Author's note: Here's where things start getting rough for our team. Nothing too graphic in this one, most of the violence happens off-screen. There is some religious discussion/fanaticism in this chapter - I mean no offense to anyone and it doesn't necessarily reflect my personal beliefs.
This is where the fun of writing three very different characters started! Especially considering Metal and Brock have such little canon screen time, so they're pretty flexible with how an author wants to write them. Hope you guys enjoy my interpretations of them. Let me know what you think!
Italics indicate a foreign language, in this case Pashto. If anyone is curious, my visual representation for Feiyaz is Golshifteh Farahani. She's Iranian but there aren't a lot of Afghan actresses to choose from.
Chapter 4: The First Round
They came for Brock first.
Two men entered the cell brandishing AKs and screaming in Pashto for them to comply. Brock and Feiyaz held their hands up as far as the chain would let them to show they had no intentions of fighting. Metal didn't react other than to follow the men with his eyes.
Another two moved into the room and one leaned down to unlock the chain attached to Brock's wrists. He shouted and motioned for the man to stand, which Brock did with a glare. They led him out of the room and the door slammed behind the last man, leaving the remaining two captives in silence to wait.
Brock followed them obediently down the hall. He took note of exits, visible weapons, and enemy combatants as he passed them, just in case the information became useful later. They entered a larger room, a Taliban flag hanging on the wall in looming fashion. The men holding his upper arms pushed him to his knees in front of it, a camera on a tripod to the other side of him.
So this was the ransom video.
They barked at him in Pashto and looked at him expectantly.
"I speak English, asshole," he said rudely, bracing for the hit to the face before he even saw it coming. His shackled hands hit the floor to catch himself, and he spit the blood from his mouth after a second.
This was the part where Trent would tell him he'd been spending too much time with Sonny.
One man approached him with a newspaper, today's date in bold letters across the front page. "Hold this, up." Brock complied with a glare as the two men with guns moved to stand behind him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the gesture, his training telling him he needed to move away from the threat now at his six.
Another man moved behind the camera as the English speaker came to stand next to Brock, a large machete in hand.
He tried to remind himself this was only a show of force, bravado, for the video. They wouldn't kill a hostage so soon, even to make a point. Hopefully.
His face remained blank as the man next to him began to make his speech in stilted English.
"Yesterday's unprovoked and unlawful attack on our people will be met with swift retribution. You Americans continue to insert yourselves in our affairs, and the Taliban will not bow to your false power."
Brock zoned out, his gaze trained on a fixed point on the wall across from them.
"There is no world where the children of Allah will succumb to this reign of corruption. We refuse to accept your blasphemous Western ideals into our homes and communities. We demand a full surrender and retreat of all American soldiers from our lands.
A blade was suddenly placed at his throat, and it took every ounce of willpower Brock had to hold back the instinct to flinch away.
"Like this American soldier, who slaughtered our people yesterday, innocent people! If we must make an example out of this man, we will."
The edge of the knife sliced ever so slightly through his skin and he felt a trickle of blood begin to slide down his throat. His face remained passive and firm. He would not give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
"If you want your man back, we demand all Afghan prisoners being held unlawfully by the American military be released immediately. Only then will we talk about returning him to you."
The red light on the camera went off and the machete was removed from his throat. He tried not to let out a sigh of relief, though it was short-lived as he was unceremoniously punched in the face, then again in the gut. Doubling over as the breath left him, he composed himself after a second and straightened back up with a look of contempt.
His tormentor sneered down at him as his men flanked him on either side. "You had best hope your government wants you back enough to do as we say." They stared each other down momentarily before a bark of Pashto had him hauled to his feet and escorted back to the cell.
They came for Metal next.
There were more men this time. They fidgeted nervously, and nobody immediately approached him. After a minute of back and forth in Pashto, one finally stepped forward cautiously and unlocked his binds as the rest pointed their guns in his direction.
"They're awfully scared of you, One," Feiyaz said with a grin as she listened to the continued whispers.
"Good," he replied sharply as he stood to his full, towering height. He squared his shoulders and gave them his most menacing glare, making sure to connect his gaze with each of them. "They should be." The darkness of his tone was not lost in the language barrier, and the men kept their distance from the sailor as they escorted him from the cell.
He ended up chained to a chair in a large, open room not too far from their holding place. Glancing around in disinterest, his eyes landed on the array of tools laid out perfectly atop a workbench nearby. The blatant display of posturing earned an eye roll from the SEAL, who remained unimpressed.
A man entered the room, causing the guards to stand at attention.
Since Shahzar Zaman was here, it meant they were likely at his compound in the Zerkoh Valley. Good news, they weren't too far from a rescue. Bad news, the compound was known to be heavily occupied by his loyalists, so it wouldn't be an easy mission to get greenlit.
Metal kept his face blank as the separatist leader stopped in front of him, peering down as he rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully.
"My men seem rather intimidated by you, American," the man finally said, the arrogant tone coming through clearly despite his heavy accent. "I can assure you, I am not." He paused, clasping his hands together behind his back. "You see, you might be some war hero back home. But this is the desert, this is my kingdom. I decide who lives and who dies here." Another pause, another contemplating look. "Should I even bother asking for your cooperation, or should we skip over the pleasantries and get to the painful part?"
They stared at each other for several long moments, one gaze smug while the other was cold.
Metal finally responded, a sadistic grin sliding onto his face.
"Show me what you got."
Feiyaz was the last one to have a turn.
The anticipation had been eating at her, and she swallowed nervously as they yelled at her to rise. Taking one last glance at Brock, she appreciated the supportive nod he gave her right before she was pushed out of the room.
She found herself sitting in a chair, once again shackled to a chain attached to the floor. As if she would really attempt to flee surrounded by so many guards. They stood staring at her in silence, a certain level of hostility behind their gaze.
What the hell were they waiting for? Was this part of the mind games?
The door opened and in walked a man she had seen only in pictures.
Her breath stuttered and she tried not to let her surprise and fear show on her face, though she wasn't sure how successful she'd been.
Shahzar Zaman stopped in front of her, a stern look on his face. He was silent for a minute, and Feiyaz was sure this had to be part of the game.
If it was meant to unnerve her, it was working.
Finally, he spoke, the Pashto flowing beautifully despite the ice behind the words. "It's a shame you decided to abandon your people for those Americans. You are a beautiful woman, you would have made such a devoted wife."
She shook her head, starting to spin the story she had been planning. "I came back to my people, to help. I'm an aid worker. I'm trying to help those that have been displaced by this senseless war."
His stare was unimpressed and he bent down to her level to stare her directly in the eye. "Why do you lie? I know you're working for the American military."
"No, no," she replied frantically, letting her nerves show. "They asked for my help, but I don't work for them. I-"
A slap across the face took the rest of the sentence out of her mouth, and she closed her eyes against the shocking pain.
"Stop lying!" he shouted, walking over to his tool bench to grab a stack of papers. He held them close to her face, pointing at the picture in the top corner of the front page. Staring back at her was the Navy cadet photo she had taken so many years ago. "You think I don't know who you are, Petty Officer Feiyaz Amani? Of course, I was curious when my wife mentioned running into a childhood friend out of the blue. You think I don't have connections within the government to find out what you've been up to?"
Amira.
Feiyaz didn't have the courage to ask what had happened to the woman. Was she in on the ambush, playing her all along? Or did her husband catch on to her plan to escape?
"How could you betray your own people? To those Americans, no less."
"I didn't betray my people!" Feiyaz said forcefully through clenched teeth, a sneer on her face. "I joined the U.S. military to help save my people from monsters like you. The monsters who hunted my parents down and killed them simply because they didn't agree with you!"
"Your parents were traitors!" he replied angrily, getting closer to her face. "They were corrupted by the ways of the West and turned their backs on Allah's true purpose. They deserved what they got."
"You are the one who has turned his back on Allah, on his people. You wage war and play political games all while our people suffer. They die because of your greed and your thirst for power!"
Both were breathing heavily, angry stares directed at one another as they argued. Finally, Zaman shook his head, stepping back from his prisoner and clasping his hands together in front of him calmly. "I know that your military has planted a spy in our network. Tell me who it is, and maybe I will spare you the pain and suffering you deserve as a traitor."
She shook her head, leaning back into the chair. "Even if I knew what you were talking about, I wouldn't tell you."
His jaw tensed and the polite posture turned defensive as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me about the next military operation planned in the Zerkoh Valley. What is their target?"
"I don't know anything," she responded vehemently, though she knew her efforts were futile.
"How much do they know about the new Taliban regime?"
He continued to ask her questions, many of which she wouldn't have been able to answer even if she wanted to. She simply glared up at him in response.
When it was clear she wasn't going to say anything, Zaman sighed and turned to his worktable. He made a show of picking up the instruments laid out across the surface - knives, metal spikes, pliers, mallets. Trying to school her face, she kept her eyes on a fixed point across the room to avoid the mental images creeping into her brain.
And so it began.