The angry man had been prepared for pain. For hitting. For a steel rod. If he could hold out for a while he’d be rescued and things would be okay, for him, but not for Colonel Azamat, he’d told himself. But this was different. There was no way to stop the shiny long needle that was inserted into his arm, while he looked on, bulge-eyed.
He watched in horror as the plunger went down.
He watched the amber-colored liquid inside disappear.
There was a mild stinging in his arm, accompanied by some small heat. Then the needle was withdrawn.
The Marine said, “My president said I could ask him for anything. In the end, your people said okay, as long as they made the arrest and administered the shot. I am only permitted to watch. Favor for favor. To avoid worse.”
Joseph Rush removed his medical gown and let it drop to the floor, and then, one by one, everyone filed out, to leave Dmitri on the table, shouting that they could not do this to him. Not him!
He awoke in a different room, an observation room, with padded walls and furniture, no window, high ceiling, a vent spewing forth lukewarm air that smelled of diesel fuel and cinnamon.
His shackles were off. There was a single cot. The steel door had a slot, through which, three times a day, healthy meals were delivered. He pounded on the walls. He begged someone for the antidote. He offered money. Whatever they wanted. A job. A car. A girl. A boy.
And every time he looked at the glass, the Marine was there, iron straight, emotionless. He never seemed to need sleep. He never moved in the big chair.
It took two days, then water began to taste funny.
Then the light started to hurt.
At the end, his screams were loud and hideous, and he barked like a dog and foamed at the mouth. No one heard him, because of soundproofed walls. On the far side of the thick glass sat the lone Marine, not eating, not drinking, just watching. Once, only once, Dmitri saw a tear roll down the man’s face. Other than that, the expression never changed.
After it was over, the Marine went home.