Mac leaned with his back against the rough wall. He stared at the only item that stood in this windowless little room. Tauntingly shone the tin bucket, which was made in one piece without a handle or holder, in the few sunbeams that came through the gaps of the wooden door into the room. They filled it with dusty streaks. Mac sensed exactly the humiliation that should cause it, when he looked at this bucket. Of cause he knew wherefore it was standing here and he hated his brain for producing exactly the disgust and indignity he felt.

That led him again to the question: What am I doing here? He was in his early twenties, had one of the most wanted university places at MIT with the reputation of a 'wunderkind' and threw that all away to sit here as a prisoner in a windowless room, getting beaten and should use a bucket for his excrements! Was he really as intelligent as his IQ announced or was he just simply unbelievable stupid? He didn't know an answer to this question.

Sighing he changed his weight while he took another position to relieve some of the hematoma and bruises that decorated his body. Simple handcuffs lay around his wrists, which he would open in a few seconds. But what should he do then? An armed guard stood on the other side of the door. Before he would try to escape a second time he needed to have a better plan.

Until now the bearded man, Mac called him 'Brown' in his thoughts because of his dark eyes didn't ordered him to do anything. After his first attempt to escape when Mac came around, his hands were cuffed and he lay on a tile floor in a small room similar to his prison right now. A gush of cold water into his face woke him up. Unfortunately he didn't know where the Taliban brought him or how far away he was from his last position.
"Stand up, my American friend!"
Brown didn't sound angry, more bored and a little annoyed. Mac obeyed, stood up and tried to not show his fear.
"You're here in an area that you don't know. There's danger everywhere. There are wicked animals which want to kill you. The people living here want to kill you also, they hate the Americans. Even my people want to kill you because you destroy their work and you endanger them although you don't belong here. I protect you, because you're intelligent and I see how excellent your work is."

Brown stepped right in front of Mac, laid his hand softly against his cheek.
"I respect your work. I respect you, my friend."
He turned around showed his back to Mac and talked. "But I can't allow you that you offend my respect and friendship. You wanted to escape, even though you will be in danger then. You wanted to escape, even though I want to protect you."
Mac knew this tactic. In his training he was cautioned against it. The prisoner should be persuaded that he could trust his kidnapper, so there would develop a Stockholm-Syndrom. That was a real possibility in a lot of cases especially when the imprisonment went on for longer. Mac didn't think to give up to the words of his abductor. The bearded man turned to him and looked him right into the eyes again.
"Will you respect my protection and friendship in the future?"
Mac shook his head. "No."

He was surprised how strong and secure his answer came. In the face of four men with wooden saps and batons he didn't feel self-confidence at all.
Brown sighed. "You're not making it easy for me, my friend. I don't want my men to hurt you, but they won't accept it if you don't respect me."
Again the man came nearer to Mac, until their noses nearly touched. They were almost the same height, Mac was a few inches more but he was of a slender built. The leader had a broad, very well muscled body. In a fight he would win against most of his opponents with his bare hands and sheer force.
"I ask again: Will you show me the respect I earn for my protection and friendship?"
"No."
Again Mac shook his head. He had to force himself to say this one word while his stomach was cramping. Again his answer was quite clear and steady.
Brown left the room and closed the door behind him. His men got down to work. Mac didn't have a chance.

Lost in this remembrance that he would have likely forgotten he changed his position at the floor of his little prison cell once more. He turned to the wall so he needn't have to face the sarcastic bucket anymore. Anger, fear and pain let his body shiver. He thought about the camp, about Jack lying in the medical tent and Lewis who followed his kidnapping with increasing panic. Unwanted tears showed up at his eyes that he didn't suppress. He had to hold on, they would find him!