Lie Back And Think Of England · Part 2 (2/2)
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I hop over the bush, run up to him and punch him in the noggin with combined force of body inertia and righteous fury. Then I pick up his helmet. I still feel it's a dumb idea, but what else can I do, go inside guns blazing? I frisk the unconscious guard for a key card, leave the body on the stairs, out of sight from the yard, and slip inside.
There's a corridor, long and resounding, covered with green ceramic tiles and humming with some hidden machinery. The first door opens into a laundry, huge industrial washing machines rattling tirelessly. The second door is locked, and there's some storage room behind the third one, packed with crates and boxes to the ceiling. A man walks out of the fourth door, not a guard, just a guy in a civilian outfit. He glances at me in passing, and I tense, appraising how fast I can drag his body. But he says nothing, evidently fooled by a tinted visor of the helmet, and walks further, eventually going into the lift at the end of the corridor. I crack the door he walked out open and peer inside.
There it is. I expected something like that, but actually seeing it boggles me still. It's the 21st century in a country that strives to be a part of the EU! The far wall of the large hall is lined with cages. Only the centre of the hall is lit, so I can barely make out pale naked human forms behind the bars. The cages are tiny and cramped, stacked in two rows one above the other; prisoners can't stand there, only sit or crawl on all fours.
The middle of the hall is cluttered with torture racks, bulky things of various design, made of rusty iron and darkened wood. I'm pretty sure not all the brown stains on them are just rust. One of the racks is about to become occupied. Two guards are busy strapping Mila to a slanted slab of interlocked wooden planks. She's naked already, her clothes are discarded in a heap by the door. Edges of the planks press into her skin and muscle. While, I suppose, they aren't very sharp, worn dull by countless previous occupants, it's still painful to look at.
I'm not sure if I can take down both of them silently. While I linger by the door, hesitating about the course of action, one of the guards spots me and snarls something in Turkish. Not aggressively, just annoyed. They seem to be having trouble handling the girl. Okay, I'll play along for a time being.
I step into the torture room and approach the rack. Mila's coming around already, she shifts sluggishly and mumbles something in Russian. The guard nods at a leather belt in the top-right corner of the rack, and both of them heft the girl up. My task is pretty obvious so far. I take her arm and make a good show of strapping it down. A good show doesn't mean a good job, as I try to leave as much slack as I can without raising any suspicion.
Meanwhile, the guards have fixed her other arm, and bent over to do her ankles. This would be a good time to make my move. I step behind one of them and reach into my pocket for a knockout patch. The door swings open, and a man in a motorised wheelchair rolls in, accompanied by another pair of armed guards with their mirrored visors down.
The torture room guards stand to attention. The new arrival exchanges some blabber with them and moves his vehicle closer to the rack.
"Come on, open your eyes!" he says in a surprisingly deep and clear voice, with just a hint of foreign accent. "I know you're awake already, I can see your eyelashes fluttering."
At the sound of his voice, Mila's eyes fly open. Her gaze darts about the room, taking in the grim reality. I think I can hear her heart pounding.
"What… Why am I here?" she mutters. "Neyi yanlış yaptım?"
"I think you know exactly what you did, and why. The thing is, I want to know it too. Are you willing to talk yet?"
"Let me go! I've done nothing! You have cameras everywhere, check them!"
"Oh, you were careful enough to avoid them. No mean feat for a kitchen hand. Now, whom do you work for?"
"For Omar Uzun, who's in charge of your kitchen! But after this, I'll definitely quit!"
The cripple barks a command, and one of the guards closer to the rack starts cranking a wheel at the side of it. The rack creaks, its surface shifts and starts to bend outwards. The overlocking planks dig deeper into Mila's body. She shrieks and curses, her limbs strained against the taut belts.
I briefly consider just shooting them all, but the guards with the cripple are clutching their SMGs. Outlook not so good. I make a small step to the rack and whisper, hoping the helmet won't garble my speech too much.
"Держись. Не волновайся, я тебя буду тащить."
Mila's eyes sparkle angrily in my direction.
"Где ж ты был раньше?" she hisses.
"Время. Нужно время…" I whisper back. The cripple says something in Turkish, and the guards stare at me quizzically.
"Ударь меня! Быстро!" she whispers and shuts her eyes.
I step forward and slap her face, not really fast and forceful, but she yelps and makes sure her head lolls to the side. The cripple chuckles and says something again.
"Сиськи!" Mila sobs.
I know the word. I slap my palm against her tit flesh, one side then another. That was a good one, a couple of pink prints quickly manifest on her pale boobs.
"So, getting the feeling already?" the cripple inquires. "It only gets worse from here. Talk."
Her fingers curl into fists.
"I told you everything you need to know!"
He rattled another phrase, the only word I can discern is "falaka". One of the guards grabs a couple of batons off the wall and tosses one to me. It's just a piece of half-inch plastic pipe with a loop of string attached at the butt-end. The second guard operates yet another wheel, and the rack screeches, tilting backwards slowly.
"Ты должен…" Mila starts.
"Я знаю," I interrupt her. We should keep our communication to the bare minimum.
Now she's reclined with her back still arched painfully. She tries to lift her head to follow the guard with her eyes. Her brows furrow in concern as the guard steps closer and swings his pipe through the air. Thoughts are racing through my mind, but none of them are of any help to delay the torture. The next swing lands on her right heel with a plastic "pong". Mila jerks her head back so hard, it hits the rack, but no sound escapes her lips. And then, having thought of nothing useful, I have to follow suit. It's awkward for me to use my right hand now, so I take the pipe in my left and strike her defenceless sole.
Not good enough, apparently. The wheelchair man grunts something disapproving, and Mila says, not really hushed any more: "Сильнее, идиот! Ты все провалишь!"
She's right, no point in pulling punches if it gets us both killed. I force myself to shed all delicacy and whack her foot well. Mila hisses through her teeth. She'll be alright, as long as I don't hit her toes, I suppose. "Pong… Plop… Twang…" the plastic pipes sing as her bare soles are turning pink, then reddish-blue welts reveal themselves slowly. Mila doesn't try to hold back her crying any more, her shouts fill the room, tears run free. Pale human figures behind the bars cringe silently in far corners.
"Dur!" the cripple commands, and the guard lowers his tool. I do the same. The chair wheels closer, its occupant reaches out and touches her foot. She jerks it back as if stricken, in vain. He grabs her foot anyway and squeezes it. Mila whines, and I clutch the pipe involuntarily.
"Look, your beautiful feet are all swollen and bruised. Oh, something wet is seeping between my fingers…"
Mila keeps wincing and trying to yank her feet out of his grip.
"I could bring you so much more pain. I could order the guys here to rig you to a machine that would zap you, mouth to twat with electricity, every time you take a breath. But I know your type. The pain itself wouldn't break you, probably. Disfigurement, on the other hand…"
"Why are you doing this?" Mila sobs. "I told you, I'm nobody!"
"You will be when I'm done with you," he says gently. "You'll be just a stump, a torso with a head. I'll have all your non-vital parts removed. Enjoy that pain in your feet while you still have them! You might experience some phantom pains all over for a few months afterwards, though."
He releases her foot and lights up a cig. Smoke whirls through the yellow light as the wheelchair rolls further into the torture room. Other captives stir uneasily as he rides past the line of cages.
"Those girls are fine physically, albeit somewhat pale. That's how our clients usually like them. We're keeping them healthy and relatively undamaged. You, on the other hand… I have no use for you as a slave. With all that infiltration and combat training, you'd be nothing but trouble, and probably would slip out eventually. So, I'll chop off all your moving parts and use you as a scarecrow for newcomers."
Even in dim light, I see Mila's face turn pale. Her eyes flick to me, I try to twist my lips in a small reassuring smile, but she can't see it through the visor, of course.
The cripple pulls up in front of the rack again.
"You'll be hanging in a dark closet somewhere, blind and deaf, permanently gagged and plugged, fed intravenously, with your bladder hooked to the sewer system. You'll probably lose your mind in a month or two, but before that I'll make sure to cut out your clit and those lovely nipples of yours. Then I'll show your still living body to any disobedient slave to ensure their cooperation. Unless…"
I see a single tear roll down her cheek. There's a wide gamut of interchanging emotions over her face: rage, fear, regret, a flicker of what I can only identify as lust, resolve, anger, sadness… The man stubs his cigarette into her instep.
"Make up your mind!"
Mila shrieks and her anger flares up again.
"Fuck it! I'm with Interpol! Happy now?"
He chuckles and rolls back a bit.
"I don't believe you, but it's a start. I'll let the guys have some fun with you before we bring in the bone saw."
"And you're gonna watch, aren't you? That's how you like to get off! Oh, your little weiner doesn't work!"
There's some gnashing of teeth, and a phrase in Turkish. The guards liven up, start cranking the rack back into flat configuration and unbuckling their belts, but the cripple nods at me.
"Sen!"
Why? Does he suspect something? I tarry for a moment, considering my options, and Mila growls: "Да спускай уже штаны и принимайся за дело!"
I do. I drop the pipe and climb the rack. Mila gives me a thousand-yard stare. Her wiry naked body is glistening with sweat. I unzip clumsily, embarrassed by the fact that I'm more than ready to fuck her. I probe her cunt with a finger, expecting to find it dry and inhospitable, but she managed to surprise me yet again. I part her nether lips and slide my cock in.
"Долго еще?" she whispers.
"Пять минут," I answer, huffing.
"Ты продержишься?"
"Да, только делай ничего."
"Думай об Англии."
I pump slowly, thinking of England and trying to loosen the belt around Mila's left hand discreetly. She doesn't gyrate, doesn't pump back, doesn't move at all. But then she spasms and grips me with her cunt. I gasp and freeze, willing myself not to cum at the spot.
"Прости…" she exhales.
Guards laugh and step closer, I wave them away, unsuccessfully. I continue pumping, even slower, and they grumble impatiently. Despite the circumstances, despite the stress, and the danger, and the eyes on me, I feel an orgasm building. I stop again, a hair-breadth from shooting my load.
I hear the cripple say something in that haughty tone of his, and Mila's eyes widen. Multiple hands grab me and drag away from the rack, my cock flapping about. They push me to my knees, and the wheelchair whirrs closer. The cripple lifts my visor up.
"Oh, that's a nasty sunburn. Turkish sun can be merciless to pale skin. A helmet? Really? You think I'm that stupid?"
"No harm in trying."
"There will be some harm, rest assured…"
There's a loud resounding bang outside, the building rumbles, a few tiles detach from the walls and clang on the floor. Men around me crouch reflexively and lose some grip, all their radios come to life and tinny blabber floods the room. The cripple spits out some command, and a couple of guards rush out. Really bad move, as a few seconds later a new explosion booms, much closer this time. The blast wave sweeps through the corridor, the door crashes open, dust and debris fill the air.
I shake off the man on my right arm and yank a leg from under the guard to my left. He tries to drag me down with him, but it's not easy to topple a man who's kneeling already. I slap a knockout patch on his neck, shove him back and turn to face his friend, who's lifting his SMG. I grab it behind the cocking handle and yank. He wouldn't let go, preferring to fall forward, following his weapon. It's not a good idea to wrestle for the gun, while the other guard is trying to get up and the cripple is manoeuvring around. I press the mag latch, the ammo drops to the ground, I grab the gun belt and wrap it around my opponent's neck. The guy lets go of the gun, at last, and scrambles to unwind the belt. With all that strain and increased oxygen consumption, he has about twenty seconds before starting to go limp.
I look around. The first guy stopped trying to get up by this point, he's lying on his back with the head drooped to the side, eyes open and unblinking. Okay, where's his gun?
"Let him go!"
I'm still on my knees with a twitching body on my hands, it's not easy to turn around. I look back over my shoulder. Oh, that's where.
"Make me," I grunt and pull the belt tighter.
I knew Andy would blow his cover sooner rather than later. Just as he grabbed their attention, and they grabbed him in turn, I started to work on the belt which he had unbuckled already. When explosions hit, my left hand is free. Andy gets into a scuffle, I loosen the belt on my right hand and bend down to free my legs. In a few seconds, I slide from the rack and almost fall to my knees as pain stabs through my swollen feet.
I pull myself upright just as the man in the wheelchair aims his gun at Andy. No time to look for a weapon. I hurl myself at him, shove his vehicle sideways, and he goes down with crash and clangour, hands flailing. The gun clatters on the floor. We race for it – he crawls on his elbows, surprisingly fast, I limp, slipping on my own bodily fluids. I get there first, pick up the gun, and feel his grip on my ankle. I pull the trigger without thinking, the gun rattles curtly, and the man recoils from me, clutching his bleeding arm.
"Orospu…"
Andy drops the guard, applies another knockout patch, stands up, zips himself and looms over the cripple, all businesslike.
"Elizabeth Drake. Where is she?"
The laughter sounds really creepy, considering.
"She's my boss."
Andy is as flabbergasted as I am.
"What?"
"She runs this place! She's a very bad girl indeed. Her daddy should have raised her better, instead of holing up in his club for weeks on end."
The pile of my clothes by the door was scattered by the explosion, I dodder there and pick through them. Ruined, every single bit, shredded to strips. Savages. I try my shoes and find them unbearably small. I briefly consider stripping one of the guards, but there's no time.
"Keys from the cages," I demand.
"There, on the wall…"
"Whatcha doing?" Andy inquires. "We must skip!"
"It'll only take a moment."
I grab the keyring and toss it inside the nearest cage.
The cripple squeals like a girl, while Andy applies a sturdy cable tie to his wrists. I put his wheelchair upright and plop into it. It's not fast, but it's better than hobbling along on what feels like bleeding stumps. As we're leaving the torture room, I hear rusty hinges screech, and the cripple tries to find his commanding voice: "101, stop! Bad girl! You'll be punished!"
Andy closes the door to muffle the screams that follow. Infuriated with my sluggish speed, he grabs wheelchair handles and pushes it himself.
The corridor is filled with smoke, there's a fire and sprawled bodies at the entrance. We rush into the elevator at the other end, which miraculously still works. On the ground floor, we meet a couple of startled staff who are busy evacuating the premises and don't pay much attention to a guy rolling a naked girl in a wheelchair.
"Where are we going?" I ask, taking note of the exit being in the other direction.
"We can't go back, it's swarming with guards."
Andy stops abruptly by the window looking out to the sea. The view is marred by a thick steel grating, embedded in the frame.
"What now?"
Andy produces a small white tube, squeezes a few blobs of silvery goop around some of the bars and takes a lighter to them. It burns with blinding white light and angry hissing, in just a few seconds the affected bars are completely severed. Andy grunts approvingly, grabs the grating and bends a big chunk of it inwards. A quick tap of the gun butt on the glass, and it shatters in a shower of small fragments.
"I'll go first. Watch out for those shards."
Andy pushes his way into the opening, cursing, and jumps down. Broken glass crunches underfoot, I wince and curse even more obscenely, accidentally touching a bar stub, still glowing hot. I drop like a sack of turnips, and, with some surprise, find myself in Andy's arms.
"Yikes, you're bleeding. I told you to be careful with the glass."
"It's from before. Never mind. Put me down, would you?"
"Bear with me."
He swings me to his shoulder and trots to the beach. There's some shouting and siren sounds, I can see a flickering orange glow from behind the main building. There are wooden planks of a jetty beneath Andy's feet, and then we hop into a boat. He dumps me onto a bench.
"Ugh, you're heavier than you look."
"Always a gentleman."
"And off we go," Andy unties the boat and yanks the starting handle, the engine rattles. "Hold on to your pants."
"Ha ha."
The pier, the park, and the building, backlit with a raging fire and emergency vehicle flashes, are receding rapidly.
"We've fucked up, haven't we?" Andy asks.
"Oh, yes. But some of us more than the others."
"Did you do that on purpose? Tried to make me cum?"
"What? No!"
"Would you do it again?"
Lie Back And Think Of England · Part 2 (2/2)
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