Page 185 of The Fourth Option
“You remember how this works?” the man asked.
“I do.”
“Tell me.”
“You rotate the crank, which spins the coils around the magnets, creating a high-voltage surge of electricity.”
“That’s it. I don’t even need to douse you with salt water like we used to do to our prisoners back home for these kinds of treatments. Your sweat will act as a perfect conductor.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Oh, Mr. Walker. You misunderstand. I am just here to turn the handle. My employer will be the one to ask you the questions.”
“Who is your employer?”
“He told me you were smart, but all I see is a schoolboy, using schoolboy tricks. They will not work. You have reached the end of the line.”
“Good. I was getting tired of this life anyway.”
“Then let me get you ready for the next.”
The man walked to the small side table with the old phone that he had moved closer to his victim.
“I’ll have you know, I get no pleasure from this,” he said.
“Me neither,” Walker responded, bracing himself for what was to come.
The Afghan was about to turn the handle when headlights illuminated the window.
“My boss has arrived.”
Walker lifted his head and squinted his eyes as a car came to a stop in the dirt. The driver extinguished the lights. It was a car Walker recognized.
“Za na poheegum,” the Afghan said as he glared out the window. I don’t understand.
The door to the vintage green BMW opened, and Belle Travois walked toward the cabin.
Before Walker could shout a warning, his tormentor cranked the handle and ran for the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
THE AFGHAN HURRIEDdown the steps and rushed toward the young woman.
“Who the fuck are you?” she barked, marching forward.
The stranger put a smile on his face that shifted to loathing as he got within striking distance, his open palm slapping her across her cheek and jaw with a force that dropped her to her knees. He yanked back on her black hair and grabbed her around the throat.
“Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?” he spat.
Before she could respond, the Afghan threw her forward into the dirt and placed his knee against the base of her spine, pressing his hand into the side of her face, pinning it to the ground. His free hand frisked her from her Doc Martens up her bare leg beneath the fabric of the long black silhouette, along her waistband, and up the spaghetti straps that held the gray-and-black bodice to her upper body. He roughly turned her over, sliding his knee between her legs and slapping her across the face once more. He then exerted downward pressure against her neck with a grip of iron while he frisked her front.
Satisfied she was unarmed, he wrenched her to her feet, forced her up the steps of the cabin, and threw her to the floor just inches from Walker’s suspended naked body.
Walker opened his eyes, regaining consciousness from the electrical current that had shocked his system.
He struggled to speak. “Belle…”
“Chris!” she cried.
