WARNING: Fairly detailed and potentially vivid torture described within. If you're squeamish about such things, proceed with caution.
****************************************
Volgograd
Same Day (December 14)
1746 local
According to her internal clock, she had been in the cell for precisely a day now, Mac thought, as she watched the last few weak rays of sunlight wither to dusk. In that time, she'd had little to occupy her time, but much to occupy her mind.
Bad as the jail in Yekaterinburg had been, this one was far worse. It was much older, the walls and floors being stone rather than cement. There were no bars for this jail; the only openings were the tiny window, far above her head and covered with iron grating, and the door, a massive metal-bound wooden affair. Empty except for a crude chamber pot and a small pallet of moldy straw, it was cold, damp, dark, and disgusting. Frankly, it was more dungeon and less jail cell. At least there hadn't been any rats yet.
The lack of rodent company was one of the very few positive points. The lack of attention she'd received had surprisingly been one of the others. Other than some basic food slid through a slot in the bottom of the door, she'd seen nor heard any sign of human presence.
And that was bad... because one of the humans she'd not seen nor heard from was Clayton Webb. They'd been blindfolded shortly after being loaded into the trucks. From the truck, they'd been transferred to a helicopter, but Webb had still been with her. He'd deliberately stumbled on getting in, tripping into her. Not exactly subtle, but she'd known he was there. And as much as she prided herself on being a tough, self-sufficient Marine, the knowledge of his presence had been a tiny but welcome comfort. Hey, even the Marines needed reinforcements sometimes.
But they'd been separated ever since the helo landed, and she'd been brought here. Wherever Webb was, she could only hope he was all right.
Webb wasn't the only one in her thoughts. She stood and paced the cramped confines of the room, attempting to both warm herself and keep her thoughts from turning to Harm. She wasn't particularly successful at either.
Harm... She shook her head, as if attempting to banish the darker, bleaker possibilities from her mind. If nothing else, she could somewhat reassure herself with the fact that he wasn't alone; he had his cousin, who, somewhat surprisingly, had proven herself to be highly resourceful. She tried to reassure herself with that thought.
Mercedes would make sure Harm got out safely, she told herself. No matter what happened, Harm would be safe. Even if Mac herself wasn't.
It wasn't her nature to give up, but trapped in this medieval throwback of a cell and seemingly forgotten, hope was fading all too fast. Whoever this General Tikhomirov was, he obviously had more than enough money and power to make people disappear. People like her.
Giving in to her growing despair, she thought of the past two years in particular. What a waste, she realized. She let herself get lost, let her emotions override her sense. Taking Mic's ring, letting that farce continue, that hadn't even been her biggest error. Her biggest mistake had been giving up. Plain and simple. She'd given up on Harm that night on the ferry. Yes, he'd left, and yes, it hurt like hell. It had been an open wound that refused to heal, instead festering to the point where she'd let a man who tried to convict her of murder slowly replace one who would and had gone to hell and back for her.
What the hell had she been thinking? There had been a time when she wouldn't have let anything stop her from getting what she wanted. But a small voice in her head reminded her: Harm left.
And she answered back with what should have been equally as important all along: he came back. And for all the pain, all the hurt he caused her, he always stood by her, stood up for her in so many ways. In some way, he was always with her, whether she wanted him there or not.
Why?
There was only one answer, one single reason that made sense. She just hoped that same reason wouldn't lead him to death in the midst of a harsh Russian winter.
************************************************
Same location
Different cell
He always had an odd relationship with death, reflected Clayton Webb. It seemed like he either knew far too much about its circumstances, or far too little. In the case of his father, it was too little.
Now, facing his own, he freely acknowledged he knew far, far too much.
They'd figured out who he was a while ago. Before then, it had been mostly intimidation, with an occasional slap or punch thrown in for variety. Then the folder had been passed to Tikhomirov.
General Kyril Andreievitch Tikhomirov. One of the most outright brutal men to ever serve Mother Russia. Early in his army career, Tikhomirov had learned that the more extreme his threats were, the better results he achieved-- particularly since he had no qualms about carrying out those threats, and often did. Both his reputation and his methods had served him well, giving him a rapid rise in the GRU, the military version of the KGB.
Anyone who might question that reputation need only look at the current scene. Trapped in the closest thing to a medieval torture chamber he'd ever seen, Clay hung suspended from a set of shackles that were bolted to the ceiling. His feet were only inches from the ground, inches from granting his hyper-extended arms and shoulders some relief from their burden.
The methods had varied, once he'd been moved to this chamber of horrors. His refusal to speak initially inspired a simple beating, which was later augmented by the General himself pressing his lit cigar into the sensitive skin on the underside of his arms. Then came the cat o' nine tails, flaying the skin across his back in bloody strips. Finally, they had doused him in cold water and administered electrical shocks, before quitting, at least for a while.
He'd been left, soaking wet, simply to hang, while the coldness stole what remaining warmth he had, pain becoming the only thing he could feel. His mind wandered; to Mac, praying that she was safe and not being subjected to Tikhomirov's wrath; to Harm, hoping that the man would think first and act second when the inevitable rescue was staged; to Mercedes, sharp-witted and stubborn, a haunted beauty. They were all victims of Tikhomirov, really, himself included. The Russian had brought pain in many forms to all of their lives.
But hopefully, if there was any mercy in this world, only his own death would be credited to Kyril Andreievitch.
Just like that, he suspected, of Lieutenant Harmon Rabb Sr.
TBC.....
****************************************
Volgograd
Same Day (December 14)
1746 local
According to her internal clock, she had been in the cell for precisely a day now, Mac thought, as she watched the last few weak rays of sunlight wither to dusk. In that time, she'd had little to occupy her time, but much to occupy her mind.
Bad as the jail in Yekaterinburg had been, this one was far worse. It was much older, the walls and floors being stone rather than cement. There were no bars for this jail; the only openings were the tiny window, far above her head and covered with iron grating, and the door, a massive metal-bound wooden affair. Empty except for a crude chamber pot and a small pallet of moldy straw, it was cold, damp, dark, and disgusting. Frankly, it was more dungeon and less jail cell. At least there hadn't been any rats yet.
The lack of rodent company was one of the very few positive points. The lack of attention she'd received had surprisingly been one of the others. Other than some basic food slid through a slot in the bottom of the door, she'd seen nor heard any sign of human presence.
And that was bad... because one of the humans she'd not seen nor heard from was Clayton Webb. They'd been blindfolded shortly after being loaded into the trucks. From the truck, they'd been transferred to a helicopter, but Webb had still been with her. He'd deliberately stumbled on getting in, tripping into her. Not exactly subtle, but she'd known he was there. And as much as she prided herself on being a tough, self-sufficient Marine, the knowledge of his presence had been a tiny but welcome comfort. Hey, even the Marines needed reinforcements sometimes.
But they'd been separated ever since the helo landed, and she'd been brought here. Wherever Webb was, she could only hope he was all right.
Webb wasn't the only one in her thoughts. She stood and paced the cramped confines of the room, attempting to both warm herself and keep her thoughts from turning to Harm. She wasn't particularly successful at either.
Harm... She shook her head, as if attempting to banish the darker, bleaker possibilities from her mind. If nothing else, she could somewhat reassure herself with the fact that he wasn't alone; he had his cousin, who, somewhat surprisingly, had proven herself to be highly resourceful. She tried to reassure herself with that thought.
Mercedes would make sure Harm got out safely, she told herself. No matter what happened, Harm would be safe. Even if Mac herself wasn't.
It wasn't her nature to give up, but trapped in this medieval throwback of a cell and seemingly forgotten, hope was fading all too fast. Whoever this General Tikhomirov was, he obviously had more than enough money and power to make people disappear. People like her.
Giving in to her growing despair, she thought of the past two years in particular. What a waste, she realized. She let herself get lost, let her emotions override her sense. Taking Mic's ring, letting that farce continue, that hadn't even been her biggest error. Her biggest mistake had been giving up. Plain and simple. She'd given up on Harm that night on the ferry. Yes, he'd left, and yes, it hurt like hell. It had been an open wound that refused to heal, instead festering to the point where she'd let a man who tried to convict her of murder slowly replace one who would and had gone to hell and back for her.
What the hell had she been thinking? There had been a time when she wouldn't have let anything stop her from getting what she wanted. But a small voice in her head reminded her: Harm left.
And she answered back with what should have been equally as important all along: he came back. And for all the pain, all the hurt he caused her, he always stood by her, stood up for her in so many ways. In some way, he was always with her, whether she wanted him there or not.
Why?
There was only one answer, one single reason that made sense. She just hoped that same reason wouldn't lead him to death in the midst of a harsh Russian winter.
************************************************
Same location
Different cell
He always had an odd relationship with death, reflected Clayton Webb. It seemed like he either knew far too much about its circumstances, or far too little. In the case of his father, it was too little.
Now, facing his own, he freely acknowledged he knew far, far too much.
They'd figured out who he was a while ago. Before then, it had been mostly intimidation, with an occasional slap or punch thrown in for variety. Then the folder had been passed to Tikhomirov.
General Kyril Andreievitch Tikhomirov. One of the most outright brutal men to ever serve Mother Russia. Early in his army career, Tikhomirov had learned that the more extreme his threats were, the better results he achieved-- particularly since he had no qualms about carrying out those threats, and often did. Both his reputation and his methods had served him well, giving him a rapid rise in the GRU, the military version of the KGB.
Anyone who might question that reputation need only look at the current scene. Trapped in the closest thing to a medieval torture chamber he'd ever seen, Clay hung suspended from a set of shackles that were bolted to the ceiling. His feet were only inches from the ground, inches from granting his hyper-extended arms and shoulders some relief from their burden.
The methods had varied, once he'd been moved to this chamber of horrors. His refusal to speak initially inspired a simple beating, which was later augmented by the General himself pressing his lit cigar into the sensitive skin on the underside of his arms. Then came the cat o' nine tails, flaying the skin across his back in bloody strips. Finally, they had doused him in cold water and administered electrical shocks, before quitting, at least for a while.
He'd been left, soaking wet, simply to hang, while the coldness stole what remaining warmth he had, pain becoming the only thing he could feel. His mind wandered; to Mac, praying that she was safe and not being subjected to Tikhomirov's wrath; to Harm, hoping that the man would think first and act second when the inevitable rescue was staged; to Mercedes, sharp-witted and stubborn, a haunted beauty. They were all victims of Tikhomirov, really, himself included. The Russian had brought pain in many forms to all of their lives.
But hopefully, if there was any mercy in this world, only his own death would be credited to Kyril Andreievitch.
Just like that, he suspected, of Lieutenant Harmon Rabb Sr.
TBC.....