentiles like... like an icy pain that Jenson couldn't possibly think of a comparison to. He actually managed to wonder, through all the mind numbing cold and pounding, if his junk would actually just fall off if this went on too long.
The captive began to feel panic grip his chest, which didn't make the struggle to breath any better. He didn't know if he was drowning or suffocating.
Was there a difference?
Did it matter?
Dead was dead!
Did it really matter how he ended up that way?
His little world swirled with wet fog and cold darkness, cracked here and there by a flash of pain. He lost track of his fingers and toes, then his arms and legs, and then his lips and ears. He was becoming smaller and smaller and smaller...
...
...
...
...
With a gasp, Jenson arched his back against the bed as if he had been launched back into the world of bright light and some form of warmth. Before his mind could even register that he could actually breath, his body was already gulping at the air until his chest began to ache anew, this time from too much rather than too little.
"Gently, gently, my beauty." cooed a soft voice as a gentle hand laid on his bare chest. "Slow, deep breaths."
His mind fought to regain control of his body, but everything was doing whatever it wanted to do. His chest flamed, his throat burned, every muscle seemed to be shivering to its own rhythm, his heart pounded in his ears, his fingers frozen in strained claw like positions, his legs so straight his knees, ankles, even his toes popped.
But, cutting through it all, was that calm, reassuring voice coaching him to breath, the gentle stroke of those warm hands as they massaged straining muscles into relaxing.
Slowly, Jenson couldn't guess how long it took, his body began to respond, drifting back into the warmth of the bed. His breath steadied and his heart quieted to a soft, back ground rhythm. Finally, he sighed with relief.
"There's my beauty." cooed that voice, hands gliding over his bare flesh, igniting new tinges and tickles. "My good boy."
Jenson froze, holding his breath, fists clenching.
He knew that voice!
How could he ever forget that voice!
Reaching for him in the dark...
Hammering away at him...
Trying to make him into something new...
A weapon!
A commodity!
For the first time since he had awoken, Jenson forced his bleary eyes to focus on the man at his bedside.
Mr. Blond reached out and carefully slid Jenson's glasses in place. "Better?" he asked with that Great White smile of his. His hands returned to stroking his captive's chest and stomach.
It took Jenson another moment to realize he was butt ass naked, not even his boxers to offer some scrap of dignity. Now he laid exposed for all the world to see and do with as they pleased.
God, he wanted to go home!
"Don't..." he managed before coughing. With a gulp of air, Jenson pushed out "Don't... fuckin'... touch me... you fucked up... pervert!"
Mr. Blond paused and looked at him with one raised eyebrow. "Well, now, that was two fucks in one sentence." He smirked. "We're not hinting now, are we?" His fingers made light swirls on his lower stomach, so very close to where Jenson did not want him to be.
For that matter, Jenson didn't want the man anywhere near him!
But, then again, if Mr. Blond was here, that meant White and Pink were not hurting him. And Jake could really use a little time where no one was hurting him. Just a little time... just a little...
Would it be so bad, just for a little time...
With a helpless groan, he let his head fall back and squeezed his eyes close. He felt like curling up and balling like a baby.
Oh, wouldn't that be the time for Roque to bust in through the door? Just in time to see him weeping like a sixties house wife in a room full of spiders! He'd never hear the last of it!
If Roque ever busted through that door and saved him, he would gladly suffer a lifetime of teasing.
If...
He used to be able to picture it so well, the rescue. But, now, he wondered if there would ever be a rescue, if there were any friends left, brothers still alive, to preform such a rescue. Or were they all gone? Everyone who remembered him, who cared for him, who would go to the ends of the earth for him... were they all gone?
Was there no hope?
A hand slid down his bare thigh and over his leg. "Such long, wonderfully constructed limbs." Mr. Blond purred. "A master piece chiseled from stone... yet ever so fragile, cracking and breaking, bits of the brave facade falling away..."
Jenson twisted out from under his touch, scooting back until he was sitting back against the headboard. Glaring at Mr. Blond, he challenged "Wanna see how broken I am? Give me a computer!"
That deadly Great White smile flashed with even brighter. "I think we have a ways to go before I actually hand you your greatest weapon. Of course, there are... other ways you can convince me that you are succumbing to your training." Again the hand on his leg, squeezing gently, meaningfully. "Give me reasons to stay longer, shielding you from our enthusiastic Mr. White and Mr. Pink."
Jenson lifted his chin. "I get it. It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again?" he huffed.
Mr. Blond actually chuckled. "Well, I am sure we can arrange lotion." Still, he removed his hands, folding them in his lap. "Do you wish me to leave? Knowing what waits for you once I am gone?"
Jenson was ready with a snap reply, but it died on the tip of his tongue. The memory of that room... and all he had experienced so far was a little water! He couldn't stop the shiver that ran through his body, igniting every bruise and ache. He tried to bit back a groan, but he just wasn't strong enough.
"Shhhh." Mr. Blond offered comfort with a gentle touch on his bare foot.
His captive jerked his foot away, pulling up his legs, wrapping his one arm around his knees.
Mr. Blond smiled. "You know, she was right, our sweet little Doctor."
Jenson blinked at him.
"Hope." the wicked man continued, his voice soft, caring. "Hope is the cruelest of mistresses."
Jake felt his chest tighten, remembering his conversation with the Doctor. He had thought she was a possible friend, a light in all this darkness. But she had betrayed him, exposed even more of him to this Great White predator.
Of course she had betrayed him! She was probably given the same choice given him: lotion or hose. Information or pain! How could he expect her to go through that for him? She didn't even know him! What made him think she would go through anything for him?!
And now he was really pissed off.
Leaning forward, he growled at his tormentor "If my options are you or the hose... I'll chose the hose every time!"
Mr. Blond's smile flickered. He slowly rose to his feet. "Well... perhaps you are not yet ready for options." he admitted. "Once I leave, it will be sometime before I return. Ah, but fear not for a lack of entertainment. I understand Mr. White and Mr. Pink have quite a scheduled in plan for you. Do try to enjoy yourself. I know they will."
And then he was gone, out the door.
Jenson didn't even have time to take a breath before Mr. Pink entered the room and gave him a grin.
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