Chapter 8... uh-oh, "ouch" is all I'm gonna say about this one :p
If you want to know what Owen Blake looks like, here he is:
"https":"/""/""ibb"."co"/c2mZk9 (quick portrait)
"https":"/""/""ibb"."co"/d1Kqa9 (colored portrait)
(just remove the "")
Warning: creepy-guy is back
Base cottage, Asher's p.o.v.
Asher felt his heart skip a beat or ten and for a couple of seconds he just sat there, cradling his ribs, gaping at Blake. Thankfully his reflexes kicked in and he managed to dodge the incoming punch directed at his face. The killer's fist brushed past his temple and Blake, carried by momentum, fell on top of him, pinning him to the bed. Before he could move, Blake's thumbs were on each side of his throat, pressing on his carotid arteries.
No you don't…
Asher could not afford to lose consciousness. He grabbed Blake's wrists, locking them against each side of his neck and twisting them slightly. He was going for a double arm lock but before he could raise his legs and wrap them around Blake's shoulders, the killer had already escaped his grip. Things were not looking good. He could feel the little strength he had left draining away, fast. The injection. It was too late. No. He would fight this time.
Target his head wound. Make the bastard hurt…
He struggled to reach behind the killer's head, awkwardly ripped off the bandage and clawed at the stitches as savagely as he could. To his horror, Blake barely winced and looked at him with an amused smile.
What the hell?...
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to hurt me, Asher."
He stared at the killer in disbelief for a couple of seconds and that was all it took for Blake to deliver an expert open hand chop to his throat.
"Hhhgh…", was all that came out of Asher Marshall's mouth before Blake clamped a hand over it, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger at the same time to keep him quiet. He tried to struggle but Blake was heavy and Asher, because of the drug he had been injected with, was already too weak to push him away. He couldn't breathe. The killer whispered in his ear.
"Shh, shhhh, Asher, hey Asher, look what I've got here."
Blake had just used his free hand to fish something out of his pocket and was holding it in front of his eyes. He couldn't breathe.
"This little thing allows me to remotely detonate small explosive charges. Like the ones we used to rescue you. Or like the one I placed under lovely Gaby's armchair. You know, the one she's sitting in right now."
Probably sensing that he was about to pass out, Blake let him take a couple of breaths before blocking his airways again.
"See, my concern is that the walls here are pretty thin, and I don't want anyone to spoil my fun this time. If at any point you try to call for help, Miss Teller will be blown to bits before you have a chance to say "Kuryakin". Calling him wouldn't help anyway.", the bastard chuckled. "Poor Kuryakin is already half-dead. So, do we have a deal?"
Asher was starting to get dizzy from the lack of oxygen, he felt too weak to nod so he blinked instead and Blake finally released him. It was like the first time. He was trapped inside his own body. His limbs felt impossibly heavy. He wasn't even sure that he would have been capable of shouting for help. Blake let a pair of handcuffs dangle right above his face.
"I'm trying hard to re-create the mood of our first encounter. I'm sure you'll appreciate the effort."
As the killer finished cuffing him to the bed, Asher suddenly felt an uncontrollable fear overwhelm him and let out a weak, pitiful groan.
"Ah-ah", Blake admonished, raising a finger in warning. "You don't want to disturb sweet Gaby while she's reading, do you?"
He disappeared from Asher's field of vision for a few seconds and came back with a rag which he proceeded to stuff into the agent's mouth, then he sealed everything up with copious amounts of surgical tape.
"There, all better. Now, what am I going to do to you, Asher?"
Secret society headquarters, Solo's p.o.v.
Well…I suppose it could be worse. At least I'm alive and I still have my pants on…
Napoleon was standing in the middle of a brightly lit room. He could see brownish stains – which he had decided were humidity stains – on the stone floor and on the wall in front of him. His nose was itching but he couldn't scratch it because his arms were raised high above his head, his wrists locked in heavy manacles secured to a chain hanging from the low ceiling. His ankles were shackled to a bolt in the floor. He was alone in the room and nothing bad had happened yet. Except for that persistent nose itch. Before taking him to this room, the guards had searched him and removed his shirt – Careful! You'll get it all wrinkled! – Thankfully he had been allowed to keep his pants, and more importantly, his belt with the lock-picking tool and the emergency tracker in the buckle.
Blake already knows I lost the watch, I'm sure he will realize something is wrong when he sees the tracker completely still for an extended period of time…or he'll think I'm taking a nap…
The CIA agent would probably find a way to check on him and if he didn't, Napoleon knew that Illya would. In the meantime…well, he'd worry about that later. He had decided to maintain his British accent even though he knew that his cover was probably compromised. The less they knew about him, the better. He was still trying to wrap his head around what had happened earlier. He hadn't been in that room. There had to be someone else involved. Cleary and his friend wouldn't destroy their own sensitive information just to expose him…
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone walking into the room behind him. He heard the door close and soon after, the cult master appeared in front of him. He had changed back into his crimson robe and looked considerably more cheerful now that he had Napoleon at his mercy.
"Ah! Thank God you're here. My nose is itching, it's absolute torture…would you mind scratching it for me?"
"Very funny, Mr. Carlyle. But we're not here to tell silly jokes, I'm afraid."
"Pity. What are we here for, then?"
The cult master glared at him, then after a few seconds, a smile spread across his face, not quite reaching his eyes, though.
"I'm here to make you suffer, Mr. Carlyle. And you're here to tell me who you really are, who you work for and what you were doing in that room."
"This is all a terrible mistake. I am Trevor Carlyle, I never set foot inside that room. I don't even know what was in there. You caught the wrong man."
That part was true, at least.
"Interesting. You expect me to believe you? Even though we found you standing right in front of the unlocked door?"
"I told you, Davies had left the door of my room unlocked. I figured no one would mind if I took a little stroll, I was looking for Mr. Cleary."
"In the restricted area?"
"No one told me it was a restricted area."
Napoleon noticed that the cult master had not mentioned the notebook. He did not seem to be worried about it and Napoleon intended to keep things that way. That meant he would have to keep the man entertained. As long as the cult master was with him, he wouldn't be checking the contents of his secret drawers.
"Well I'm sorry, Mr. Carlyle but your explanation is far from satisfying. Perhaps a healthy dose of pain will help you come up with a more reasonable story."
"Wait! All right, all right I'll tell you all you need to know. No need to torture me."
"I'm listening", the cult master answered with a smile, stepping closer.
"Well, here's the truth, this robe really doesn't look good on you, and I'm not saying that because you're ugly – although you are. Actually, I don't think it could ever look good on anybody. The color is hideous and it looks so impractical. Are you even wearing anything undern…"
The cult master's fist slamming into his stomach stopped his tirade. Temporarily winded by the blow, Napoleon had to make an effort to speak distinctly.
"Oh my goodness, be careful!… Mr. Cleary said he wanted me to stay alive… You could have killed me with that exceptionally powerful punch."
The cult master looked like he was about to hit him again – as hard as he could, this time – when something seemed to catch his attention. He pointed at the stab wound scar on Napoleon's chest.
"What happened here, Mr. Carlyle? A business accident?"
"Just a minor argument with a friend. It…escalated a little"
"Another businessman, I assume?"
"Precisely. He hits much harder than you, mind you."
"I have many other ways of hurting you, Mr. Carlyle. So many. Perhaps a practical demonstration…"
The cult master stepped behind him and although Napoleon couldn't see what he was doing, he could hear what sounded like metallic objects being dragged on a hard surface. His pulse began to hammer. The man finally moved back into his field of vision just long enough to show him the object he had selected.
A whip. That wasn't so bad. He could take it. As he felt his heart begin to pound harder, he wondered for a second if he should bother to scream in British too.
"Wait!... We…we haven't decided on a safe word."
The man gave him a smile that could have illustrated the word "sadistic" in the dictionary.
"I'm afraid none of the words you will utter can save you now, Mr. Carlyle."
As the cult master moved to position himself behind him, Napoleon took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
All right. Remember. Pain is all in your mind…
All he needed to do was concentrate on something else. Like finding shapes in the 'humidity' stains on the wall in front of him. The first blow came.
Aaaah shit! Never mind… pain is definitely in your back...
After a few minutes, every single stain on the damn wall had the distinct shape of pain. His muscles were aching from constantly tensing up in anticipation of the next blow. His back was on fire. Sweat was dripping from his forehead, into his eyes, already watering from the stinging pain. Suddenly, the lashing stopped and the cult master stepped back into his field of vision.
"Time for a short break, Mr. Carlyle. I wouldn't want you to get too used to the pain."
"Yeah… that would be a real shame, wouldn't it?"
The man smiled and put his finger under Napoleon's chin to tilt his head up.
"You are really not doing too bad…almost as good as that young man you were supposed to sacrifice last night. But we both know he wasn't a simple businessman, don't we, Mr. Carlyle?"
Two weeks of this? Damn…poor Marshall…
"I have no idea what you're talking about.", Napoleon answered, his face a picture of innocence.
"We'll see about that, Mr. Carlyle. Your break is over."
Hum…now would probably be a good time to come to the rescue, Peril…while I still have some skin on my back…
Base cottage, Blake's p.o.v.
At last…
Blake smiled as he let his gaze wander over the helpless agent's body. He had waited patiently for this moment. He had been so pissed-off when he had seen the bruises, lacerations and electrical burns on Marshall's body. The assholes had damaged his target. He had decided to give the agent some time to recuperate. It bothered him to think that those fanatic bastards had done half the work for him. Asher Marshall was his prey. And he had wanted to wait until Kuryakin was on the brink of death, which was probably the case now with the nice cocktail he had given him earlier. His smile widened as he noticed that the X-shaped cut below Marshall's sternum had started bleeding again. He peeled off the bandage, dipped a finger into the fresh blood and licked it, all the while staring into Marshall's eyes. He almost burst out laughing at the horrified look on the agent's face, then he remembered the need to be silent.
Not for much longer…
He laid his hand flat on his target's stomach, feeling the rhythmic pulse of Marshall's blood flowing through his abdominal aorta. Fast. So fast. He could tell that the agent was trying really hard to struggle against his bonds but he was too weak and his very limited movements were slow and uncoordinated. He let out an amused sigh.
"You really don't like being trapped, do you, Asher? Not being able to move…it makes your tough little agent's heart race and race and race…"
He could see anger now in the agent's eyes, but the fear was still there too and he knew it wouldn't go away until those eyes stopped seeing for good.
"You think this is bad, Asher?", he whispered into Marshall's ear. "Well I have a surprise just for you…don't go anywhere."
He chuckled and went to grab his medical bag from which he pulled out two small syringes and two small, labeled bottles, each full of a clear, yellowish liquid. He set everything down on the nightstand, then filled one of the syringes with liquid from one of the two bottles. He sat down on the bed and held up the syringe in front of Marshall's face.
"You're going to like this, Asher", he whispered. "See, this substance is derived from the venom of the blue-ringed octopus. To put it simply, it's a toxin which causes progressive paralysis of voluntary muscles. All voluntary muscles."
He felt his lips curl up into a cruel smile as he saw Marshall's eyes widen in realization.
"Yes, Asher, that includes your diaphragm.", he said, poking the agent's chest. "First sweating, headache, weakness, then gradual paralysis, nausea, abdominal pain, increasing respiratory distress…and you'll be conscious through most of it."
Giving a target a detailed description of what was going to happen to them never failed to trigger satisfying reactions. The look of raw fear in the agent's eyes sent a thrill through his body. Psychological torture was almost as fun as killing. Almost.
"But enough talking. It's time for your injection."
Marshall whimpered weakly as he grabbed his left arm and injected him with the toxin.
"Shh, shh, there, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
He set the used syringe down on the nightstand and quickly started filling the second one with liquid from the other bottle.
"Now, Asher, because I am a compassionate person, I'm going to give you a chance. This…", he said, holding up the full syringe. "…is the antidote to the toxin I injected you with. It will reverse the paralysis and save your life…if you can reach it, of course."
He waited a second for the words to sink in, then he thrust the needle into the agent's abdominal muscles and just left the syringe in, without depressing the plunger. Despair flashed across his victim's eyes. He was tempted to stay and just watch the toxin slowly take effect. But first he needed to eliminate the others. Discipline.
"Sorry Asher, but I'm going to have to leave you. I have two pressing issues I need to attend to. But don't worry, this is a modified, slow-acting version of the toxin. That means I'll be back in time to watch you suffocate to death. Or maybe I'll give you the antidote and dissect you alive instead. Oh, and I wouldn't count on good old Sanders saving you this time. As far as he's concerned, you've been dead for about three weeks."
He walked up to the closet, pulled a black silk scarf out of his suitcase and stuffed it into his pocket.
Beautiful scarf for a very pretty woman…
He would take care of Miss Teller first. Then he would put the KGB agent out of his misery. He ruffled Marshall's hair in a mock-affectionate gesture and whispered one last time in his ear.
"Good luck, Asher!"
Then he put on his best Owen Blake smile and walked out of the room. When he got to the living room, Gaby Teller was still reading in the armchair. She looked up when she heard him come in.
"How is he?"
Probably really, really scared…
"He's fine, I gave him something for the pain. He's resting…peacefully."
"Good…"
He noticed that she was chewing nervously on her bottom lip.
Don't worry about Asher. He'll live longer than you…
"What time are we leaving?"
"In about an hour. I'd like to see how Kuryakin is doing first."
She nodded and smiled at him. She really had a lovely smile. Stepping behind the armchair, he walked out of the living room, as if he were heading to the Russian's room but stopped in the corridor. He waited for her to resume her reading. Then he pulled the scarf out of his pocket and began his silent approach.
End of chapter 8
I hope you are still enjoying the story :)
(And I don't know how many times I wrote "Asher" in this chapter, but it felt like a lot :D )