He didn't know how long had passed since that video had burned into his mind, but he guessed maybe a month. Not that it really mattered anyway, time was but a mere academic concept these days.
His mind was the worst prison cell.
He could never escape it. It couldn't be dulled by alcohol, or the trappings and frivolities of the free man. No music was available to sooth his frayed nerve endings, no books present to transport his psyche out of the damp, dripping stone walls.
All he had was himself, and that had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to accept.
Never before would he have believed it possible, let alone probable, that they would brush him off as a bank might a bad debt. He had never before countenanced the idea that with his life in obvious peril, they would merely sweep aside his belongings, and bring in the next dispensable fool.
His eyes fluttered shut as he lay on the stiff, creaking bed and a small icy breath escaped him, hovering in front of him for a moment, before fading away in nothingness.
Just like him.
A sudden surge of pain erupted within him, and he clenched his eyes tighter still. His most recent refusal to talk had been met with a bout of savagery that had far surpassed anything else he had endured.
Which was a feat in itself.
They were getting desperate now. He could tell. There was a clock placed on his breaking, and he wasn't conforming. Their measures were growing increasingly barbaric, and his every nerve had borne the brunt of it.
…but still, still he would not talk. He would merely stare blankly over their heads, thankful at least for agency training in torture resistance. He would transcend himself into the deepest state of dissociation as he was physically possible of, which muted the pain somewhat.
…but only somewhat.
His mental pain though, his internal anguish. There was no running away from that, there were no defence mechanisms. The bitter taste of betrayal kept its acidic presence in his mouth from dawn till dusk.
A feeble ray of sunlight fought its way into his cell, its faint glow throwing the small box into some semblance of natural light.
How he missed the sun, the gentle breeze. He yearned for a breath of fresh air, but he knew that would never happen now.
His lungs would only know the stagnant, tainted air of his accommodations until they day they ceased to operate. He wondered for the hundredth time when they would just admit defeat, shoot him, and move on to the next abduction ploy.
His mind flickered back to that night involuntarily. Beleaguered eyes roved under frail lids as the memories replayed, a visual reel of the beginning of his nightmare.
He had been laughing.
He had been relaxed.
The hood that had been thrown over his head had come out of nowhere, and no natural instinct for danger could have protected him from it. The thunderbolt of tazer electricity had thundered through him, and he had crumpled.
Efficient, professional and seasoned hands had grabbed him and shoved him into an awaiting van.
The whole operation was seamless. Flawless.
The cool metal under his back as he was tossed and thrown about the back of a squealing van had helped to kick his agent instinct into gear.
…but it was no use.
He was outnumbered, out-gunned and outsmarted. His eyes contracted some more as he recalled that that laugh on the street, the pleasant balmy breeze…they were the last ones.
He hadn't smiled since. He never would.
It had taken about eight or nine hours to get to where he currently lay. There was a plane involved, he hadn't seen it, but he gathered from its sound and gate that it was a small charter craft.
His heart constricted once again in his aching chest as the flickering images swam across his consciousness.
They had been out to dinner that evening. The evening of the beginning of the end of his life. He had laughed and joked with his team that night. Their natural banter shining through, he had felt relaxed, happy, contented…
The lips twitched with a sardonic mirth.
He couldn't even remember what those emotions truly felt like now. He had experienced nothing but fear and pain for the better part of a year, and what was left of his personality seemed to seep from him a little more, on a daily basis.
He wondered, and for the first time, had they seen his abduction?
He had parted ways from them, to set off towards his own home, but they were still grouped outside the restaurant waiting for a cab to take them in the opposite direction to him.
Had they seen?
Had they seen…and just not cared?
The lips twitched again, with no feeling behind them. No, if they had seen…they would have cared.
Of course they would.
…but not about him.
Oh no, that much was now abundantly clear. However, he had enough knowledge, detailed, intricate knowledge to be a very dangerous anti American tool in a terrorist's tool belt.
His eyes squeezed tighter as he ran over the thoughts he had pondered a hundred times over, a hundred different ways.
There was a mole at NCIS.
That was a given.
He had been targeted for a reason. He had been specifically selected for his degree of knowledge, and his ability to source more intel. He was not a crime of opportunity, he was a crime of stealthy selection.
That degree of insider information, had to have come from the inside.
Put that together with the recent, mysterious deaths of two other long time NCIS agents, and they had themselves a full blown internal crisis.
The pained lips jerked again.
Oh well.
Perhaps now they would realise what they had squandered. His loyalty had been unwavering, unquestioned and unrestrained.
He hadn't hesitated when the undercover operation had come barrelling down the tracks.
He had been a good soldier, willing to put himself in harm's way to protect his country.
To avenge the deaths of his fellow agents.
…and perhaps that had been his most grievous error.
Perhaps Vlada was right. Perhaps this illusion of loyalty, fidelity… of devout dedication was the agency's biggest downfall.
Everyone has a tipping point.
Everyone.
His eyes feebly opened of their own accord, to be met with the sight of the dripping, flag stone roof of his suite. His ears caught the very faint strains of a potential Curtis presence.
His gaze flickered towards his boulder, but his arms remained stationary.
Let him come.
What the hell.
Turning on his side, a wave of nauseating pain shot through him as his battered physique groaned in protest.
He might as well try and get some sleep.
They would probably come for another little…chat, soon, and he always found distancing his mind from his physical reality a more accomplishable feat with a little sleep under his belt.
His last thought before he drifted off to an uneasy rest, was that of the bizarre and disturbing jealously he had felt when the guards had come for his next door neighbour three nights ago.
It was his time to die.
Instead of being afraid he was next. Instead of feeling horrified about the complete disregard for human life, he had felt…envious.
Prisoner 482 was now free.
And he, Prisoner 392, remained captive. Physically, mentally chained and bound. Feeling sleep begin to wash over him, he prayed, and not for the first time, that he would be next.
Surely…surely, he would be next.
Two or three hours passed in a fitful sleep, before a great clambering and hammering rose him.
His gut clenched.
They were early…
Sitting up slowly and painfully, he drew himself up to him fullest height.
He still had some dignity.
He swallowed subtly, no need for an outward display of apprehension. That would merely add fuel to the sadistic fire.
They were here.
The stout iron door swung open, as Vlada and three guards sauntered in with a cockiness that defied reality.
The three underlings took up a protective stance behind their leader, staring at the scarred inmate with cold, indifferent eyes.
Crouching down in front of his most complex prey, Vlada licked his lips, his grotesque face contorting horribly at the effort.
Placing a hand on either side of the seated prisoner, he looked him straight in the eye.
"We are busy people" he drawled slowly, "and you know how it is around this time of the year, bookings are sky high."
He grinned at his own hilarity, as his three companions guffawed appreciatively.
Holding up a waxy, tattered hand he silenced them with an immediacy that was both grudgingly impressive and terrifying.
"So" he continued, in a feigned tone of apology "I'm afraid that we need your presidential suite here, for a more, shall we say…appreciative guest."
He paused, showing yellowed teeth in a sadistic grin as the prisoner showed absolutely no reaction, and merely continued his trademark staring at a point over his head.
"Just so we're clear" he continued softly, in his most dangerous tone, "you are aware of the meaning of my words?"
Complete impassiveness met him for a moment, before the inmate nodded his head with a sharp jerk.
"What do I mean, my friend?"
The three goons stared intensely, they had never seen anyone react this way before. Despite his penchant for obstinacy, they never dreamed that the Mule could be this indifferent.
A thin, rasping voice suddenly drifted around the cell.
A shadow of its former self.
"You mean that this is my last chance to talk, or you'll kill me today. Or you'll kill me, right now."
Vlada bared his teeth once more in an appreciative grin, that concealed the need he felt for this infuriating man to break. To bend to his will.
To conform.
"You are correct" he breathed, his eyes widening as he took in the completely unperturbed stance of the sitting duck.
A sharp nod was once again offered.
"I know I am" Mule muttered, "but you…. are not."
Cruel, emotionless pupils dilated with surprise. What was this conundrum chattering on about? He, Vlada, was many things. Incorrect, was not one of them.
A chin was tipped upwards defiantly, as the man stared him dead in the eye, with a bravery that the trio of guards secretly had to admire.
"I…" he paused to glare, another impressive feat, "am no friend of yours."
The lead inquisitor felt his jaw drop slightly as an icy silence sliced its way through an equally icy cell.
"Very well" he murmured curtly, "any last words my dear foe, before we sort out the ahh…particulars? We are sticklers for proper death notifications you see. It's custom."
Bloodied lips once again curved upwards, forcing the many scars and lacerations on the still handsome face to vibrate with pain, a pain that was stiffly ignored.
"God bless America."
Four jaws dropped in synchronisation as the three words rattled around the freezing box.
This was a first.
This was a first to end all firsts.
Recovering first, and realising that he had never met an inmate like this in his life, Vlada blinked away the confusion and frustration, and whipped a heavy sheaf of paper from the inside pocket of his green military dress coat.
Pulling a pen from behind a lobe-less ear, he tilted his head, like a curious cat and poised himself for writing.
"Your full name, for the record?" he demanded in clipped, brusque tones, arching a brow.
The eyes found his once again, and the sadist saw nothing but resolution in them.
No fear. No regret.
If he were a gambling man, which he was not, he would have guessed that the predominant emotion staring at him was…relief.
This man, was relieved to die.
A sense of heathen like pride filled him as he registered his own prowess, and already, he was looking forward to fresher meat.
"Your name?" he snarled again, wanting to get the execution over as quickly as possible. They were no fun, and therefore required no lengthy duration.
A tongue was whipped across tattered lips, and a breath was sucked in.
"My name… is Agent -"
A crash cut him off. A split second later, all hell broke loose.
…..
TBC
…..