Page 186 of The Fourth Option
The Afghan cranked the telephone again, sending the incapacitating current through Walker’s body, the air heavy with the smell of burnt flesh from his toe and genitals. As his eyes rolled back in his head and his body spasmed, the Afghan turned and kicked Belle in the ribs, doubling her over from the pain.
He rummaged through a small bag in the corner and removed two short lengths of rope, before dragging Belle by the hair to a post that supported the roof. He knelt down and wrenched her hands behind her back, securing them around the wood pillar. He slapped her hard across the face to get her to stop thrashing, which allowed him to tie her feet together with the twine.
Standing up, he wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and walked back to his bag, pulling out a long Choora knife. He drew it from its wooden sheath and placed the tip of the eleven-inch blade under his prisoner’s chin, pressing it up. It cut through the skin on the underside of Walker’s jaw, driving his head up from his chest.
When the Afghan spoke, he was not talking to his debilitated captive, he was talking to the girl.
“Who are you?”
Belle drew her knees to her chest and glared at the monster before her.
“Who?” he said, driving the knife farther up, blood starting to flow down the blade and onto his hand.
“Mirabelle Travois.”
“What are you doing here?”
“This is my cabin.”
The Afghan removed the knife from under Walker’s chin, wiping his bloody hands on the leg of his pants.
“You picked a bad time to visit.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
He found it interesting that the girl asked about Walker before herself.
“That is probable, but it’s not up to me.”
“You waiting for orders from Bates?”
The Afghan stepped to the frightened girl, knelt, and put the knife against her throat.
“How do you know that name?”
“I know you are going to kill me too, so it doesn’t matter. Fuck you!”
The man stood and backhanded her across the face with his empty hand.
Her nose began to bleed, the blood dripping into her mouth.
“You American women need to know your place. You talk to me like that again and your death will be more painful than his,” he said, jerking his head toward the unconscious man dangling from the rafter. “Youdress like a whore and talk like a whore, and you will be treated like one, do you understand me?”
Belle spat at her tormenter.
He reared back again, only to pause when a new set of headlights sliced through the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
LOWERING HIS HAND,the Afghan walked to the telephone and spun the dial again, sending another shock wave through his captive’s unconscious body. Then he opened the door for Cornelius Bates.
“Smells like shit in here,” the lieutenant said.
“Burning flesh,” the Afghan said. “You get used to it.”
“Is he dead?” Bates asked.
The Afghan yanked back the former SEAL’s head and pried open his left eye.
