A/N: First of all, hi and thank you to everyone that has followed and commented! It's great receiving feedback because writing like this is kind of new for me, so I appreciate any comments and criticism I can get.
Just a note on updating and a question for readers: would you prefer shorter updates (1-2k) more often (every other day or so) or more lengthy updates but only every week? It's my busy time at college (I've had four exams this week alone!) so those are basically my options. Again, any input is appreciated! I want to make you guys as happy as I can with my work. /
The smell of burning flesh is distinct. It's pungent, enough to make even the toughest of stomachs twist. Jaz has smelled it before, often on the battlefield when charred bodies lay smoldering in the wake of dropped bombs and landmines.
It's that smell - strong, thick, and sickening - that wakes Jaz. First, eyes still closed, her nose twitches at the stench. She can't help but inhale deeply at first, confused, and then immediately regrets it as the smell seems to cloud her throat and infiltrate her lungs. She finds herself gasping for a clear breath, desperate for relief, and it's when she covers her mouth and nose with the sleeve of her jacket that she realizes the smell is coming from her own burnt skin.
As Jaz notices the blistering, hot, red skin on her bare thigh, several things become clear through the haze that clouds her mind. She remembers being taken - the surprise of being tossed against the floor, the crushing of her wrist beneath a boot, those clear blue eyes as the metal pistol smashed against her skull. She begins to feel pain, not just at the site of the fresh burn but all over her body. She sees her surroundings: a dark, cement walled room with a frosted window on the door that's the size of a mail slot.
Last and most jarring to her are the chains keeping her feet attached to the legs of the chair she is seated in. Her cargo pants have been removed, though everything else remains intact on her body, including her underwear. She realizes they could have easily abused her body more while she was passed out, but she doubts they would go through any effort to hide that from her and, at the moment, there are no signs of sexual assault she can detect on her own body. She rationalizes that removing her pants must have been in effort to torture her more easily - it worked, too. She feels the need to squirm under the pain. Though whatever heat that had been applied was removed, it still feels like a hot iron is pressed to the sensitive skin of her upper thigh.
She's surprised to find that they've left her hands and arms unrestrained: she wonders if they underestimate her skill because of her appearance, but that idea is quickly wiped from her mind as she attempt to toy with the chains snaking around her ankles. Her hand with the broken wrist is completely useless - the second she tries to bend it to hook under the metal, a flare of pain shoots through her body and has her biting on her tongue in an effort not to scream out. Though she is sure someone is watching her somehow, she doesn't want to give them the satisfaction of being further witness to her pain by the sound of her screaming voice.
She wills herself to try again using her good arm, but the angle is difficult and, even if it wasnt, she feels weak and the chains are stronger than she initially thought. For once in her life, she feels like everything is stacked against her. She hasn't had it easy - her childhood had it's own issues, and there were horrors she witnessed in her life that she wished she could bar from her mind, but she never felt before like she was just awaiting death.
"Ah, you are awake. About time."
Her head whips around: she hadn't even realized there was another door behind her until the man made his presence known. It's obvious now as he opens it, his head popping into her sight first and the rest of his body following.
Recognition floods through her mind. The blue eyed man. This time, he is without a mask, but she can recognize him the moment their eyes meet. He is older than she expected, perhaps in his fifties, and he has a wicked grin planted on his salmon colored lips. He reminds her of a caricature, features unproportional against the backdrop of his figure.
Jaz remains silent as he saunters forward. The door behind him slams shut without his grip to hold him open, and Jaz can't help but flinch at the loud clash of metal against the frame.
"We make message for your friends."
His English is broken; she is sure that he is Russian, and her mind courses through past cases in and around Russia that could possibly be implicated in this. There were several she can recall in the region, but none of them sent red-flags off in her brain; she can't imagine when any of them could have possibly led to her and the team being compromised, yet that seemed to be what was happening.
"Fuck off," she hisses, unable to stop the sharp words from escaping from her chapped lips.
"Fiesty," he laughs and she notices how yellow his teeth are. "Camera over there..." he trails off and points a meaty finger at a desk in the opposite corner of the room. She hadn't realized the box on it was a camera, but the longer she looks at it, the more obvious it becomes. The lens is hard to discern with the lack of light in the room, but it's definitely there. "It is a live camera just for your team. When I turn it on, you smile and look pretty. Easy for you."
He takes a few steps towards the desk and poises his finger near what Jaz suspects is the record button. Before pressing down, he flashes her a tentative look. "You better hope they listen. Pretty face doesn't stop us from killing."
Despite herself, Jaz is jarred by the threat and feels herself caught in a moment of shock as the camera flash turns on in her direction, signaling that she is being recorded. She blinks several times, eyes not able to adjust to the light after being held in the dark room. When she finally does stop blinking, she still finds herself maintaining a squint that becomes more severe as the man grips the camera and walks in her direction, flash becoming brighter and more prominent in her gaze with every inch.
"US special forces," he starts, angling the camera so it captures Jaz's whole body as it is - legs exposed, chained to a chair, bloodied, bruised, and burned beneath the camera's focus. "We have something that's yours. We want exchange." He brings the camera closer to Jaz's face, attempting to capture her pain and fear for them to see.
"Boris Zhakov." The name doesn't sound familiar to Jaz. "Everyday you keep him, she one day closer to death."
He moves the camera so it is looking at her thighs and the fresh burns. The skin is flared and clearly in need of treatment - if Jaz were to guess, they were second degree burns that could easily have been worse if heat was applied for just a few moments longer.
Suddenly, she realizes how bad it all will look on a screen and what her team will think if they see it. Dalton is a strong leader - he has resolve, but knows even he can only be pushed so far before he is compelled to act. The more she thinks about it, the more fearful she becomes that they will fall into some sort of a trap trying to rescue her.
"Don't listen to them."
The man seems shocked that Jaz has spoken and whips the camera towards her face unceremoniously. She has a grimace pressed on her lips, eyes clouded with intent and steel resolve.
Before he makes any move to stop her, she feels like she has to continue, and in one breath she rushes to speak. "They'll kill me anyways! Don't risk it, don't think about giving them the -"
Just like the first time they attacked her when she was sitting at the window, she doesn't see it coming, too blinded by the camera's flash and her urge to speak to her team. The first first that collides with her face sends blood splattering from her nose, and the second tears the skin of her eyebrow where the pistol had already made it's mark. Jaz doesn't know where the camera is or what it catches of the attack, but the flash remains on, lighting up the room and sending shadows of fists flying against her to line the walls. During some point as the two punches turns to four, and four turns to eight, and the fists migrate from her face to her abdomen and blood begins escaping from clenched teeth, Jaz begins to lose consciousness once again. This time, the darkness is welcome as the flash of the light melts away along with the sense of pain that engulfs her body.