FF_992224_ 6/26/2014
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. Flashpoint and its characters belongs to its creator and producers.
Disclaimer 2: This is not a crossover. Any character names you recognize from any other TV series are just an attempt to honor those characters and not reproduce them.
A/N: Still dark. Ali is still NOT very nice to Sam...
Ed and Troy didn't know what the commander said, but after Greg ended the call, he scrubbed his hands over his face before looking to his colleagues and asking, "So, where are we?"
Sam didn't know how long he was out before the water in his face brought him back to the surface. He moaned once, before getting himself back under control. A grunt was all he let escape when his head was jerked up by the hand in his hair. He could feel the plane moving and knew that they were already in the air. Otherwise, Ali wouldn't have left his seat to torture him yet again.
The gun was ground into his left temple once more, and Sam knew that if he survived, it would take a long time for the "muzzle-stamp" bruise to fade. While it was visible, it would horrify anyone who saw it, because there was nothing it could be but the impression of a gun that'd been held to his head. "Normal" people couldn't fathom having that done to them. Even his family and friends would be horrified, because it would tell them approximately how many times Ali had done this to him. The dry click brought him out of his thoughts, and he suppressed his dark humor at the thought that he'd become so used to Ali's game, he'd gotten distracted waiting to see if he was going to die this time.
And then all thought fled when the whip crashed into his chest. This one was different from the first: it had multiple strands, and each strand had several knots tied along its length, causing it to feel like a dozen fists slamming into him at the same time. Sam couldn't hold back his screams at each lash. He hung limply from his bonds, lacking the strength to hold himself up. But he didn't lose consciousness. He cried out in pain as they cut his bonds and turned him again. And then the beating began once more. Sam couldn't hear his screams anymore, not because he wasn't expressing his agony, but because his voice was gone. He didn't know how long the beating lasted this time, but it was ended when Ali told them to desist, not when he lost consciousness.
"Mohammad," Ali commanded. When the other man moved to him, they had several moments of quiet conversation before Mohammad moved back to Sam. Sam was surprised when the cloth holding the gag in his mouth was untied, and the gag itself pulled out. He had to struggle not to vomit as the noxious cloth was removed. Mohammad held something to his mouth and commanded in Pashtu, "Drink."
Sam tentatively, then gratefully drank the cool water that was offered.
Again something was held to his mouth, and he was commanded, "Eat."
Though Sam slowly ate the slice of bread as it was offered, he was confused. He thought that Ali wanted him dead. This care made it seem like Ali wanted him alive for some time. Uneasiness filled him at the possibilities of what that meant for his future. Still, he ate every bite of both pieces of bread that were offered. He had to suppress his gag reflex though, when the fetid cloth was returned to his mouth. The cloth holding it in was replaced, tied even tighter, causing the corners of his mouth to crack and bleed. Sam sighed mentally; it seemed like his break was coming to an end.
Sam jerked when Ali spoke next to his ear. He hadn't heard the other man approaching. "I think you are really going to like this next whip," he said, smirking. "It is my favorite. The diamond dust on the lash provides endless entertainment."
Sam shuddered. But the whip wasn't immediately put into play. First Ali ground the gun into his temple again, going through the game twice and resetting it after the first five clicks. Sam knew that he was becoming desensitized to the brutal game. He was distracted during the wait for the resulting clicks, his mind wandering everywhere from what was going on with his friends and family, to what was going to happen to him after they arrived in Afghanistan. It wasn't until the whip bit into his back, that he was drawn back to the events that were happening to him now.
The break had allowed his voice to recover a bit, so his screams were audible through the gag for a short time, until it was gone again. Sam could feel the blood running down his back, as each slash bit into his skin, shredding his shirt in the process. He couldn't suppress his screams and didn't waste the remains of his strength with even trying. He was saving his strength for when he absolutely had to hold on. When the beating finally stopped, Sam was hanging limply from his bonds again. The rest of the plane ride was spent in the same manner, with periods of the brutal game of Russian Roulette interspersed with beatings with the whips, although the diamond dust whip was used sparingly, because apparently Ali wanted him to arrive alive wherever they were going.
Sam was re-fastened more securely to the arms of the seats when the plane approached its destination. Although he'd been given water once more before landing, he'd had nothing more to eat. And the gag and blindfold were tightened to the point of pain. His knees were aching from bearing his weight for so long. And his legs were cramping from the position he'd been forced to endure. Sam took a choking breath, gathered his strength, and just endured. There was nothing else he could do at this point.
Sam was ignored for a while after the plane landed. Finally Ali ordered Farad to bring him. Sam couldn't stop the cry of pain as his arms were released from the seats, twisted behind his back and bound again. His legs gave way as he was pulled upright, so Farad directed another man to grab his other arm and they just dragged him along. He exited the plane the same way he'd entered it, pushed and pulled from both directions, with no choice in his movement. He was shoved up into the back of a truck and at least four men entered behind him. Sam knew that he still had no options, except to endure.
And so he endured the long hours in the back of the truck: bound, gagged, and blindfolded. He endured the random blows when the men who travelled with him got bored. He endured the more painful cigarette burns and beatings when the convoy he was apparently a part of halted for a break. And he endured the hunger pains and thirst as nothing was given to him for the duration of the ride. Sam estimated that it had been about eight hours before the convoy came to a halt for the night.
Sam was taken into a building and his hands refastened in front of him. A rope was threaded through his bonds and he was pulled upward until his feet just touched the ground. He didn't try to hold back his screams when he was beaten again with the metal tipped and knotted whips. Ali's voice in his ear brought a shudder, but no other reaction. Ali whispered his hatred in his words about vengeance and justice. Sam endured them, too. He was holding on, using as much of his strength as he needed to endure, but no more. He knew he had to ration his strength, and he was doing it as best he could. Dread filled him but he showed no signs of it when Ali put the gun to his head once more. Five times the chamber was spun after five empty clicks. Sam had to wonder if there really was a bullet in the gun. But it didn't matter – he still could do nothing more than endure.
The SRU and JTF2 teams gathered together after several days of investigation and research. "What do we have?" Robert Braddock asked, starting the meeting.
"We have a link between Corporal Jackson and Ali Achmed Adar," Spike stated definitively.
"What did you find?" Commander Holleran asked.
"We found a series of payments from Ali to a bank account in the Caymans. There were also a series of withdrawals from this account that exactly match deposits into an account registered to Corporal Robert Jackson." It was Alex Haile who responded.
"It's only because of the media storm that your press conference generated, that we were able to get this information," Frank Mueller said. "The bank actually contacted us when the president saw a re-broadcast of the interview with you and the general."
"Is there anything there that could help us locate them before it's too late?" General Braddock asked quietly, his eyes hooded.
"No," Spike admitted. He met the general's gaze. "We're no closer to having any information on their location." He sighed quietly. "But we have verified that the bank that Ali used to send the payments is located in Kandahar."
The general let out a single curse, and moved towards the window of the conference room. A cell phone rang into the resulting silence. It was the general who pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He listened more than he spoke, just asking for confirmation several times before he ended the call.
Taking a deep breath, he spoke, turning to face the teams as he did, "That was General Ralph Forrester of the United States Army. They've been contacted by someone claiming to represent Malik Farad Al-Hamad, the head of the Taliban in Afghanistan. Apparently this contact is saying that Ali Adar contacted Al-Hamad, wanting to give him Sam." He ignored the reactions to that statement and continued. "He claims that the Taliban want no part of it, and that they will return Sam to the Americans as soon as he's in their custody."
"Do the Americans believe them?" Holleran asked.
"They're looking for confirmation that the representative is who he says he is right now," Braddock replied. "Ralph is a friend and he'll let me know as soon as they've either confirmed or refuted the contact's credentials."
"And in the meantime, sir…" Bryan Jamison asked.
Braddock let out a short, heavy sigh. "In the meantime, we do what we've been doing… and wait."
"Yes, sir," Bryan replied, disappointed. He wanted to do something that felt like it was making a difference. Looking around the room and then back at the general, he could see that he wasn't the only one.
A/N: Please let me know if you're still reading...
