Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER FIFTY

The shipping container's door slams shut with an ominous echo. Old construction site lamps illuminate what looks like the set of a horror film. A meat hook hangs from the ceiling by a chain and all sorts of tools lay on a folding table; there's even a blowtorch and a car battery. One of the men takes my tie off, folds it carefully and places it inside his pocket. The other man slices through the back of my jacket and shirt with a knife, peeling them from my body. He's about to do the same with my cast, but the long-faced thug with dark circles under his eyes and a goatee, stops him from doing so. I nickname him "Uday," as in Saddam Hussein's psychopathic eldest son. That makes his partner "Qusay," Uday's younger brother.

"We're going to need it," Uday says, with a southern Iraqi accent.

These men are mercenaries, I think. Cheap ones.

I'm pushed into a chair with my arms looped around the backrest. Uday lights a cigarette and sits in front of me. He takes a long, knowledgeable look at the bandages around my left shoulder and arm, the fresh cast, as well as my old scars. I can sense the other man watching me closely.

"SAS?" says Uday, pointing to my tattoo, which has a resemblance to the British Special Air Service symbol.

I stare down at the floor in silence, psyching myself up for the horrors I'm sure lie ahead for me at the hands of these butchers.

"I see you're not a stranger to pain," Uday says. "Good, because I enjoy long conversations. I'm sure by now you know what my expertise is."

I discreetly take deep breaths at intervals of four seconds. This oxygenates my blood, which counteracts the sudden rush of adrenaline caused by stress of the situation. I need to remain calm and collected if I'm to survive torture.

Uday lets out a lazy laugh. "If you tell me everything I need to know, your mother won't need a blood sample to recognize you. Personally, I prefer it if you don't cooperate, but my employer is a busy man and hates wasting time."

I remain silent.

Uday leans forward and burns my chest with his cigarette. I inhale, fighting the urge to scream.

"We know you speak Arabic," says Uday, putting his cigarette close to my face. "Or would you rather do this in English?" There's a faint hint of British English in his accent.

The door of the container opens. "Bring out the prisoner," the mercenary says.

I'm taken out, hoisted by my arms. Guarded by more soldiers of fortune, Michael Singleton awaits me outside flanked by two Middle Eastern men wearing suits. Must be management. Uday hands my red tie to Singleton.

"He only had his gun, this lighter, some cash and a French passport with him," Qusay says.

Singleton chuckles. "Finally, the infamous Eric Caine."

"Your pictures don't do you justice," I say." You look shittier in person. Shouldn't you be hiding in an office somewhere?"

"Shut up!" A flash of pain blinds me when Uday hits me on my wounded shoulder. He and Qusay have to hold me to prevent me from collapsing.

"...scraping... the bottom of the... mercenary barrel... aren't we?" I say.

"I told you to shut your mouth, you son of a whore!" Singleton raises a hand stopping Uday from hitting me again.

"I'm sure you've become acquainted by now," Singleton says looking at Uday and me. "So I'm going to make this easy for you. Tell me all about your meeting this afternoon and all you have to worry about is dropping the soap in the shower in some prison back home."