Chapter 8: The Ordeal

Sarah wasn't sure if the metallic whine in her head was real or just a ghost of the terrible growling grind from that monster's chain saw as it revved and died away again and again. If it were at all possible to find a positive side to the whole situation, it was that the relentless and all-pervading sound of the machinery served to almost drown out the screams and cries of the poor, helpless victims and the sobbing whimpers of those waiting in line for their turn.

As her head lolled on her neck and her eyelids fluttered spasmodically, Sarah couldn't help but replay the scene. She had tried to look away at first but someone stood behind her and held her head up in the direction of the carnage. After a few minutes, Sarah found she could no longer keep her eyes closed and watched through a sheen of glistening tears as first one then another captive was taken from the line and mutilated in an almost clinical fashion.

After about an hour, Sarah's mind began to drift. She knew this was part of her brain's self-defense mechanism, and she gradually detached the essence of herself from the Sarah sitting in the chair, becoming aloof and apart from what was happening and looking almost idly around herself as the tears dried on her face and she stared out dully, no longer comprehending on a conscious level that the macabre process around her had anything to do with real, living people.

Mr. European Bad Guy must have noticed the change in her demeanor, and he raised a hand and snapped his fingers once. The chain saw stopped abruptly, leaving the air still throbbing with the pain already experienced and the promise of pain yet to come.

He gestured to another meaty muscleman, who approached the chair and delivered a few sharp blows to Sarah's head and face. She could feel cuts opening up in her skin and, as though this were a classroom exercise, mentally catalogued the types of gloves the man could be wearing to cause this type of damage so easily.

When Sarah showed no sign of reacting to the harsh treatment, the bossman gestured once again.

"Up," he stated sharply.

Sarah felt rough hands grasping her upper arms and holding her in place as the strapping was loosened from her wrists and ankles. When the buckles had clattered away, she was hoisted to her feet and half dragged, half carried to a sawhorse contraption, where they draped her face-first over the top and once again strapped her down, this time with restraints that ran just above her knees and another over her back at armpit level on the front. Then her wrists were jerked to the sides where they were individually captured in padded shackles fixed to the angled legs of the sawhorse.

In this position, Sarah was unable to raise her head properly. She could see the fine Italian hand-crafted leather shoes of her captor and thought irreverently that he was going to be pissed when he discovered the millimeter-long blood stain on the toe of the left one. Sarah might have been tempted to spit on them if she wasn't still wearing the gag. And if she wasn't such a well-trained CIA agent.

When the feet finally stopped moving and the toes turned towards Sarah's head, she waited for the usual long-winded explanation saying why this man's organization was misunderstood, how they aimed to execute their carefully thought-out plans, how many people would suffer, blah, blah, blah. Chuck would probably be able to outline the stock speech better than Sarah. After all, movie plots and comic books were based on something, and the hours that Sarah had spent in a CIA classroom studying the psychology involved – be it the traditional Messiah complex or something more modern, like anarchists who thought blowing things up could lead to social harmony – had prepared her for just such a scenario.

Unfortunately, none of Sarah's instructors had covered this particular eventuality. She closed her eyelids tightly and felt real fear for the first time in this mission as the man simply repeated, "We will not stop until we get what we want."

When the first blows fell, Sarah wondered what it was they were using. It couldn't be a pillow; it was a bit too solid for that. Whoever was administering the beating, he was putting a lot of power behind each stroke and methodically covering first the backs of Sarah's legs, then her buttocks, then traveling over to the front and hitting her back and shoulders before reversing directions and progressing back to her ankles. This didn't seem so bad.

Every time he made his way back around to her ankles again, the man would stop for a moment while the boss repeated, "We will not stop until we get what we want."

So it was some kind of Pavlovian technique. Instructions or suggestions followed by reinforcement, either positive or negative, and repeated until the subject – in this case, Sarah Walker, CIA field agent – had absorbed the directive on a subconscious level. Shouldn't be too hard to resist. Sarah had had more vigorous pillow fights in motel rooms while she and her father traveled around to do a bit of drift grifting when it got too hot to stay in one place and they had to take time to switch identities before they could settle down somewhere new.

After the first hour, though, Sarah was changing her mind about the pillow thing. She had decided it was some kind of specialized rubber implement, maybe filled with a semi-solid gel, probably with little nubs covering the surface. Sarah remembered seeing a teething ring in a store once, one that you could put in the fridge and cool down before giving to a baby to gnaw on. It was probably something like that.

Anyway, that would explain why Sarah was only now beginning to feel the effects. At first, she hadn't felt anything at all but figured that the damage to blood vessels, muscles and skin had probably started from the first blow. Capillaries would have burst first sending their blood to the surface and causing widespread bruising. Next, the muscles would lose their cohesiveness as connective tissue broke down and added their cells to overloaded internal blood vessels. Just like tenderizing meat.

A slight tingling all over Sarah's body, the front as well as the back – which was receiving its own damage from the surface of the sawhorse each time a new blow fell – turned into minute twitches as her muscles responded to the punishment. Then the prickling started as Sarah's body furiously tried to begin the healing process each time her torturer finished in a particular area and carried on to another spot. Finally, her whole body was aflame from the disruption to her circulatory system and the overload to her lymphatic system as it made efforts to clear the debris of damaged cells from her body.

And each time there was a pause, he would say it again: "We will not stop until we get what we want."

Just when Sarah was anticipating the pause-and-repeat routine by echoing the words in her head, the beating stopped. In the strange way that the human mind works, Sarah counted out the beats that should have elapsed between the cessation of one cycle and the beginning of the next and was bewildered when there was no continuation.

After a moment, Sarah felt rather than saw that the straps were being unfastened, and when she was once again hauled to her feet, she gasped in her throat at the pain coursing through her entire body. When she tried to find purchase with her feet on the cement floor, the flexion of her ankles caused the muscles in her hamstrings to elongate, sending a shock of agony up her legs and all the way through her back and into her neck.

When the two men holding her saw that she wouldn't be able to stand if they let go of her and would probably just collapse in a heap to the floor, they dragged her once more to the bolted-down chair and placed her back into it, being surprisingly gentle about the whole process and finally securing her arms and legs again as before.

Through eardrums throbbing with the blood pounding in her head, Sarah heard faint indications of people leaving the area through the metal doorway, and when the lights were suddenly extinguished, she began to panic. Had they left her here to die? They said they wanted to send a message. How could she deliver the message if she were dead, alone in this warehouse? Alone, that is, except for those who had been slaughtered and still hung nearby, their desecrated bodies forming a picture in Sarah's mind that was as clear as though all the lights in the warehouse were still burning brightly.

"I still think it's risky, Major," the general observed, tilting her head slightly to the side to glance at Director Graham before turning back to the camera in front of her. "If you're captured and detained as well, it will just make it that much harder to infiltrate at a later date and obtain the information we need to figure out just what is going on here."

Casey shifted his feet a bit and lowered his eyes to the floor as he tried not to show the tension he was feeling via his facial expression. Instead, he directed the energy to the hands that were clasped tightly behind his back and waited a moment to ensure his vocal cords were relaxed and he could sound as well as look composed while continuing with his plea to his superiors.

When he raised his head, he was once again in control as he coolly replied, "General, since they have Walker, they probably already know who I am, so I won't be compromising any cover. And I'm sure the CIA would appreciate having such a valuable and, if I may say, talented agent back on their roster. If Agent Walker is to be of any future use to the agencies, may I suggest that getting her out of there sooner rather than later may be the most judicious approach? And if I go in alone, I should be able to gather some visual information that might be useful for your analysts going forward."

Casey stopped speaking abruptly and drew a sharp breath in through his nostrils. All he could do now was wait for the verdict, and he looked on with a passive expression as the general and the director closed the audio link to his apartment and discussed the matter between them, their eyes occasionally darting over in his direction before focusing again on one another.

At one point, it looked like their debate about the matter was becoming a bit heated, but Casey stood his ground and gazed at the screen as though all he had asked for was an extended leave or dispensation for an unforeseen expense. His hands, however, still clenched behind his back, were becoming a bit numb from the grip they had on one another as the tension he was holding there started climbing up his forearms.

How long are they going to take to decide? he thought angrily. Sarah could already be dead. Even if she were only maimed, it could still be too late by the time Casey was allowed to go after her. Wasn't she an important enough agency asset that her survival would be factored into the assessment of a mission plan? And, damn it, she was his partner! These people should know what that meant!

Casey paused abruptly when his thoughts went in this direction. He surprised even himself at the emotion it had released. He double-checked to make sure that his concern for Walker was only the normal concern that any officer would have for his or her partner and was a bit relieved to discover that his feelings were confined to a professional relationship only. But, Casey had to admit to himself, this particular partner, even after such a short association, seemed to call up more than the usual amount of protectiveness that Casey was willing to offer on an assignment, and he filed the thought away for later inspection, turning his attention back to the monitor as the sound link was re-established.

"Major, we have decided that you should go in for Agent Walker, alone, as you have proposed, and get as much intel as you can while you're there."

Casey, without changing his expression, simply answered, "Yes, ma'am," but he could feel the tension in his arms and hands rapidly dissipating. He unclasped his hands and flexed his fingers a bit before re-clasping them more lightly this time.

The general continued.

"We've already ordered the resources that you outlined for this rescue op, Major, and they should be in place in no more than four hours. I hope that will not be too long under the circumstances."

"No, ma'am, that should be sufficient," Casey replied, another part of his brain already ticking ahead in his plans.

"And, Major," the general said, looking at him with real concern in her eyes this time.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Good luck."

Sarah wasn't sure anymore whether she was awake or asleep, lucid or hallucinating. One moment she felt that every sense was attuned at its highest level, that she had strength in her limbs and her brain was functioning like some kind of computer. Then a tiny part of her brain that apparently was still occasionally able to differentiate reality from fantasy would recognize that, as much as she might want it, the Sarah in the chair was not going to be able, with a mighty roar, to burst her bonds and release herself. Nor was she going to be able to miraculously heal the others and vanquish the bad guys single-handedly.

She did think during a couple of minutes of clear-headedness that one of the rats that she could hear milling about a few feet away must have been pretty damn big, until she remembered that it was probably not a good idea to think about the rats and what they were doing right now. Another good-news item that seemed horribly selfish: The warehouse rats had more than enough to keep them busy and were leaving Sarah alone; otherwise, there would have been no way for her to avoid them.

There was the giant rat again. Sarah could hear it off to her left. He was coming nearer and nearer. Pretty soon, he was going to find the corpse that was suspended right in front of Sarah. In her mind, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. Odd, somebody had turned the lights in the warehouse back on so she could clearly see the desecrated body close in front of her. In her delirium, she gasped and began to cry, calling out, "No, no, not him, not him!" over and over again. Even as the minuscule part of Sarah's consciousness that still held on to her sanity told her that this was all a false image, a waking nightmare, the remainder of her brain replayed the grisly tableau as plain as day.

It was Chuck suspended in front of her, and she hadn't been able to prevent it, hadn't been able to protect him. And the giant King of the Rats was standing between them now. Sarah's brain sobbed silently as she lost sight of Chuck behind the black bulk of the menacing rodent.

Suddenly, Sarah became aware that the giant rat was saying her name. "Sarah! Walker!" it repeated in a low whisper as it unfastened her restraints. When it extended its clawed paws around behind her head to unbuckle the gag, Sarah recoiled, but as her eyes cleared a bit, the rat's black claws turned into black-gloved fingers, its pointed snout and hairy whiskers into Casey's face, his eyes just visible over the edge of the black mask that was pulled up over his nose.

"Walker!" he repeated in a hiss as he gently pulled the gag from Sarah's face. He had to actually insert a finger between her teeth and pry her jaws open to extract the mouthpiece, and he winced under his mask as her eyes unfocused again and her head lolled on her neck when he stopped supporting it.

Casey took a moment to slip his infrared goggles back into place and ensure that the special camera he had been using to take pictures of the warehouse in the dark was securely stowed in a pocket underneath his bulletproof vest before hoisting Sarah's limp body up and over one shoulder. It was going to be tricky, but the only way out was the way he had come in. The good news was that if the bad guys meant to capture him as well, they probably would have done so by now.

There was a certain factor Casey had considered that he hadn't mentioned to General Beckman or Director Graham when he had outlined his plan to them. What if Sarah's rescue was part of the plans of this organization? Casey's hypothesis was proven correct when he found an access point that wasn't wired and no alarms were set off as he slipped through in the dark. It had been almost too easy. He was glad under the circumstances that this gamble had paid off, but his thoughts now led him into even more sinister conjecture: If Sarah was meant to go free, then what was her role supposed to be going forward?

Whatever it was these people wanted, apparently it was neither CIA Agent Sarah Walker nor NSA Agent Major John Casey.

Sarah.

Casey couldn't really tell with her slung over his shoulder like this whether to not she was still breathing, so he would have to go as quickly as he could to get her to safety and ascertain her status. He was glad in one sense that she was now unconscious because it meant that she was either dealing with whatever torture had been meted out or blissfully unaware at the moment of what had happened to her. He was hoping for the blissfully unaware.

Casey was more than familiar with the state his partner was probably in right now. After all, he had gone through it often enough. Walker was still young and comparatively inexperienced, and Casey also hoped that her youth and natural resilience would assist in her recovery. That and the support of a good partner, a thought that caused Casey to turn his concentration fully to getting them both out of there in one piece so he could get down to the business of helping his partner recover. Then they could work on getting these bastards that had done this to her, whatever it was they had done.

Casey found that the anger, if a bit stronger than his usual reaction concerning a partner, helped to inject a good dose of adrenaline into his system. As he scaled a ladder to the heights of the building, he suddenly got an absurd picture of King Kong and Fay Wray in his mind before quickly banishing it and pulling himself and his burden up to a catwalk high over the warehouse floor. So far so good.

He quietly made his way to one of the air vents on the side of the building and pulled the grille out from the hole where he had propped it after he had gained access earlier. After he pushed Sarah's still-limp body into the vent opening and crawled in backwards himself, he gingerly replaced the grille – if by some chance the bad guys did want them to stick around and somebody looked this way, it might buy the agents more time if the scene looked undisturbed – and he shimmied underneath Sarah in the cramped space so she was draped over his back again and held in place with the secure grip of one hand.

Casey inched his way through the ductwork up to the roof intake/outlet and repeated the process in reverse order, first removing the disabled fan and grille and replacing them when they were both on the roof. Picking Sarah up again, he scaled down a metal ladder on the outside of the warehouse and finally touched a foot to the ground, letting out a sigh of partial relief.

Hold on, Sarah, we're almost there, he thought as he looked around in all directions before turning and jogging down the alleyway.