Dead in Damascus: A Special Operations Group Short Story ([#0] Special Operations Group) Read Online Free PDF Page A

on, it would remain deformed like this for the rest of your life.”
    “Right now, all I want to do is find Young.”
    “After I sew up your wound here, I can arrange to have you flown to the facial prosthetics lab at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio. Their 3-D camera can produce images for a mold of your ear. I can even arrange for you to have a summer ear and winter ear with appropriate skin tones and an ear in camouflage.”
    “Thanks, Doc, but I don’t have time right now to fly back to the States. That’ll have to wait until after we find Young.”
    “I’ll just sew it up for now.”
    Chris nodded.
    As the surgeon went to work, Chris noticed his Yale diploma on the wall and remembered his sophomore year at Harvard. At that time, part of Chris had wanted to become a preacher and part of him had wanted to become a SEAL, but when 9/11 happened, the choice had become clear: he’d left Harvard and joined the Navy. Now he hunted evil men through fire and brimstone, and although he repeatedly reminded himself that he wasn’t a part of the bad guys’ underworld, he bore the scars of their world on his body and soul. He longed for light. He longed for a place closer to Heaven.
    After the surgeon finished suturing his wound, Chris departed and hurried to the gator pit, where he found Hannah watching a live video feed of the interrogation. She was a raven-haired chameleon who shape-shifted between geek, Sampson, and Delilah.
    Hannah’s eyes didn’t leave the video feed as Chris stepped up beside her. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?” she asked with a sweetness in her husky voice.
    He smiled. “Same thing a nice gal like you is doing.” He pointed to the monitor. “What is he doing?”
    “Waterboarding Mordet,” she said.
    “And?” Chris asked.
    “Mordet hasn’t said a word.”
    The interrogation booth was a small room made of plywood. A TV monitor on the wall was hooked up to a laptop on a table, so if Mordet began talking about Young’s location, the gator could have Mordet point it out on a high-tech map on the TV monitor. Mordet was tied on his back on a board the size of a door, with his feet elevated. A wet orange cloth was wrapped around his face.
    The gator’s head looked like a lemon—it had more width than height, and his skin color was jaundiced. He also had the muscle mass of a bodybuilder. Gator nodded to his assistant, who poured a gallon water jug from two feet above Mordet’s nose and mouth. Immediately, Mordet gagged. Seconds later, his body went limp. Either he was too tired to fight or he was purposely allowing his nose and mouth to fill up with water and causing himself to asphyxiate. The average person would begin talking by fifteen seconds—saying anything, truth or lies, to make the waterboarding stop. Each session would last no longer than forty seconds but could be repeated for up to twelve minutes in a day. “How long have they been doing this?” Chris asked.
    “About half an hour,” she said matter-of-factly.
    “I’m not complaining, but does Lemon Head know what he’s doing?”
    Hannah shrugged. “He’s a contractor.”
    “We really don’t have time for amateur hour. Young doesn’t have time.” Chris left the gator pit and rushed to the interrogation booth, where he burst inside the cramped room.
    Gator turned around, and his brow furrowed. “What the hell?”
    Mordet stirred as if from a sleep. Water trickled from his nose and mouth.
    Chris motioned for Gator to step out of the room with him. The man gestured to his assistant to watch their prisoner.
    They exited the booth and walked down the hall. “I was in the middle of an interrogation,” Gator said.
    “The middle?” Chris asked.
    Gator puffed out his chest. “I’ll break him,” he said proudly.
    “I can see that.” Chris was unable to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
    “Who are you?”
    “We can’t launch a rescue until we know where Young is.”
    Gator came to a