Thin Line (37 page)

"I see there is no need for reintroductions, Mr. Noble," al-Sharaa said.

"What are you doing here?"

"Joe called to advise me that he had a place for me to stay until I got back on my feet. It seems that a couple of infidel meddlers ruined what I had built in
Paris these last four years. Not all of it, though. I still have sleepers in place, and, Insha'Allah, they will perform their tasks in beautiful harmony on
the predetermined date."

"You know about this, Joe?" I said. "You're just going to sit here and let it slide? You're FBI, man. You took an oath."

"An oath that gives trash like you the right to make a living killing people. And for money, at that. At least Bashir here has a plan, a purpose, and
meaning behind what he is doing. He did then, too, when you kicked him out of the country."

"How the hell do you two know each other?"

"While you were busy trying to take down Bashir, I was getting to know him. He was feeding me information, and I, in turn, was keeping people off his back.
Then you butted in."

And then I realized what had happened. Joe Dunne and Bashir al-Sharaa had remained in contact. A twisted bond had formed between the men. Instead of
al-Sharaa converting to our side, Joe had taken on some of al-Sharaa's ideals. The Old Man had told the truth about two parties being contracted - Joe had
been the other party. He wasn't investigating McLellan. There was a connection between the men; Joe had hired him to take out Brett. What better way was
there to do it? Bring in someone the target trusts, and they'll willingly turn their back while you plant a knife to the hilt.

A smile crossed al-Sharaa's peaceful face. "Sometimes, I don't know whether to hate you or thank you for having me deported, Mr. Noble. In a way, your
actions are directly responsible for my rise to power, and the countless ones you will certainly call innocents that will die at the month's end."

"If it had been up to me, you'd have had two bullets in your heart, and one in your brain."

Al-Sharaa swept in and delivered a backhand across my face. "How I wish we were in another country. I'd saw your head off on live TV. Not that anyone would
care enough about you to tune in, of course."

"You're still the same scared kid you were four years ago. Hell, you weren't even man enough to handle those kids your associates kidnapped."

He stood there, fists clenched, ready to strike. He didn't. A shadow fell past me and landed on al-Sharaa.

"Ready for this, Jack?" Joe said.

BEFORE I COULD respond, Joe lunged forward and wrapped the towel around my head. No movement I made stopped him and al-Sharaa from securing it. Joe stepped
to my left and disappeared, while al-Sharaa hovered over me, staring me in the eye. A moment later, Joe leaned the chair back until my feet were off the
ground and I was at greater than a forty-five-degree angle.

What came next is something I'd never want repeated on anyone.

Joe covered my eyes with a black cloth, long enough that turning my head couldn't dislodge it. I heard metal on metal, rotating. Then a stream of water
splashed into something empty, deep and hollow, at first. The pitch rose as the container was filled. The water cut off. Single drops splashed against the
basin every second. Joe grunted, presumably heaving the bucket up and moving it toward me. The liquid splashed over the rim. Errant streams hit the dirty
floor in a torrent.

Then the room fell silent.

Except for our breathing. Rapid and ragged. Me facing the unknown. Joe in anticipation. Al-Sharaa elated at torturing me and exacting his revenge.

Without warning, the first drops of cold water hit the towel spread over my nose and mouth. It sounded like raindrops hitting a tent. It stopped after a
second. The wetness spread. I tried to draw in one last breath, but couldn't. Panic doesn't describe the feeling that set in. The water returned, hitting
harder, flowing faster. The dampness spread to my cheeks and neck, but I only noticed that for a second. It was the flooding of my mouth and nose and
throat that hit hardest. I couldn't control my body's natural instinct to draw in air. It only served to bring me further down. I felt smothered, as though
I'd been thrown into a pool of water, and then wrapped in cellophane.

"How's that feel?" Joe shouted.

I tried to yell back, swore I had, but I didn't. There was no way I could. Not while choking. Slowly dying. I saw blackness on top of the black cloth.

Then Joe yanked the towel and scarf off me. The light blinded me, but that was the least of my concerns.

I continued to drown.

Joe pushed me forward. Spasms forced the water out of my lungs. I coughed, spit up, vomited. The expelled water fell on me, on the floor. My chest, arms
and legs were coated in the regurgitated fluid.

"Ready to tell me?" Joe stood behind me, my hair clenched in his hand.

I said nothing. Don't know if I could have if I'd wanted to try.

"What about me?" al-Sharaa delivered a kick to my stomach that, in my weakened state, I couldn't defend against the strike.

Joe yanked back on my hair. The chair tipped and again I was staring up at the dark mold that lived on the ceiling. For a brief moment, at least. The scarf
fell upon my eyes. The wet towel was dropped on my face, then removed.

"Last chance," he said.

I tried to curse at him, but only managed a grunt.

Without warning, the first of three waves hit me like a waterfall, thunderous and powerful, but without the rush that comes from standing next to one of
nature's most powerful sights.

I endured the torture, five to ten seconds at a time, though it felt like minutes. My mind was at odds. People had lived through this kind of torture, day
after day, and lived to tell about it. I knew it was only a tactic, aimed at getting me to talk. At the same time, there were myriad ways death could be
induced, from suffocation to stress-induced myocardial infarction.

How far would Joe and al-Sharaa go?

I focused on the image of McSweeney, waist-deep in a dirt pit, hauling the shovel up and down, flinging earth behind her. Her shirt, hair, and soft skin
muddied. The ex-SEAL's lips curled up in a smile as he watched her sweat. She wasn't digging her own grave; it was meant for me. And Joe had no intentions
of dragging my lifeless body from the cellar and dropping me in a hole in the ground. The bastard would want me to kneel in my own grave first, freedom all
around me, no path to escape. One last chance, Jack, to save yourself. Talk.

I'll make you eat your tongue, Joe!

I was at the breaking point. That place where consciousness floats. My oxygen-starved lungs were ready to explode. I'd been through drown-proofing in
training years ago. Part of the regimen I went through had us experience passing out underwater. This felt similar, but different. Perhaps it was the
towel, the smothered feeling. Knowing that only a piece of wet fabric separated my nose and mouth from the air and oxygen my brain, heart, and lungs
craved.

Joe pulled the towel away. He didn't bother with the scarf. It fell off on its own. My body lurched to the right, then fell to the left, still attached to
the chair. I couldn't brace myself for the fall. Didn't matter, because I was too numb to feel the collision with the floor. But I heard the sound of my
cheek smacking against it.

My body convulsed, spasmed, and forced the water out. It exited in a manner of ways, from coughs, to heaves, landing six inches away, a foot, and dribbling
out, forming a pool around my face.

Joe stepped over me. His boot set down in the puddle next to my mouth. For a moment, it remained there. And he didn't say or do anything during that time.

My swollen left eye pressed against the dirty floor. I couldn't feel the pain associated. Exhausted, I forced myself to keep the other eye open, focused on
that boot like it was the key to my salvation.

The hard rubber sole lifted a couple inches in the air. I expected it to rise up further, then smash down on my head like I was a cockroach. Instead, it
moved away. I saw its partner, and in tandem, they exited the cellar.

Al-Sharaa knelt down, placing his knee in my water vomit. He stroked my head, leaned in further. "I will behead you before the sun sets on this day."

And then he left the room.

MY FACE FELT cemented to the gritty floor. Dust filled my nose, throat, and lungs with every breath I took. The only thing I could smell was bitter mold. I
don't know how long I lay there, stuck to the chair. Exhaustion prevented me from finding a way to free myself from the confines. Even if I managed to
release my legs, where would I go with my arms bound at the wrist? Instead of freedom, I focused my energy on staying awake and remaining aware of my
surroundings.

I heard two distinct male voices. Couldn't tell from which direction, though the muted tones told me they were not in the cellar with me. Joe and
al-Sharaa, and presumably they were speaking of their plans for me.

I pried my cheek from the floor, craned my head, and managed to get a view through the window. Mostly trees, dead branches, and pine needles. And a shovel
blade as it rose high to toss back a scoop of dirt. I smiled for the first time in a while. Reese McSweeney was still alive. When Joe had left, dread
filled me that his intention was to kill her. The elation faded as I considered he only kept her alive so that I could watch her die.

Or worse, he planned to force me to kill her.

That wouldn't happen. I knew my death would follow, so if placed in the position, I'd make every attempt to take Joe or al-Sharaa or the ex-SEAL out before
they got to me. Maybe Reese would make it out alive; maybe she'd die. Not by my hand, though.

The cellar door creaked open. A flood of light pushed past the dividing wall, only to disappear as the door fell shut again. Hard-soled boots hit the
floor. Joe entered the room, carrying an M4 Carbine. Maybe it was time. He stood over me, looking down and smiling, in perfect position for me to strike
him in the groin if I had one free arm or leg.

"The great Jack Noble," he said. Then he took a few steps back and rested the rifle against the wall. I tried not to stare at it. My last bastion of
salvation, only eight feet away. Joe took a step forward, then stopped. "You'd like to get your hands on that, wouldn't you?"

I refused to answer his rhetorical question.

Joe continued toward me. He didn't stop in the same spot. Instead, he stepped over me. A few seconds later I was hoisted off the ground. My exposed skin
peeled a thin layer of grime away from the floor. The chair's two right legs groaned under my weight as they settled. I hoped the chair would split in two.

It didn't.

The man turned his back on me, grabbed the bucket, and walked to the sink. He whistled an old tune. I couldn't make it out.

"Ready for round two, Jack?" Joe glanced over his shoulder.

The sound of rushing water sent a chill through me. Muscles responded by tightening.

I lowered my chin to my chest and stared at the ground, still wet. We were doing this again, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. He had me
defeated in every sense of the word. And he knew it.

Joe set the bucket in the sink and let the water run. He turned toward me, leaned back against the porcelain sink and crossed his arms over his chest. Was
the calm demeanor a show? Had he done this so many times that it had become second nature?

The sound of the water filling the bucket rose to a higher pitch, notifying us that the container was nearly full. Joe reached behind his back, and,
without taking his eyes off me, switched the spigot off. He knelt down and picked the towel up off the floor, half of it stained dark with dirt and blood.
He tossed the towel at me. It hit my chest, fell to my lap.

"What do you want?" It came out as a whisper.

"What's that, Jack?"

Managing a slightly louder tone, I repeated myself.

Joe started toward me. Heel, toe, heel, toe. Each step deliberate. He stopped and leaned over, hands on his knees. "I'm gonna tell you something, Jack."

A moment passed. "What, Joe?"

He motioned with his finger for me to come toward him. "My bad." He laughed and shuffled forward a couple inches. "We've got no more use for you. Anything
you could have told us was just relayed to us. That's what happens when you've got too many canaries singing, my friend."

At that point, I considered trying to rationalize with the man to let Reese go. If I served no purpose, then neither did she. Kill me, but let her walk.

"By who?" I asked.

Joe looked down and shook his head. Maybe he was making a production out of telling me. Perhaps he had no intentions of revealing the source or the
information. It could have all been a lie. None of that mattered.

What did matter was that his head was inches from mine, and instead of paying attention, he was relishing in the power he had over me.

Supposed power.

I drew my head back, slapped the base of my skull against the wooden frame. Joe inched up, wrinkled his brow as he lifted his gaze from the floor to my
abdomen and chest to my eyes. His widened as I whipped my head forward with every ounce of strength I could muster. He tried to move back, and in doing so,
set himself up for a better strike.

My forehead met the bridge of his nose. Thick dense bone versus cartilage and a small flap of skin. Skull crushes nose every time, and this was no
exception.

Joe stumbled backward. My momentum carried me forward. I planted both feet on the ground and regained my balance. The man remained doubled over. I hopped
the chair into position. As he looked up, I delivered another strike with my forehead, but this time his cheek and eye took the brunt, likely resulting in
an orbital bone fracture. Bad for him, and me. Bone on bone left me off balance. Not a good sensation when using chair legs for support.

Joe fell to the floor. Unable to maintain my balance, I stumbled forward as well.