Scarface turned to Mason with a freshly opened bottle. “Drink. No need to die with a dry mouth.”
“I’ll drink it. It will help when I break out of this chair and rip you apart.” Mason accepted the bottle to his lips and drank until the last drop fell. His laser stare never left the eyes of Scarface.
“Americans watch too many movies. This is not a movie, and you are not Bruce Willis. There will be no grand finales where the hero gets rescued in the end. Ask your fallen friend there what happens when you play the hero. Real life paints a different picture than your movies do.”
As Scarface backed away, a soldier stepped up with a rag and a roll of duct tape.
“Fuck you.” Mason tried to kill the soldier with his hate-filled eyes. As the rag moved toward him, he twisted his head away. A hand came from behind across his forehead and another clamped his nostrils shut. He held his breath as long as he could, but was forced to surrender. His mouth opened. The rag went in as he took a breath and it was quickly taped in place.
The soldiers left Mason grunting in protest and returned to the wall.
Sanderson remained silent through all this, but now began to fidget in his chair as the attention turned his way.
Scarface cracked his knuckles. “The Rangers have been raiding villages targeting Shia Muslims. You Americans preach peace, but practice destruction of innocents. You prove yourself dogs and sons of Satan. I need you to give me the time and location of the next raid. It is soon, and that much I know. A quicker answer will be rewarded with a swift, painless death.”
“Hector Randle Sanderson. 437-20-7124.” Sanderson licked his lips. “That’s all you’re ever gonna get out of me.”
“The brave words always come in the beginning. In the end, when you tell me all that you know, you will think yourself a fool for not speaking sooner. Tell me, Hector Randle Sanderson, can you guess what is in the bag?” Scarface’s hand drifted over and presented it as if the squirming burlap was a game show prize.
Sanderson’s gaze darted over and locked on the sack. Mason heard his friend’s breathing quicken.
“How many desert black snakes would you guess can be shoved into a man’s stomach?”
The bag continued to writhe. Sanderson remained silent, though his eyes widened.
“I believe Saddam’s record was eight. I have brought twelve. Are you going to help me beat that record, or will you give me the information now?”
A gloved hand from a soldier went into the bag and pulled out a two-foot long reptile. The snake wrapped its body around his arm and tasted the air with its pale-red tongue.
A new soldier entered the room and whispered something in Arabic in Scarface’s ear. Scarface nodded and raised his hand. “I have been given some news that now requires haste in my objective. Pity. I was so looking forward to spending some quality time with my American guests.” He reached in a pocket, pulled out a syringe, and removed the plastic protector from the needle. “The modern ways can be quite productive also.”
Sanderson pulled hard against his arm restraints, his veins swelled inopportunely. “Nothing you can do will force me to talk.” His voice faded. Sweat rolled off his forehead like a waterfall.
The needle entered at the forearm, and Scarface injected the synthetic venom. Sanderson screamed indecipherable curses until the drug rendered his mind into dough. His eyes went wide, and a thin trail of drool slowly seeped from the corner of his mouth.
When Sanderson’s breathing became shallow, Scarface produced a small knife from his pocket. He explored Sanderson’s forearm with his fingertips until stopping near the elbow. “Ah, here it is.” The tip of the knife stopped and rested against the skin. “The ulna nerve goes straight to the brain. Knock, knock.” He pushed in the blade until Sanderson’s body stiffened as if hit with a surge of electricity. Sanderson screamed beyond the range of his voice.
Scarface toyed with the nerve for a few seconds and pulled the blade away. “Tell me when the convoy leaves for the raid. You must tell me. It is your duty as an American soldier. I must know the date. I must know the place. It’s the only way I can save American lives.” The blade went to the nerve again. Sanderson shuddered throughout the shrieks.
The cuts in Mason’s arms that had started to heal from earlier struggles bled freely now, as he fought against the bonds. His chair, like the others, was bolted firmly to the floor. Nothing he tried brought him an inch closer to freedom. He knew he was going to die. He just wanted to make sure to bring a few of these accursed terrorist with him.
“We need your help, Sergeant. Americans will die without your help. The convoy. The date. I need it now.” Scarface spoke in a low, pleading tone.
Mason wondered how Scarface knew Sanderson was a Sergeant. Rank was not displayed on their uniforms. Was it a guess that happened to be correct, or did he have information that told him? This particular mind game that Scarface played was unexpected.
“Americans . . . are in trouble?” Sanderson said.
“Yes, and they need your help. They need you to tell me the date and the place the convoy is headed. I must go and help them, or they will all die.”
“Fifteen . . .”
Scarface waited, and then repeated the word. “Fifteen?”
“Night raid . . . like the others.”
“The convoy leaves on the fifteenth?”
“Yes, the fifteenth.”
“Where?”
“Khan . . . Khan Bani Sad . . .”
Scarface beamed in victory. He looked down at Mason, who thrashed even harder in his chair. “I will take your reaction as confirmation the information is accurate. We’ll lay the traps tonight to catch the mice tomorrow.” With a short laugh, he headed toward the door and pointed at one of the soldiers standing by the wall.
The soldier’s rifle went to his shoulder. The loud report from a single shot signaled the end of Sanderson’s life.
The insurgents left the room. Mason now had two sets of vacant eyes focused on him, reminding him of his failure.
***
A bucket of foul smelling water snapped Mason from his delirium and back into the nightmare. No sooner had his eyes opened when the grimy fingers of a soldier pulled the tape off his mouth and removed the rag.
Mason’s chin fell to his chest as he tried to scrape bits of debris off his tongue with his front teeth and spit them out. The soldier left, and the hem of the white dishdashah-clad Scarface took his place.
There was little to no fight left in Mason. Was that what imminent death does to a person? Given the time, is death more of a process than a single event? Does death slowly work from the peripheral, and all the things that give life its vibrancy slowly dull, until the person was simply more dead than alive? At that moment, Mason felt more dead than alive, and was craving the blissful peace he knew death would bring.
He raised his head to meet the victorious stare of Scarface, who peeled back his lips to show his canine teeth like a threatening wolf. Mason’s body vibrated with rage, there was still work to be done.
Scarface held a nylon-fiber nightstick in his right hand by the tee-handle and slowly spun it around. “Save your hate. It is you who should be begging me for forgiveness. Have I invaded your country?” He stopped turning the nightstick and held the handle like the butt of a pistol. “If you Americans would have minded your own business, you would be home now. Doing what Americans love to do best. Drinking beer and eating disgusting foods that violate God’s laws. Your women are in perpetual heat and breed like dogs. You sit in front of the television and waste hours while you ignore the poor, starving people in your community. Instead, you come here and attempt to enslave us in your bonds.” He stamped his foot to the floor. “Beg me for forgiveness. Beg Allah for forgiveness. I will kill you swiftly if you do so.”
A soldier stepped into view at the side of Scarface and shined a bright light in Mason’s face. The light emanated from a handheld video recorder.
“Time is no longer of the essence. The information your sergeant gave us was our only concern.” Scarface slapped the end of the nightstick against the palm of his left hand. “Last night, we were able to mine the path the convoy will take. There is only one road into Khan Bani Sad that can accommodate such large vehicles.” A smile broadened across his lips. “It is soon to be night again. We will bring death and destruction to the invaders unlike anything we have done before.”
“Pig vomit . . . pig shit . . .” Mason’s words fell weakly to the floor.
“As I said, you should save your strength to beg for forgiveness.” The smile left Scarface’s lips, replaced by a snarl. In one quick motion, he brought the nightstick across Mason’s left shin. There was a dull thud followed by a bright snap.
Mason groaned, the pain so intense he gasped until starved for air.
“Beg, dog. I said beg!” Scarface stomped Masons right foot, slamming the heel of his boot atop the fragile toes.
Bones cracked, and Mason let out a guttural howl of pain. The cameraman shoved the lens closer to Mason’s face. Mason’s breath returned as endorphins made an attempt to counter the pain. Mason nodded his head slowly and searched for moisture in his mouth.
“That was too easy, American. Your kind is soft. Too bad your comrades aren’t here to see how fast their leader folds.” Scarface backed away, giving the cameraman more room.
Mason ran his tongue across his front teeth and opened his mouth. With clarity, and with as much distinction as possible, he said, “Fuck you . . . you pig fucking piece of shit.”
The nightstick fell across his collarbone, and Scarface’s left fist smashed Mason in the nose. The room filled with Persian curses as Scarface worked over the American.
Mason closed his eyes. Pain exploded across his arms, thighs, every part of his body. The blows to his head brought a siren-like sound piercing his brain. Teeth broke like chalk, filling his mouth with rubble. Death remained an elusive comforter.
His mind drifted, attempting to escape to a happy place, some place far away from this den of horrors. Mason saw himself playing at the schoolyard on a warm summer’s day. The milk from the morning’s cereal tasted sour in his mouth as he ran, chasing two of his other friends in a game of tag. His body was chunkier back at that age, which had him being ‘It’ for longer than he really cared. His slimmer, faster friends couldn’t resist taunting him—as Matadors engage bulls ready to be jabbed by banderillas. This time he couldn’t catch a break and tag one of his friends. Mason fell to the ground, exhausted.
The world looked different as he lay on his back, one giant, pale blue ocean that presented no obstacles to stand in his way. It offered no perspective of his place in the universe either. There was no point to set an objective to swim to. His insides deflated with loneliness and a total loss of self-worth. Tears welled up in his eyes, diffracting the harsh sun’s rays. He squeezed his eyes shut and ground his back teeth. His sobs grew louder as he unknowingly sought to drown a growing hi-pitched noise in his head.
Scarface backed away from Mason’s still-breathing form. His dishdashah had become a canvas, a crimson splatter of gestural abstraction worthy of display. The nightstick bounced across the floor as he freed his hands to dry them across his thighs.
“I will not let him off this easily. Carry him outside and put him in the ground. We shall cut the heads off the American dogs that die tonight so that they will greet him when he wakes in the morning.” Scarface left the room while the soldiers freed Mason from his restraints.
***
Mason felt something hot and soft hit the back of his head. A cutting shoop sounded, followed by another impact of debris hitting him. Sand ground into the back of his neck between his shirt collar. He couldn’t move his arms, so he shifted his head. The more he turned his head though, the more sand seeped into his clothes.
Weakly, he opened his eyes to stare across the desert sands inside a military-style compound. From his vantage point, Mason saw several buildings and a fortified wall. To one side, a series of metal poles contorted into what he imagined to be an obstacle course. A tower manned with a machine gun perched over the edge stood vigil just beyond. Mason was coherent enough to realize that he was in a terrorist training camp and buried up to his neck in sand. Sand so hot his skin felt as if it were cooking.
Boots and a dishdashah blocked his view. The garment rose, exposing legs. Warm, acrid liquid hit the top of Mason’s head, and cascaded down his face.
“You looked hot, American. Your only relief is my piss to cool you off.”
Mason lowered his head and closed his eyes. Urine dripped from his upper lip down his chin. He expelled huffs of air to keep it out of his nose and mouth.
The shower of bodily waste stopped. Scarface backed away just far enough for Mason to see him in full view. He stood victorious, defiant as if the final battle had been won and the last American was about to die by his hand.
The horizon swallowed the last bit of sun. The wind kicked up and cooled Mason through the dank wetness.
“Very soon, the information given to us by your cowardly friend will bear fruit. We shall harvest American eyes. Hearts. Their very souls. We will bring them here for you to see. We will make you beg your countrymen to leave Iraq so that no more have to die.” Scarface held up a syringe. “You will be made powerless to resist our will.”