Captive-in-Chief (8 page)

He’d had the dream many times, his worst fear, falling from a building. Helpless, unable to do anything other than anticipate a quick and gory end to his life. He knew any second he would ‘jump’ in his sleep and waken as his unconscious expected to virtually hit the ground. He looked up. He couldn’t even remember what his dream had him falling from, a cliff, a skyscraper, whatever, it was far away. He strained his eyes. A plane, he was falling from a plane. He reached for a parachute. If he was falling from a plane, he’d have jumped. No parachute. He felt the cold as he cut through the air at 120 miles per hour, reaching terminal velocity after only twenty seconds.

He felt the cold and was doing calculations about his speed? Normally he fell and jolted himself awake. He looked around, he could hear the wind rushing by, could feel the force of the air change when he turned his head. He spun himself around in mid-air, changing his view to where he was heading rather than where he had been. Darkness lay below, far below, still a long way off. A darkness that had a shape. Even in the dead of night he could see it had a border. A body of water circled by land, a lake. A very large lake. He wasn’t going to waken before he hit, he was already awake. He wasn’t dreaming. The drugs the stewardess had given him were screwing with his mind. He was living out the last few moments of his life.

The drugs were wearing off with every yard he dropped. His awareness rose, his mouth ached, dullness gave way to stabbing pains, and he pulled his arm towards his mouth, fighting against the upward force of the air. His fingers fell into his mouth and pain surged through them. He pulled his fingers out and looked at them, his mind in its drunken haze taking time to comprehend the damage. His fingertips were gone. His teeth were gone. Dental records and fingerprint analysis would not be available to identify his corpse, but his DNA had been collected while in the military and was in a database. His remains would be identified.

Pain surged through him as the effects of the drugs died within him. He wanted to scream but couldn’t breathe if he opened his mouth while facing downwards. He flipped back around and screamed at the plane far above, a white speck far off in the distance. They knew he was ex-military, they knew his DNA would identify his remains, unless, of course, they could alter or control the records. But that meant…

Hitting the water was like hitting concrete at that speed. Though he could have tried to land feet first, the best result would have been shattered legs splintering into his upper body, and from his trajectory it was clear he was going to land smack in the middle of the lake, miles from shore, and at best with two shattered legs in utter agony. He was dead whatever way he hit. He tipped his head back in the hope the impact would kill him instantly, or knock him unconscious while his body shattered and died.

Elsa closed the door after heaving his body out of the jet. Her brief stewardess career was at an end. Drapsmann’s fingertips and teeth were to be incinerated on landing. She unstrapped herself from the harness that had prevented her from falling and poured herself a coffee. What an asshole. Tueuer, Drapsmann—. Seriously the guy was an utter fool. Other aliases included Zabijak, Vrases, Tapja, Katil, among many others. All utterly ridiculous and displaying an arrogance that had no place in their business. Not that he didn’t deserve to be arrogant, he was an exceptional killer, yet she again had proven her talents against one of the greatest assassins of the time.

He had been a hired hand who knew too much. He could tie the various triggers together, something they could ill afford. He was expendable and not part of the main operation. It had been a decision beyond her pay grade. She would have been happy to have fulfilled Drapsmann’s killings. However, given his high profile role and the importance of being caught on film, it was decided an outside contractor that would subsequently disappear without a trace would be best.

Elsa placed his IDs into the bag with his fingertips and teeth. They would join them in the incinerator. She couldn’t help admire the arrogance of the man as she pulled the tie cord tight on the bag. Every alias was ‘killer’ in another language. The man walked into situations displaying killer on his name badge.

She placed the bag in her purse and sat, straining to look back at Great Salt Lake twenty thousand feet below them, 75 miles long, 28 miles wide. He would be hitting just about now she thought, checking her watch. She wondered if he woke up prior to hitting. Not that she cared, she simply wondered what would have gone through his mind.

“All done?” asked the captain, opening his door tentatively to the main cabin.

She nodded, not that it was his concern, he was merely responsible for her transport and unaware of all that had happened that day.

“We have another job,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“A narrative change was all I was told. We’ll touch down in L.A. in just over an hour.”

“Details?”

“They’re being sent to you now.”

“Fine,” she waved dismissively, opening her laptop.

The captain turned back to the cockpit, a shiver running down his spine. Without her fake smile, she was the coldest, deadliest person he had ever had the displeasure to be around.

The sound of footsteps echoed on the cold concrete floor, each louder than the last. They were coming back, more than one. There were always at least three. They had made the mistake once of coming alone. Ultimately, he had paid for his retaliation, . What had they expected, that he would simply take it when he had a chance to fight back?

The door creaked open. He pretended to be asleep, hoping there was a chance they might just move on to the next cell. The ice cold water was all the evidence he needed that that wasn’t going to happen. His body shook violently as the coldness of the water, cruelly drawn to the numerous cuts and bruises that covered almost every inch of his naked frame, soaked into his already hypothermic state.

“Up!” demanded a new voice.

His teeth chattered violently, his jaw bone unable to control itself, unable to tell them exactly where he thought they should go.

“Up!”

He had no energy. He hadn’t eaten anything solid in days, weeks, months, he didn’t remember how long it had been. He didn’t even know which hurt the most, the cold, the torture, or the hunger.

Two of the men grabbed him, one on each arm, and dragged him from his cell, his feet trailing uselessly behind him. He tried to lift them, to help the men, his nailess toes dragging along the rough concrete floor. The pain of the removal flooded back with every inch traveled. Sapped through cold and hunger, his energy was lost to the pain ripping through his toes.

“You know they think you are dead. Desertion, cowardice… those are only a couple of the words they are using,” said the man, his voice bitter, twisted. An anger burned deep inside the man, that he knew was going to result in even more relief from his cold and hunger.

“Look,” said the man, pointing to TV sets in the room, CNN and the BBC news were playing. His photo, an image of him prior to his capture, nothing like what he looked like anymore was splashed across the screens. Easily forty pounds heavier and not a mark on his skin. He thanked God he couldn’t see himself in a mirror. He didn’t think even his mother would recognize him now.

The news reports played out, the volume was down, his photo with “deserter presumed dead” was clearly the message they wanted to convey. The news continued, his best friend’s photo with “hero survives onslaught” flashed up on the screen. His best friend Clay was alive.

He smiled.

“Stop the tape!” screamed the man, fury overtaking him at the error in letting the prisoner see more than he needed of the report.

“Chair!” barked the man.

“Yes, Uday.”

The two men threw him onto the wooden chair, the only other piece of furniture in the 12 by 12 room.

Shit, he thought. Uday Hussein, Saddam’s crazy son.

He stared into the eyes of a true madman, infamous for, amongst other things, bludgeoning his father’s personal valet to death in front of a roomful of dinner guests. Rape, torture, and murder were three of his favorite pastimes. He hoped he’d only be experiencing one of them as the TV sets were pushed from the room, their wheeled trolleys bumping and jostling across the rough floor. Another trolley was wheeled in to replace them. A car battery sat on top with a selection of jumper leads and cables. A light bulb sat next to the assortment.

“Our torches are a bit smaller than yours,” he joked, looking at the trolley.

“You may joke, American,” spat Uday, “however, you’re going to tell me everything you know.” Uday grinned insanely, motioning for his men to connect the jumper leads and cabling to various parts of the prisoner’s body.

He would be telling Uday everything he knew. He had been telling them ever since he had been taken by the Iraqi forces.

The light blinked weakly on the trolley and the pain made his body convulse in horror. He jumped wildly in his seat. A wetness hit him on the mouth.

He opened his eyes; Sandy stared deep into them.

Sunlight flashed between the trees as the coach sped along the tree lined highway, the strobing effect of the sun an unwelcome and unfortunate reminder of that blinking light bulb.

Joe reached for Sandy, patting her gently, his body sweating as the memories, all too real, abated. She always sensed when the nightmares were too real, and would wake him gently. He reached for his bourbon. A long, slow pull would dull the memories and allow him a more peaceful sleep.

From the angle of the sunlight against the trees, he figured it was still relatively early. After another drink he closed his eyes. The sunlight continued to flash against the outside of his eyelids as the bus sped towards their destination, still over a thousand miles away, but the bourbon did its job. He fell into a peaceful sleep.

Jodie Tyler had escaped the Pomona Fox tragedy with her life and her camera. She wasn’t sure which held more value at that time, although she was betting her camera. A recent photojournalist graduate, the concert had been one of her first paid gigs, and spotting the president’s daughter being rushed towards the helicopter, she had started taking shots. Her camera was like a rapid fire machine gun as she depressed the trigger for the shutter, taking thousands upon thousands of shots in the space of two minutes. With the camera fixed on the helicopter, she looked around for her next target for when the chopper left, and as a result didn’t see the drama as it happened; Zane Tate being thrown off of the chopper and the flare being fired. However, her camera caught both.

Back at home, she had scoured through every shot. She had heard the rumor that Tess Caldwell had ordered Zane Tate out of the chopper. The truth was far worse. Jodie had a shot of Tess physically pushing Zane Tate from the chopper, a look of utter hatred in her face. However, it was not the most damning shot. She had proof of who had fired the flare. Three photos clearly showed Tess directing the Marine to fire the flare down rather than up as he had first intended. Not only had Tess Caldwell condemned Zane Tate to his death by shoving him from the helicopter, she had instigated the fire that killed him and many, many others.

The Caldwells were the nearest thing to the American people’s idea of perfection in a president and first family. The reelection wasn’t a ‘who would win’ more a ‘by how much would President Caldwell win.’ That was the expectation, certainly up until then. Jodie’s photos of Tess could change all of that. She had reached out to a couple of agencies, suggesting she had some shots of Tess that were dynamite, while not giving too much away. She didn’t want the story to break without the photos; the more exclusive she could make the package the better, certainly for her bank balance and college debt.

She had received a couple of offers—low five figures, nothing like what the pictures were worth. She was tempted to contact the Democratic party. The photos would all surely guarantee they’d win back the presidency. And given the money the parties spent during the elections that was worth hundreds of millions. They were probably worth more to the Republicans to keep their guy in power. But, she reminded herself, she was a journalist first and foremost. The people deserved to know the truth, within limits. The photos were worth a hell of a lot more than she was being offered. Jodie was going to have to give some more information about their content to get more money.

She picked up her cell to make the call. It was three a.m. in L.A., already 6 a.m. in New York. Before she could dial the number it buzzed.

“Jodie Tyler?” asked a female voice.

“Yes?”

“We want your photos!”

“How much?” asked Jodie.

“Name your price.”

“Who is this?” asked Jodie.

“An interested party. We want an exclusive. Has anyone else got them yet?”

“How did you get my number?” asked Jodie, becoming increasingly concerned. Only the agencies she had contacted knew she had the photos and they wouldn’t have cut themselves out of any potential deal.

“One million dollars, only if they’re exclusive though.”

Any thoughts of who they were disappeared from her thoughts. Her bank account balance was thirty-two dollars, every credit card she owned was maxed out, and she had over $45,000 in student debt.

“Two,” she countered as confidently as she could muster, her whole body shaking with excitement and worry that she may have gone too far. It was a ballsy move yet she knew deep down the shots were worth it.

“Deal. We will send a representative to collect them, the camera, and any copies you may have.”

“My camera?”

“We’ll add $5,000 to cover the camera,” said the voice.

“No, I meant why would you want my camera?”

“The money will be in your account shortly and our representative is on their way.”

“Okay, I’ll give you my details.”

“Not necessary, we have them.” The caller hung up.