Page 192 of The Fourth Option
He saw one of the gangbangers kneel to Belle’s side and remove a straight razor from his pocket. He whispered something in her ear, held the blade to her throat, and then slowly moved it along her skin to the spaghetti strap of her dress. He slipped it underneath and sliced up. The material fell away, revealing her left breast.
He could see Stanton struggling in a futile attempt to free himself, shouting at the men who now controlled the room. Walker blocked it out and focused on what he needed to do.
Belle slowly turned her head toward the man with the knife and spat in his face. The gesture was returned. He grabbed her hair and slammed her skull against the wood support. He moved the blade to her wrists and sliced through the plastic restraints. She lashed out, but with her feet still restrained she fell forward onto the floor.
The Latin men laughed.
The Afghan said something Walker couldn’t understand over the commotion, but Cuchillo’s men immediately grabbed Belle by the hair and under her arms and dragged her screaming from the cabin.
The door shut behind them, and Walker heard Belle’s feet bang off the steps. From the direction of her cries he knew they had taken her to the shed.
You have four hours. Bates ordered him to keep us alive for four hours.
Belle doesn’t have that much time.
Belle has minutes.
Walker heard Stanton try to reason with the Afghan, first appealing to his sense of justice, humanity, and moral decency, then a direct plea with a promise of preferable treatment, and then finally immunity.
“Don’t you have a family? You are going to let them rape that girl?”
“I had a family. Men like this one,” he said, motioning to Walker. “Men like him killed them as surely as if he had raped and killed them himself.”
“We can work this out,” Stanton said.
The Afghan stepped closer to Walker.
“That’s what the CIA promised. They said they would take care of us and get our families out of the country. They lied. You work for the same government that made those promises.”
“I’m not CIA.”
“You are the domestic version,” the Afghan said. “You and this man are the same.”
“I have an agent down outside. Let me help her.”
“She’s as good as dead, just like you.”
“There is still time. You can assist me, I can help you on the other side of this. Trust me, if you don’t, this will not end well for you.”
Almost. Just a little closer.
“You have a few hours, but your end is inevitable,” the Afghan said.
He moved within arm’s reach of Walker and pulled back on his hair.
“I don’t know if I can keep this one alive much longer.”
Just turn slightly to either side.
“If he dies too early, I’ll feed him to the crocs.”
“They’re alligators,” Stanton said.
The Afghan angled his body as if he was contemplating a move toward the FBI man.
Go.
Walker exploded, bringing his knees up and cracking the Afghan under the chin. At the same time, he wrapped his hands around the chain and heaved himself up, grabbing the higher links as he propelled himself upward, which allowed him to wrap the Afghan’s neck between his legs in a modified triangle choke. He twisted on the chain, exerting more pressure, constricting the carotid artery’s blood flow to the Afghan’s brain.
