Brockman floated backward, downward, Ali's blurred hands striking him, yanking his pistol away.
Chapter 14.
A phone rang. Muffled. As if blankets were wrapped around it.
"Hello?" The voice seemed a far-away whisper. It sounded eerily like Brockman. "Pick me up to go to the airport? No, I changed my plans. There's something urgent I need to attend to. I won't be leaving until tomorrow. I'll call you."
Silence gathered. Slowly, Brockman understood that he was sitting upright, his back against something metallic. Tied against something metallic. A sudden light blazed toward his face. Many bright lights. He wanted to paw them away, but his arms wouldn't move.
Footsteps. The air seemed denser as someone hovered in front of him.
"Hey!" Slap. "Wake up!" Slap. "I know you're faking!" Slap. "Open your damned eyes, or I'll tape them open so you can't blink!"
Brockman warily opened his eyes and squinted from the pain of numerous lamps. Their shades had been tilted backward, their exposed bulbs aimed in his direction, nearly blinding him. Unable to move his head, he shifted his eyes this way and that to try to protect them, but the heat from the lights was inescapable. His right leg, where the dart from the tranquilizer gun had struck him, felt swollen and throbbed.
Ali stood close before him. Along with his dark hair, his dark features, and dark suit, he wore dark leather gloves.
Brockman strained to move. Shifting his eyes blurrily from side to side, he saw barbells, a treadmill . . . His exercise room. His pistol and his cell phone were on a table, along with his claw-shaped knife, its plastic sheath and breakaway chain that Ali had found on him. He angled his eyes down, realizing that he was secured to the flex machine, his legs strapped to the leg-curl extensions, his arms raised and attached to the butterfly extensions.
"I know I'm not the security leak," Ali said. "And Cavanaugh was awfully sure Kim wasn't. After all, who would be stupid enough to blackmail her and trust a druggie to deliver information on time and accurately? That means you , my friend, and would you like to know why I'm sure you're the son of a bitch who told Carl Duran where our agents would be, on what assignments, and when?"
Brockman relied on his rugged military training, on the weeks he'd spent in the South African outback, with hardly any food and water, amid brush fires, lions, and elephants. He gathered all his discipline, everything he'd ever learned about withstanding interrogation. "You're making a mistake."
Slap. "I asked, would you like to know why I'm sure you're the son of a bitch who's the security leak?"
"Have you gone out of your--"
Slap. Ali's glove burned Brockman's cheek. "Because protectors are getting killed right and left. Because all of us are constantly checking over our shoulders, wondering if we'll be next. Except you , my friend. I've been watching you the last few days. When you're on the street, you don't seem the slightest bit threatened or nervous the way the rest of us are. You're not acting as if you're worried that somebody's going to stick a knife in you the way I'm worried. Now why would that be? Do you suppose it's because you're part of this, because you know you're safe?"
Brockman didn't answer.
"Well, we've got time," Ali said. "Hours and hours. Tonight. Tomorrow morning. I heard your accent so often over the years, I can do a damned good imitation in case anybody telephones. I told your driver he won't be needed. Are you expecting any visitors?"
"A friend."
"Male or female?"
"Female. She'll get suspicious if I don't answer the intercom."
"I'll disguise my voice again," Ali said.
"She knows me too well. She'll realize it isn't me, especially if pain distorts my voice. She'll get suspicious and call the police."
"So I'd better take it easy on you, is that it?" Ali smiled. "Well, at least I got you to answer several questions in a row, even if the answers are lies. How could you be expecting a girl friend when your driver was expecting to drive you to La Guardia?" Slap. "Mustn't lie, Gerald. But we've got plenty of leisure to discuss this. First, though, I think a little exercise will relieve the tension? These flex machines are wonderful. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of rerouting some wires and readjusting some parts."
Nearly blinded by the lights, Brockman watched as Ali pulled a handle. Its wire was attached to a series of pressure-increasing wheels that Ali had attached to the machine. The device allowed Ali to exert minimal energy in order to move a lot of weight. In horror, Brockman watched as the leg-curl extension began to rise. Unwilled, his legs rose with it. They felt as if they were going to snap from the enormous weight of barbells tied to his ankles, weighing them down. Sweat burst from his face. His mouth opened. He thought he was going to scream.
Ali jammed a rag into his mouth.
Immediately, he pulled another handle, its cable attached to another series of pressure-increasing wheels. The machine's butterfly extensions moved forward and inward, causing Brockman's bent arms to follow.
But the weight against Brockman's arms was enormous, and his arms had been strapped to the extensions in the reverse of the usual way so that his palms faced outward rather than inward. Muscles were pulled in unnatural directions. Backbones crackled. He had a terrifying image of a roasted chicken, of its overcooked wings being torn off. Sweat dribbled down his face. The scream inside him built until it threatened to propel the rag from his mouth.
Abruptly, Ali released each handle. The machine's leg-curl and butterfly extensions shot back into place, forcing Brockman's legs and arms to shoot back with them. The excruciating impact sent a shockwave through him. Pain made his stomach heave. Ali pulled out the rag just before hot bile filled Brockman's mouth.