Finally, Mikhail found his voice. “I am prepared to die.” The blood in his mouth made his speech slurry, and his Russian accent adding to the already hard to understand words.
William Amhurst leaned in, his old eyes keen, and stared deep into Mikhail’s. “Who said anything about dying? I’m speaking of science, and science tells me that the human body has limits. All I need to do is perform some tests. What are your limits?”
Is it safe? The infamous line came to Blake’s mind, and a chill went down his spine. He was glad not to be in Mikhail’s shoes.
Mikhail’s lower lip began to tremble, and blood leaked from his mouth to dribble down onto his pants.
Blake said, “I say we just start by cutting his penis off and get this over with.”
Mikhail cried out and began struggling against the ropes that held him to the chair. He thrashed about with such intensity that veins bulged in his neck and arms.
“What is your choice — mercy or mutilation?” Blake said with forced indifference. During his previous life in the military and as a cop, he’d seen a lot of intense interrogations. This beat them all.
Movement ceased from the bound man, but he remained tight-lipped. His shaking hands clutched the arm of the chair, knuckles gleaming ivory.
Amhurst made a tsking noise. “Pride is such a dangerous thing. Science will triumph tonight. Let’s begin.” He signaled to Blake. “Hold his head back with the strap.”
The bloody man bucked again in the chair, giving vicious yanks against his restraints, though it did no good. Blake pulled Mikhail’s head back with the strap and fastened the leather to the bottom rung of the chair. The Russian was now effectively positioned for Amhurst’s work.
The would-be nursery — a room reserved for love and affection — now emitted machine sounds that were better suited for a dentist’s office, the accompanying moans and screams befitting a torture chamber. The hum of the drill sounded, and then, just as quickly, the noise of an unrestrained drill was replaced by the sound of a bit meeting resistance.
43
An Affair in November
It was an appalling display, but Mikhail held up pretty well to the horrific damage of Amhurst’s drill. Holes were not only in his teeth but there were also small, sporadic punctures in his now swollen cheeks. Even with the brace holding him in place, his motions of resistance had caused several missed drills, the bit tearing clean through the sides of his face. By now, blood was dribbling down his chin, onto his neck, and soaking into his shirt.
There was another whooshing sound as Amhurst shot more compressed air into Mikhail’s mouth. His cheeks bulged and the air whistled through the holes in his skin. The man’s screams were muffled and mixed with gurgles as he choked on blood that pooled in his throat.
Blake had lost track of how long this torture dragged on, but he was beginning to feel he couldn’t watch too much more if new information wasn’t given. This man would probably never break; it must have been one of the reasons Gernot had chosen him. Seeing Amhurst go to town on Mikhail’s mouth did nothing but encourage a nonstop loop of Marathon Man scenes to run through Blake’s mind.
Amhurst readied the air hose for another attempt and Mikhail struggled in vain to keep his mouth closed. Blake sighed, at the limits of his patience with old stinky codger versus young bloody man. He took the nozzle from the doctor, jammed it through one of the gaping holes in Mikhail’s cheek, and squeezed the trigger. Air blew out of the other side of the man’s mouth, accompanied by thin trails of blood.
Blake gave the air hose back to Amhurst. “It has to be no-nonsense torture if you’re going to do it.”
As the doctor returned to his work with renewed vigor, Blake took a moment to inspect himself in a mirror that was propped against the wall.
He’d definitely seen better days. Satoshi had given him quite a beating, and although Blake was the victor, the absence of his arm was the visual byproduct of a defeat. Scattered bandages covered numerous nicks and cuts along his body, and a deep purple bruise took up residence on most of the left side of his face. He grimaced at the spectacle, then winced as he felt the faintest trace of discomfort returning.
Blake didn’t know how long the ‘Ache-Be-Gone’ respite would last, but he was terrified of the feeling that would be forthcoming when the drug’s effectiveness wore off. He was glad he had some backups left.
Something moved in the mirror, drawing Blake’s eyes to the reflection of the room’s window. There was a figure peeking through the glass. Despite Mikhail’s cries, the attention of a common passerby at this hour would be out of the ordinary, especially given their location.
Whoever the voyeur was, he hadn’t noticed that he’d been spotted. Blake decided to make use of this. “Amhurst,” he said.
The doctor’s drill skipped, tearing another gash in Mikhail’s cheek, and the captive jolted and scream-gagged again. Amhurst looked up and tilted his head, waiting for Blake’s comment. Mikhail eyeballed them both with an expression now far beyond mere panic.
“You know, this whole Marathon Man thing has run its course. I think it’s time to speed things up. Let’s just take his stones and see what he says — I’ll be back with a knife.”
Amhurst and Blake ignored the strangled sound that seeped from Mikhail’s throat. The doctor set down the drill and gazed thoughtfully at his victim. “I still have other methods. There are plenty of chemicals in the lab.”
At that, Mikhail’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body went slack as he slid into apparent unconsciousness. But the telltale fluttering of his eyelids gave him away.
“Sounds great,” Blake quipped. “We can melt his balls off instead.”
“That wasn’t what I was suggesting.”
“Keep your suggestions. I’ll head down. Feel free to continue working on his teeth if you like.”
The drill fired back up as Blake left the room, but he didn’t head downstairs. Instead, he picked up Mikhail’s gun that Amhurst had set on the hall table, then walked deftly to the front door and opened it, stepping quietly outside into the chill night air.
He took a cautious glance around the house and saw the interloper, who was still trying to peer inside Dr. Amhurst’s makeshift torture chamber. The man wore a bowler hat and a dark coat. His attire triggered a memory in Blake. This was the man who’d been spying on him at the diner earlier.
Blake drew back into the shelter of the corner to consider his options. When he peeked again, the man was still there. He gripped the handle of the gun, comforted by the reassuring feel of it, before swinging over the ledge. His boots hit the mud with a thump, and the man by the window jerked around to face him.
“Don’t fucking move!” Blake leveled the gun at the man’s chest. “Who are you?”
The man froze, but only for a second. And then, contrary to Blake’s command, he moved, dashing down the alleyway beside the house. Blake dropped his gun arm and sighed, rolling his eyes. He wasn’t up for a foot chase, dammit! But he needed to make sure this guy wasn’t another one of Gernot’s men. Cursing under his breath, Blake pushed into a run.
The unknown man was already clawing his way up the fence at the end of the alley. As Blake ran up behind, the man launched himself over the top. What had been a minor inconvenience to the man who fled was an epic struggle for Blake.