Target 84 (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Greta Billings

“Revenge! I'll watch you bleed. Revenge! That's all I'll need.”
-
BLACK FLAG – “REVENGE”

It’s chilly in this room. The large, oak door is locked. It’s pitch-black. The light switch doesn’t work now. It worked earlier, but not now, not after “lights out” was called. I’m frightened and alone. I slide off the bed and crawl to the door. My tiny fists barely make a sound as I beat on it. It irritates me that I’m so small. Most other nine-year-olds aren’t as small as I am. Always the shortest and lightest in my class.

“Let me out! Let me out!” I howl as tears drop from my cheeks to the cold, linoleum floor. My long, blonde hair sticks to my face. I push it away angrily. How could they do this to me? Why? I sob, scream, and yell until I just can't anymore. Then I beat on the door some more. My hands hurt.

“Shh,” a voice whispers through the door.

“Let me out of here! I want to go home!” I cry.

“Shhhhh. You’ll wake up Dee. You’re safe. Just be quiet,” a boy’s voice says calmly.

“Who are you?”

“A student,” he answers.

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. Just follow orders and be quiet after lights out. You’ll be fine,” the boy instructs.

“I don’t believe you,” I whisper into the solid oak that blocks us.

“Want me to hum?”

“Hum?” I ask, confused.

“A song, maybe it will make you feel better, little bird.”

“I’m not a bird!” I squawk.

“Shhhhh! They’ll hear,” he chastises.

“Okay. Hum,” I say.

His voice is small and quiet but soothing. I lean my back against the door and rest my head on the hardwood, listening. He hums faintly for a short while. It settles me somehow. I don’t know the tune but I like it.

“You still there?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say after a moment.

“I have to go. My shift is over.”

“No, please. Stay,” I beg.

“Tomorrow night, little bird. I’ll come back and hum,” he whispers quickly. “Remember, follow orders.” His nickname doesn’t offend me this time. It sounds gentle and sweet.

“Wait, please!” I whisper harshly. I want to know his name. I want to know what the song was too.

Nothing. Silence.

I’m alone again. I crawl back to my bed and pull the thin blanket up to my chin before curling up in a tiny ball. I press my hands over my ears and try to softly hum the tune he sang. I can’t remember more than the first bar. It frustrates me that I lost it so fast. I hum what I can recall over and over until I fall asleep.

A fist tightens around my heart. I try to move and am met with a crackling noise beneath me, like plastic. A tarp? My eyes fly open wide. I’m tied down, arms and legs restrained. I can barely twitch them. A blast of adrenaline jolts my limbs, but I’m not going anywhere. A band of pain grips my head. My heart quickens, thinking about the possibilities. Fuck.

Assessing the situation, my eyes strain from their sockets, staring into the darkness. A man’s silhouette, edging along the shadows, heads straight for me. He stops at my feet, surveying my body. He drops
to his haunches, forearms resting on his thighs as he studies me acutely.
When he presses in closer, crowding me against the floor, his face inches from mine, I decide it’s time to play damsel. Something clicks at his hip and a dim light slowly lights the space. His face is covered by a knitted mask. Only his lips--full and soft looking--and his eyes show. Ice blue.

“Water,” I urge. My throat is dry. Scratchy. Moreover, though, I don’t know when I’ll have access to water again. I need to play on his emotions now to hydrate. I’m not really the damsel-in-distress type, but let him think I’m lame. He cocks his head to the side, still crouching, weight resting on the ball of his feet, and grins. It’s sinister. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. I don’t let any emotion show.

“Water please,” I croak again.

“Sorry, sweetheart. No can do.” His voice is like velvety sandpaper. Rough yet smooth. It sounds vaguely familiar. He stands and continues to stare down at me. Stormy blue eyes hold mine captive for an awkward moment.

“Why?” I ask, feeling disoriented.

”Well, you're on a lot of ketamine,” he says with a glint in his eye.

“What's that?” I ask groggily.

“Horse tranquilizer.”

“You gave me horse tranquilizer?!” I scream, losing sight of my focus, my control of emotion. Revulsion and aggression roll through me.

“It was either that or a concussion,” he says and barks out a bitter laugh.

“Screw you,” I spit.

Disgusted amusement spreads through his dark eyes, his jaw sets, and his blue eyes steel in fierce concentration. That same small click sounds in the bare room. Light fades to black. The sound of the man’s boots get further and further away.

“Where are you going?” I shout angrily. I need to get out of these bindings.
Now
. I roll left onto my shoulder to try and give my hands some freedom. There are two kinds of pain in the world. The sort that makes you stronger or the sort that makes you weaker. The latter only brings suffering. I have no patience for useless things. I shake off the lightheaded feeling the drug hangover has left me with. I know what needs to be done.

“I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.
”―
William Blake
I need her completely broken down by fear.

I need her to settle into the feeling of no control. She’d been so stunned that I tranquilized her, it was amusing. A sort of sick satisfaction had washed over me. I left her alone for hours. Let her stew and wonder about all the possibilities awaiting my return. I checked in with Clint and Dominic on the case, grabbed a cup of coffee, and managed to catch a two-hour nap. I completed my calisthenics routine before heading back to the warehouse.

I tuck my stun gun into the waistband of my jeans as I approach her room. With my free hand I unlock the deadbolts and click the light switch on. No sound comes from inside.
Shit.
I push the door open with my foot slowly.

“Greta,” I call out through my clenched jaw. Silence. I step in cautiously and scan the room, keeping the door at my left elbow. From behind the door she charges forward like a small torpedo, lunging at me. She manages to wrap her hand around my balls before I fire the stun gun at her. Fifty thousand volts of electricity jolt her body, making her shake violently. Her hand, still clutching my balls, squeezes even harder, allowing the electricity to jolt me as well. I scream as we both collapse to the floor. My chest heaves painfully.

“Mother fucker!” I bellow from the cold concrete. She tries to get to her feet but stumbles. The aftereffects of being tased hit her every few seconds, making her convulse slightly. She scrambles clumsily towards the door. Rolling, I grab hold of her ankle and yank, hard. She loses her footing and slams belly first into the floor with a huff. How the hell did she get loose?

My body is no longer shaking. Pins and needles ravage my extremities but I can still use them. She kicks at me, catching me in the shoulder. I yank her towards me and throw myself on top of her, pinning her with my weight. She manages to slam my kidney with an iron-fisted punch. She’s strong. I shift my weight and pin her wrists above her head with one hand. She spits in my face.

Without thinking, I reel backwards, releasing her wrist and propping my weight up on my knees. I reach back and follow through, backhanding her across the face. Her head lolls to the side like a rag doll. I hoist her up by her pits and zip tie her hands behind her back. Placing my hands on her shoulders, I kick the back of her knees until she’s kneeling. I zip tie her ankles. Appendages useless. Perfect.

“You know, I barely managed two hours of sleep because of you. I was stuck wondering what lay beneath that uptight exterior you portray. Who are you?” I ask, my tone cautious. She cocks her head left.

“A hunter,” she answers. Her tongue darts out to the corner of her mouth and she licks away the blood from her split lip.

“What does that make me?”

“My prey,” she answers. My jaw twitches at her words. The air crackles with hostility, like dry static between us.

“Let’s try something else. Why were you following me?”

She cocks her head to the side and laughs. Her mouth forms a firm line as she watches me. I feel like prey.

“To learn your routine.”

“Why?” I ask.

“So I can know how to best kill you.”

“Well, Greta, tonight you’ll have the privilege to watch me work, I’ll be working on you. You may pass out at some stage but I promise you, I will enjoy every minute.”

She cackles loudly. It makes my blood boil. I slap her again. She seems to drink the pain, feed off it. Only a hint of fear graces her features.

She kneels before me still, swaying slightly, an hour later. Blood drips from her chin and her wrists. Yet she gives up no information. I am mentally exhausted and need sleep. I need a break. Her head lulls forward as her muscles strain to hold her in position. I fight the memory away but it wins.

I am bound at the wrist and ankle with metal handcuffs and doubled over so my wrists are bound to my ankles. I’m told to hold this position for several hours. Posed in this awful position, I begin to tire. I fall over once. Someone picks me back up and sets me in my original position. I try to see who but my eyes feel stressed. The blood rushes to my head and makes me so dizzy. My body is sore, my muscles weak. I can’t endure the torture they subject us to. My wrists and ankles are chaffed from the cuffs scraping my skin when I sway. Everything aches. I need to escape.

Stress positions are wondrous for breaking people, I remember all too well, yet here she is, holding out. I push her gently with the toe of my boot. She tries, she really does, but the weight of her exhaustion takes over and she lands on her shoulder and hip harshly. She’s a fighter.

Plunging the syringe into her exposed arm, I drug her with some more ketamine to ensure she stays put. Dragging an old cot into the room, I push it against the wall where an exposed pipe is still intact. I carry her to the cot, dump her on it, and chain her ankle to the pipe. I cut the zip ties from her ankles and wrists. They are bruised and bloody from her struggle. Her shirt is tattered, hair disheveled. She looks nothing like the stunner that she is normally.

As I exit, I turn the portable speaker up as loud as it will play. I flick the button on the strobe light to the fast sequence. Screams, heavy bass, and synthesizers fill the air as the light strobes off beat. It’s disarming. It messes with your senses. She will beg me to make it stop. I just need to be patient.

“Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in the cage.
”―
Smashing Pumpkins – “Bullet With Butterfly Wings”

I’m bombarded by loud noises or music and flashing, bright lights. This is designed to overload my senses, disrupt my sleeping, I know this. It doesn’t make it easier, though. We only had one day off in between our last lesson and this one. My body still aches from the stress position I was in just twenty-four hours ago. Others are moaning already. It grates on my nerves. We’re all made to stand facing a wall. We are supposed to endure this for seven-and-a-half days, hooded and handcuffed tightly with plastic strips. I’m swaying already and I feel nauseous. My brain makes lazy circles of thoughts. They don’t make any sense. I strain to hear things in the silence only to have a bright light placed next to my hood while angry music is played, assaulting my already raw senses. I don’t know if we’re monitored. My gut says we are, they
must
be watching.

I will not show weakness. I will not cry.

I’m experiencing Déjà vu. I’ve lived this torture before at school. I lay still, eyes closed, struggling to remember where I am. The events leading up to this moment play out in my head.

The bar. The man who tried to get me to talk.

My heart races as I open my eyes. The glare of the lights on the pale walls and ceiling blinds me. Aside from the cot, the room includes a toilet and sink combo in the far corner. Nothing else. No chairs, no tables. Nothing. The one door in the room looks solid and sturdy. I move slowly, lifting my head gingerly. Dizzy.

When’s the last time I had water? A metallic sound scrapes the floor as I swing my leg over the edge of the cot. I can’t reach the door. I’m chained to a pipe by the ankle. I stand. I’m sore. The reflection in the small eight-by-eight mirrored window in the door proves just how sore I should be feeling. Music blares. My eardrums want to bleed from the sound. Light flashes.

It’s disorienting.

I will not break. I will not give in.

My nerves crackle with the voltage of a live wire, and I try to keep my face benign and hands still as I remind myself that nobody can take advantage of you unless you let them. I shut my eyes and concentrate on the silence that fills my soul. I wonder what Stray is doing without me. Is he finding enough food? Is Pepper worried about me? A day has to have gone by at this point. I would have missed our workout together. Will worry affect her pregnancy? I focus on my thoughts and tune out the terrible eardrum-shattering music and flashing light.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

My mouth and eye sting. Gingerly touching them, I note how swollen they are. I open my eyes and test my chain. Solid. Counting my steps, I find the room is one hundred and thirty steps around the perimeter. I relieve myself after a while. It’s humiliating using a toilet out in the open, even alone. I don’t know if I’m being monitored.

Hours pass. I am disoriented and bored. I ran out of ways to amuse and distract myself hours ago. The music halts abruptly. Silence fills the space around me. My breathing is the only sound. I sit on the cot, focus my attention on the door, and wait. My heart thunders in my chest like a thousand wild horses.

The door opens.
He
walks in. That lazy, gunslinger stride. He doesn't fear me. It’s an absurd thought to have considering it could be my last. He’s carrying a bucket. A shiver runs down my spine as hazy blue eyes narrow at me through his face mask.

“Do not move,” he says gruffly. I glare at him but don’t move. He sets the bucket down at the head of the cot. He waves his pistol in my face. He wants me on my knees, crumbling in disgrace, but he underestimates my mind. I know he's messing with my head. “Turn your back to me.” I shift slightly, turning away from him. He yanks my hands behind me. I cringe at his touch. Another zip tie. I’m essentially useless without my hands. He pushes me down on my back. I hold his gaze.

I will not cower.

“I’m going to ask you again. Who are you?” His voice is demanding. I remain silent. “Greta, this isn’t a game. Why are you following me and who are you?”

I say nothing.

I don’t know who he is.

I don’t know why he thinks I’m watching him.

He sighs and scratches his cheek through the mask. Pulling a rag from his pocket, he stuffs it in my mouth. “Your funeral,” he says with a shrug. He picks the bucket up and starts pouring water over my face. My lungs scream. I can’t get oxygen. Water pours down my throat. Panic sets in. Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds. I only have to last thirty seconds.

“Waterboarding is a brilliant tactic!” our instructor Mac says. “It’s immobilizing a person and pouring water over their face to mimic a drowning sensation. It’s been used to gain information, coerce confessions, simply to punish or intimidate. It triggers your gag reflex, making the person believe their death is close at hand while--ideally--not causing any permanent, physical damage.

“In government agencies, CIA officers, for example, who allow themselves to be tested only last an average of thirteen seconds. We at Ravenbrook know you can do better.” Mac grins widely. This particular semester has been brutal. We’ve been treated like savage animals. Tested, prodded, taken to the brink of sanity, and all for what? To what end is this necessary? The thoughts keep me up at night. Others have disappeared, not to return to class. The weak ones. It’s what spurs me on. I don’t want to disappear. I’m already just a number. “Thirty-three, you’re up.” I draw in a calming breath and make my way to the bench. Twenty seconds is better, substantially, than thirteen. I can shoot for that.

“Thirty seconds! My!” Mac’s voice rings out somewhere near me. My lungs spasm. Bright spots dance in my fading vision. A sound like liquid gargling in a plastic drainpipe blasts my ears. I am going to die. A deep roar sounds from behind, vibrating through my chest and shaking the bench beneath me.

“Enough.”

Everyone stops. I gasp and gag while forcing myself to sit up. Twenty stands over Twenty-eight menacingly. Twenty-eight doesn’t let his eyes leave mine. Instantly my gut coils in dread. Why’d he step in? He’s doomed. Being sentimental is like a virus. If you let it rule your actions, it will rot you from inside. Your enemies will smell your weakness and take everything from you and trust me, everyone has a weakness.

I keep my eyes closed from the onslaught of water. I start panicking when the air gets old and my body is screaming for new oxygen.

The water stops.

“Feel like answering any of my questions now?” he asks, tearing the rag from my mouth. I shake my head, knowing he is enjoying the obvious tension that courses through my slight frame. Sick bastard. “Tell me why the hell you were sent to kill me!” he screams.

I lay prone, still. I can’t answer him. I don’t know who the fuck he is. I think maybe this is some sick game he is playing. Maybe he is crazy. He wads the rag, bringing it towards my face. I try to clamp my jaw shut but he pries it open roughly and stuffs the rag back in my mouth.

I plant one foot on the cot and the other on the wall next to me. He starts to pour the bucket over my face again and I buck, attempting to kick out and up to shift my weight backwards. The bucket falls to the floor as he tries to counter my movement. His hand comes around my throat in a tight grip, pinning me to the bed. I buck again, forcing my bound wrists down near my rear as I fold myself in half. My wrists slip over my ass and I painfully pull my legs through. I can feel the blood from my wrists dripping. I push my arms together and loop them up and over his head. I yank hard, headbutting him. His nose gushes bright red blood. He releases me and stumbles, dropping to his knees.

His fist comes up, undercutting me square in the jaw. My teeth clank together. I shake off the stunned feeling lingering and stand on the cot. I jump, tackling him to floor. Using the chain wrapped at my ankle, I pull it up and around his neck while leaning back, tugging as hard as I can. His hands pull at the chain, struggling to keep his airway open. I catch it too late. His head ducks forward and he slams his head back into mine. Stars dance before my eyes. I will myself to stay conscious but I lose.

Blackness envelopes me.