WARNING

torture, blood.

Chapter 6


Gustave was sat on the couch in the main room with his hands securely zip-tied together behind his back, and his ankles zip-tied together. We were all still dressed more appropriately for bedtime, all of us outside of our tactical gear except for our firearms.

The traitorous medic wouldn't look at us. His eyes were glued to the floor as we contemplated what to do with him first. But Thatcher took control of the situation, seeming to have quite a bit of experience with interrogations. He was really scary when he got down to business.

The older SAS operative, in just his military pants, boots and black tank-top, was standing in front of the guilty Frenchman that refused to pay him any attention. Even though Thatcher was an older man, and kind of on the short side, his body was in excellent shape and his mind was sharp and wise. He looked much younger for his age. Overall, seeing him serious about extracting information out of the doctor reminded me how intimidating the Brit really was.

Mute, Pulse and I had our guns lowered, but ready, as we watched Thatcher do his thing.

"I'm not wastin' my time with ya, ya traitorous cunt. Start telling us what you're up ta, and who you're conspiring with, before I go straight ta hurtin' ya,"

He punched him hard across the face, without even giving him an opportunity to speak. Then he grabbed Doc by his short dark hair and forced him to look him in the eye. Gustave's nose bled.

"And keep in mind, I won't be nice enough ta kill ya," The angry Brit shoved the man's head away and stood up straight again, glaring down at him. Doc was still looking up at him, looking defensive.

"Get to it, then!" Thatcher shouted and kicked Doc's knee hard, causing the younger man to briefly yelp.

Gustave's breathing was heavy. His adrenaline was high. He looked over at me, which got him another kick from Thatcher.

"Don't look at her! You're talkin' to me, ya bloody coward," the SAS man pulled out his knife. He always carried it on him, even when he slept.

"I will only talk to Ela," Gustave said. I cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, because I knew Thatcher wasn't going to like that.

The impatient Englishman gave a fluid, skillful twirl of his blade, making the bound GIGN visibly more nervous, which I think was the purpose of the gesture. Thatcher had told us about several horrifying interrogations he had done, and he said he favored knives.

I'm furious with Doc, but I'm also not sure if I'm ready to see Thatcher carve him up in front of me.

"You're wasting my time. I don't like that," he says, his voice dangerous and low.

Mike leaned down to grab Gustave's hair again and placed the tip of his blade under his chin. His face was close to Doc's.

"Ya know very well what happened to our mate Elias. For all I know, you were a part of it,"

Doc interrupted hastily, "Non, I wasn't ther—"

The blade pierced the soft skin where his chin and neck met, not all the way, but enough to draw blood and shut him up for the moment.

"You're workin' with 'em! What happened to Blitz is on your shoulders just as much as theirs. Now, remember how bloody he was when we brought him to ya. Remember his mutilated face?"

Thatcher's words were haunting and threatening. No one in the room thought for a second he wasn't seriously going to torture Doc. The rest of us were watching the windows and doors, which were all closed with the blinds down, just in case Doc's friends decided to show up after his interrupted phone call.

He kept the tip of his blade in Doc's skin, the blood trailing down onto his hand.

"I'm not asking again," he growled.

I got a chill. I never heard such coldness in Thatcher's voice. Mute and Pulse looked completely unsurprised. They were used to it.

Doc struggled to speak with the knife under his lower jaw, but he forced himself to answer, "I was not part of his torture,"

"Are you fuckin' with me, cunt? That's not what I was askin' ya,"

"It's not, I'm not trying to—"

Thatcher stood up, pulling his blade away and removing his fingers from the doctor's hair, "Shut up. Since ya didn't want to answer me all the times I've given ya, I'm gonna have a little fun with ya first,"

"I will explain!" Gustave was scared. As he should be.

"You should have, mate," Mike drawled before looking over to me, "Ela, leave the room if you're squeamish,"

All of them looked at me. I felt a little insulted.

"I'm fine," I defended. I wasn't completely confident in my answer, though.

As soon as he gave me a shrug, he grabbed Gustave's head again and shoved his knife into his ear, causing the Frenchman to scream loud.

Thatcher kept true to his words. He didn't kill him, he just went in deep enough to pierce his eardrum. I remember having a burst eardrum when I was little. It was incredibly painful. I can't even imagine the feel of a blade going into it.

He pulled his knife out and stabbed it back into the same spot with perfect accuracy, eliciting another agonizing scream from Doc.

"That feels good, doesn't it?" Thatcher teased, removing his knife again.

He wiped the blood off of both sides of his knife with Gustave's face.

Afterwards, he stabbed the knife into the outer side of Doc's thigh on the same side as his injured ear. Again, Doc screamed in pain. And he didn't stop as Thatcher wrenched it around roughly.

Over Doc's loud pained sounds, Thatcher spoke, "Ya know this is one of my favorite pressure points?"

He continued jabbing it in, deeper, "Because if I hit this one just right, you're not gonna walk again,"

I cringed as I watched. There was blood pouring out of Gustave's ear, down his neck, and seeping into his black pull-over hoodie. Now his leg was bleeding all over, but not enough to make him bleed to death.

"I could sever your spine, but unfortunately, I need your mouth to work. Fuckin' pity, that,"

Doc struggled to catch up on his breath, trying to refrain from yelling anymore, "Please, I'll explain!"

"Then do it!" Thatcher snapped at him, yanking his knife out.

Doc panted heavily and quickly, trying to get some air before he explained. Thatcher wasn't having it. He grabbed Doc and threw him to the floor, hard, making his nose bleed more. The strong British man had his knee in the middle of Doc's back as he lie there helpless on his stomach.

It surprised me when Thatcher cut Gustave's hands free. Again, Mute and Pulse didn't seem fazed. They were watching like it was a movie they'd already seen. It made me uncomfortable.

"Put your hands out ahead of you," Thatcher commanded. Doc obeyed hastily, putting his hands out on the floor in front of him like he was Superman.

Mike grabbed onto one of the wrists, pinning it there. Before I knew it, he slammed his knife down onto Doc's hand, using the butt of it to break his hand instantly. I even heard the familiar sound of bone crunching.

Gustave struggled desperately under Thatcher's weight, screaming, "Please don't!"

Doc was only able to retract one of his hands to hide it under himself from the cruel SAS operator, but Thatcher yelled at him, "Put yer hand back out, ya fuckin' cunt! Get it back out in front of ya!"

Every time Mike angrily shouted, it gave me frightened chills. He was just… I always knew he was serious business, but I've never seen him this intense.

Doc was crying now as he reluctantly pushed his good hand back out next to the broken one. He was shaking.

"Don't move," was all Thatcher said before he broke Doc's other hand the same way. Pained screams filled the old house again.

Thatcher stood up and looked down at the injured man at his feet, who was holding his broken hands gingerly against himself as he curled up on his side, sobbing.

"Pathetic!"

Mike, being the only one of us wearing his boots, stomped Gustave's head into the floor, right onto his bleeding ear.

It wasn't as hard as he could have done, but the sound it made still turned my stomach. He hadn't killed Doc, but now he was drifting in and out of consciousness.

Mike pushed the beaten man over onto his back with his foot and looked down at him, "I haven't even started yet. Don't you pass out on me, traitor,"

"You've been working with Caveira?" He plants his foot on one of Doc's hands that was lying next to him. He's too weak to pull it away.

"Yes," Doc sputtered, coughing. Some blood dribbled down the side of his mouth.

"Who else?"

Doc mumbled something incoherent, but the word 'Kapkan' was easily heard.

"Kapkan? Are they coming here?"

"I don't… I don't… know…" Gustave was struggling to stay in reality, but he shouted out when Thatcher crushed his already-broken hand under his boot.

"Where are they?!"

I couldn't believe, despite how much I hate Doc right now, that a piece of my heart hurts for him. He hadn't been the most perfect guy, but we… I mean, we were getting to know each other. He was becoming more and more friendly. We even… I can't believe we had sex!

I thought it could be something, but thinking about it now… was he just using it to get closer to me? So he could kill me, and my teammates?

It really didn't feel like he had bad intentions when we were together, but I know better than to let my feelings blind my logic. Still, I have mixed emotions I can't reason with.

"Bank, bank," the injured Frenchman mumbled desperately.

"Are they expecting us?" Thatcher asks, suspicious, not letting up on Doc's hand. Doc was writhing, trying not to tug his hand away lest it caused him more pain.

"Yes…"

"When?"

"We had not…" he groaned, "…had not made a time yet,"

Thatcher kicked him hard in the stomach, causing him to cough and wheeze as he tried gripping his stomach with his disabled hands.

"Are you fuckin' with me?!"

Doc shook his head profusely, unable to speak.

Mike's hateful gaze never left Doc's battered body, "Alright mates, gear up. We're going to the bank,"

We headed off to our rooms to get ready quickly. As I hastily went to my bedroom I heard another pained noise come from Doc. I assumed Thatcher had kicked him in the stomach again. An illogical sadness swelled up in my stomach. It must be pity…


Short chapter this time. Longer chapter next time.

Thanks for reading.