Armed Resistance. Don Pendleton

smiled and ignored the pain that came with it. “Say what you want, asshole. But I don’t know anything and I’m not telling you anything.”

       “Oh, if I’m certain of anything it’s that you’ll talk, Mr. Leighton. I’m a patient man. But I can assure you that the sooner you answer my questions, the faster I’ll kill you. Should you force me to prolong my inquiry, this will be a difficult engagement for you. I promise.”

       “Promises, promises.”

       Leighton couldn’t see much but he did make out what appeared to be a nod from Bukatem’s silhouette. A moment later someone raised his legs and he could feel the heat from the spotlights as they were placed much closer to him. Then his legs were forced into some kind of container filled with water; Leighton heard the slosh as his feet hit the surface and his shoes and socks were immediately saturated.

       “You going to give me a bath?” Leighton snickered. “I’ve never been treated so well by the bad guys.”

       “Your flippancy annoys me, Mr. Leighton,” Bukatem replied. “It’s little more than false bravado and something I can assure you’ll come to regret in a moment.”

       “Oh yeah? Well—”

       Leighton never finished the sentence as excruciating pain lanced from his groin, traveled up his chest and set the very tips of his hairs on fire. So it felt that way. Leighton couldn’t be sure but he thought he let out a scream and still it seemed like that would’ve been impossible because he vomited unproductively. Mostly the bile burned his throat in the aftermath of the shock and he experienced more cramps and dry heaves than anything else. The cycle was repeated a second time, then a third, and on the fourth Leighton thought he would pass out.

       The CIA man realized they were applying some type of electric shock to his body—hence his feet in the water—but it was probably connected to an independent power source since he didn’t notice any flicker in the lights that practically seared his face. Their proximity, coupled with the electric shock, made it feel as if Bukatem’s men had set his body on fire.

       “What?” Bukatem’s voice seemed to reverberate inside his head, as if listening to the man speak under water. “Nothing to say now? I’m disappointed, Mr. Leighton. I thought you would definitely conjure a response to this newest form of interrogation!”

       Another series of two jolts, these more painful than the first, followed Bukatem’s taunting.

       “What do you have to say to that?” Bukatem continued. “Do you understand now that I can generate this pain as long as I choose? You see, Mr. Leighton, I invented this technique. The food and water we gave you contains a special concoction of my own design. This prepares your body for what follows, and intensifies the pain. Oh, do not worry…there won’t be any permanent damage. But you can rest assured that within an hour you will beg me to kill you.”

       Another jolt came and Leighton wasn’t prepared for it this time. He bit his tongue and immediately tasted the salty, coppery blood from it. To some degree he regretted being so cocky but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. Not that it would’ve mattered. Bukatem would have employed this torture no matter what Leighton told him or what questions he answered. He could have sold his mother, his whole damn country down the river, and Bukatem wouldn’t have faltered for a moment. This had been planned, coldly, calculatingly, decisively from the beginning.

       “Now, American…let’s begin to discuss your recent activities in Khartoum,” Bukatem said.