Читать книгу Special Forces: The Spy - Cindy Dees - Страница 12

Piper was immeasurably grateful for the padding and cotton balls her friendly captor had given her, but she also was overwhelmed with dread at what it signified for her near future. As she lay in the quiet, dimly lit cellar, unable to sleep, she listened to the light, slow sound of Goldeneyes’s breathing, and mentally braced herself for the torture to come.

In her POW training, the trainees had been slapped around some, and they’d all pretended it was an approximation of the pain they might experience as prisoners of war. But as she lay here now, she settled into the grim realization that nothing could prepare her for what was going to happen to her soon. She was going to suffer a real beating—or worse—at the hands of men who wouldn’t hesitate to break her.

Her instructors had told the POW trainees that their endorphins would kick in and the pain would lessen. That women had an advantage over men because their bodies threw out more endorphins faster than men’s, as a result of being biologically designed to withstand childbirth.

But she was still scared to death.

Goldeneyes had made it clear to her that the other men thought she was some woman called Persephone Black. Should she pretend to be that person, or was she better off denying being Mrs. Black? Would she piss off her kidnappers if she insisted she wasn’t the woman they’d meant to kidnap?

But she had no idea who this other woman was. She couldn’t correctly answer any questions about her. Her kidnappers would figure out soon enough that she couldn’t possibly be the woman in question. Maybe she should just go ahead and stand by not being Persephone Black.

Of course, then her kidnappers would demand to know who she really was. And it wasn’t like she was eager to spill her true identity or the fact that she was part of a highly classified Special Forces team.

The best bet was probably to go along with being Mrs. Black for now.

Working quickly, she built up a fake identity for herself. Originally from Minnesota, she decided to pretend she was from Wisconsin. Not that she expected any of the men except Goldeneyes would know a Midwestern accent when they heard one.

She would stick with the historian cover she already used in Houma: she was researching pirates in the early days of American history, particularly those who’d run through and hidden in the bayous of Louisiana.

She knew her captors thought she was thirty years old. How long had she been married? Three years seemed like a safe enough number. If only she knew what Mr. Black did. Since these people were obviously trying to coerce him into doing something, she probably had better avoid the topic of his work. If she was lucky, her captors already knew what work Mr. Black did and wouldn’t bother to confirm it with her.

Since sleep was totally not happening in the face of impending pain, she opted to rest and meditate, practicing centering herself and separating her mind from her body. And she prayed for strength.

The long hours of the night passed, and eventually, she heard stirring overhead. Apprehension tightened across her skin, and she checked her padding awkwardly. Still in place, thank goodness.

She stood up and maneuvered the cotton balls into her palm just in case.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and daylight flooded downward. Goldeneyes stood quickly, just in time to meet three of her captors at the foot of the stairs. They held a quick, quiet conversation in Farsi, most of which she missed.

Goldeneyes threw her a single warning glance, touching his cheek briefly with his finger.

Damn. It was time for the cotton balls. Turning her back to the men, she quickly slipped them into her mouth and used her tongue to push them into place between her molars and cheeks.

“Bring her over to the chair,” Mahmoud ordered.

Goldeneyes moved over to her and released one of her handcuffs. Using them like a leash, he dragged her toward the middle of the cellar. She resisted, unable to stop herself. She simply couldn’t go meekly into whatever was coming.

She wouldn’t say Goldeneyes was exactly gentle with her, but he wasn’t rough as he forced her over to the chair and pushed her down onto it. Quickly, he threaded the handcuffs through the chair’s back slats and pulled her free hand behind her back to recuff it.

Panic ripped through her and she looked up at him in anguish.

“Courage,” he muttered without moving his lips.

Right. Courage. She was a Medusa and would acquit herself like one.

She hoped.

Mahmoud moved over to stand in front of her. He passed what looked like a video camera to Goldeneyes. “Film this.”

Great. If this was going to be theater, then she could expect big dramatic punches. Blood. Pain. Lots of pain. She was all over giving these guys the best show she could. Maybe they would stop sooner if she did a lot of screaming and wailing.

Goldeneyes took the video camera, opened the foldout screen on its side and nodded. He didn’t look up at her. Rather, he stared fixedly at the tiny monitor. Almost as if he couldn’t bear to look directly at her.

The one called Yousef stepped up in front of her. He drew his arm across his body and backhanded her across the face. Hard. She let her head snap to the side with the slap, doing her best to move with the blow and minimize its impact.

But her entire right side of her face exploded with stinging fire. Crap, that hurts.

She glared at Mahmoud, standing behind and slightly to one side of Yousef. “Aren’t you going to ask me any questions before you start slapping me around?”

The bastard’s only response was, “Again.”

Yousef struck from the opposite direction this time, smacking the other side of her face painfully. That was the same side that he’d punched yesterday at the school, and the inside of her mouth was already cut up. She was immensely grateful for the cotton ball to cushion the blow. Her eyes watered copiously, though.

She gritted her teeth, partially to keep the cotton balls hidden and partially because she was getting mad. Past her tight jaws, she ground out, “You guys are freaking cowards, hitting a woman who’s tied up and can’t defend herself. Does it make you feel like men? Because it makes you look like scared little boys.”

Yousef punched her this time, burying his fist in her left side, at belly button height. She let her body pivot in the chair as the blow landed, tensing her abdominal muscles to protect her internal organs.

She yelled a curse as pain exploded in her gut, relieved not to have passed out from a drop in blood pressure from being hit in that location.

After that, she did her best to absorb each blow with a minimum of damage, but the toll started to add up. One of her eyes swelled nearly shut, and blood ran down her chin from her nose and mouth. Soon her entire body felt like hamburger, and the pain was so loud and steady now that more blows almost failed to register.

That must be the endorphins kicking in. Thank God.

Yet again, her attacker came back with a fist aimed at her face. She closed her jaw and kept her tongue well away from her teeth, prepared to let her head snap to the side, rolling with the punch.

“Stop!” Goldeneyes yelled.

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at him, along with everyone else.

“What?” Mahmoud demanded.

“Unless our orders are to kill her right now,” Goldeneyes ground out, “you need to stop making a punching bag out of her. As it is, you may have already seriously injured her. If she’s got internal bleeding, hitting her again could kill her. What did your handlers tell you to do, Mahmoud? Are we here to kill her now or not?”