“Hey, go easy, I’ve got a bad back,” Mason complained as he was tossed to the ground. He felt a knee in his spine as they slipped plastic flex cuffs around his wrists and pulled them tighter than necessary. One of the men jammed a muzzle into the back of his skull, and the American prayed the operator had his finger off the trigger.
“Get him up,” a voice commanded.
The two men jerked him painfully to his feet by grabbing his secured arms. Mason was able to get his legs underneath him before they nearly pulled his arms out of their sockets and stood grinning at them in the darkness.
One of the men flashed a red-lens flashlight into his face. The soldier’s night-vision goggles were flipped up on his helmet, and the green hue that glowed out of the eyecups barely illuminated his dark beard and cold eyes.
He held up a picture and compared it to Mason. A moment later he clicked the small disk on his chest and spoke into the microphone that jutted out in front of his mouth.
“Hunter 6, jackpot.” He took his finger off the talk button and turned back to the helicopter.
“What about the other guy?” one of the men asked.
“Bring him too.”
A soldier pulled a black bag out of his cargo pocket and pulled it over Mason’s head. Mason was guided back to the bird and felt his head being pushed down under the rotors before being forced into the Pave Hawk. The door was slammed shut and he heard the rotors spinning up as the helicopter jumped into the night sky.
Mason had no idea who these men were or where they were taking him. He was glad that they hadn’t shot Zeus and left his body in the desert, but he felt bad that he’d gotten his friend caught up in another shitty situation.
His mind ran over the possibilities. If they had wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have taken him, but that didn’t mean anything. Right now there were too many unknowns, especially the identity of whoever was working behind the scenes. Depending on what they knew, Mason felt that he was in for a bad experience. He knew what he had been willing to do to get Decklin to talk, and there was no doubt that whoever was waiting for the bird would do the same, if not worse, to him.
CHAPTER 21
The Pave Hawk’s wheels hit the tarmac with a rubbery thud, and Mason felt the bird’s hydraulic struts compress as the pilot began shutting off the engine. He had no idea where he was and the only thing he could see was a tiny sliver of daylight at the bottom of the black bag.
The door to the Special Operations bird was thrown open, and he felt a pair of hands grab him and yank his body out of the door. The toes of his boots scraped against the ground as strong hands dragged him across the pavement and tossed him into a truck.
A body bumped into his shoulder in the artificial darkness and then the door slammed.
“I told you this was a terrible idea. You know I hate being tortured,” Zeus hissed from his side of the backseat.
“Calm down,” he replied in Arabic.
“How am I supposed to remain calm? This bag smells of rotten assholes.” They had placed an operator between them, and the man told them to shut up, and Zeus fell quiet for a moment, then whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom very badly.”
“Can you stop crying for a second and act like a professional? I’m trying to figure out where we are.”
“How are you going to figure out where we are when we have bags over our heads? These men are going to chop off our dicks and leave us in the desert to die.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That is what your CIA does. I have heard all about it.”
“If you two don’t shut up,” the voice from Mason’s left yelled in Arabic, “I am going to stop this vehicle and chop off both your dicks.” Both men fell quiet and Mason tried to get a sense of where they were.
The silence didn’t last long. Zeus was nervous and unable to stay calm.
“I told you they were going to cut off our dicks,” he said.
“What is it with you and getting your dick cut off all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know,” Zeus whispered back.
“Well, shut the fuck up about it.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s it. Stop the car, Mike,” the man seated between them exclaimed.
“Mike, don’t stop the car. My friend is nervous,” Mason said quickly, trying to get some control over the situation. “Zeus, will you shut the fuck up? Look, guys, I think I’ve been pretty cool up to this point. I let you put a bag over my head and zip-tie me and do all your little spy shit, but let’s not get crazy.”
“Mr. Kane, no disrespect, but we have our orders,” a new voice said from the front seat. “If you two could just sit back there and enjoy the ride, I would really appreciate it.”
The vehicle was quiet except for the sound of the engine, which droned on as they drove. Mason didn’t feel any bumps, so he knew they weren’t going off road, and the speed was constant, so he assumed they weren’t in traffic. He was almost certain that they were driving around in circles on a base somewhere close to Libya.
The vehicle slowed before coming to a halt. The mechanical sound of a door motor creaked in the background as his door was pulled open from the outside. The overhead lights allowed Mason to see through the fabric of the mask. It was like looking through a fogged window, but he was able to see the outline of a man reaching in to grab him. Strong hands yanked him roughly from his seat, and he scrambled to get his feet under him. A heavy grip clamped onto his shoulder as he blindly struggled to get his balance. Once he was set, he felt the man pushing him across the floor, which squeaked under his shoes.
Mason was confident that they were in a hangar.
He knew he needed these little victories to keep him alive. Knowing you were in a hangar didn’t mean much in the scheme of things, but everything that boosted his confidence would help when things got rough.
A door opened to his front, and his escort pulled up on his shoulder and said, “Watch your step.”
He lifted his foot up tentatively and was guided over a step up and into a hallway.
The temperature dropped a few degrees, which suggested an office or at least a space that had air-conditioning. Mason was pushed down a hallway, and he hoped they were going someplace to talk and not the alternative. Another door clicked open, and he was pulled into a room and pushed down into a chair.
The seat was cold under his butt, and he could feel a change in pressure as the door shut and locked with an audible click. He was in an interrogation room, but the absence of the usual shit-and-piss smell calmed his nerves. This was not the place where the hard questions would be asked.
Sitting in silence, Mason had no way of keeping track of time. All he knew was that his butt was falling asleep and he couldn’t get comfortable. The metal chair had been altered and led him to believe that he was in a CIA holding facility. The CIA loved stress positions, and one of their favorite techniques was to cut an inch off the front legs of a chair so that you had to constantly fight to keep from slipping forward. He’d known guys to spray wax on a metal chair before an interrogation just to screw with the detainee.
He was sliding himself back into his seat for the hundredth time when the door opened and footsteps scuffed across the floor. The bag was pulled off his head, and he blinked against the bright lights of the room.
Mason’s eyes adjusted slowly and the first thing he saw was a wooden table in front of him. A medium-height man, in a starched white shirt and black pressed pants, ambled slowly around into his field of view. He tossed the black bag on the table, followed by a thick manila folder, which landed with a slap.