little circle jerk is going to take a backseat to my problem for a while. I don't really care if the papers print nasty stuff about your boss or anyone else, but I do care about all the agents that work for us who will more than likely end up dead if we don't find Rick and find him quick."
"You have no idea who you're screwing with, Mr. Rapp."
"Actually, I have a really good idea. You're some spoiled brat who's gotten her way her entire life." He pointed at her wedding ring and added, "Your husband is miserable. Some poor browbeaten son of a bitch. You probably keep his balls in a little box on your desk, and based on your selfish attitude this morning I'd say there's a pretty good chance you've been having an affair with the colonel here. The point is I don't give a shit who you are, but you'd better care who I am and understand that I'm the meanest son of a bitch you will ever meet. That's why the president sent me over here. Because he wants results and he knows I won't put up with people like you. So you go ahead and call your boss and anyone else you need to and after they've all told you what I've just told you, you will hand over every shred of information you have regarding Joe Rickman and the scumbags you had him making deals with. And if you don't, I can guarantee you will be the one on the next flight out of here."
Chapter 11
JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN
HE lay on the floor wearing only a pair of U.S. Army - issue boxer shorts, curled up in the fetal position, his face and body battered to a pulp. Joe Rickman tried to open his eyes, but they were either too swollen or too caked with dry blood to yield. He had never felt such pain. Never even imagined that it could be so bad. His trainers back at the Farm had warned him, and he had nodded as if he understood everything they were saying at the time, but they said he didn't. Anyone who hadn't been through it could never really understand just how bad it was. Now Rickman understood. He'd kept it together so far, but just barely. There had been a few moments when he was on the verge of calling it quits. He told himself that they would know when to stop. After all, Rickman had always known when to call his people off.
He had sat through countless interrogations and had never lost a single subject. Rickman's methods, and those of his colleagues, were a bit more clinical, though. Before an interrogation started they met and put a script in place. What questions were to be asked and what methods they would use to inflict pain. Rickman was never one to get his hands dirty, of course. He didn't even like his people getting their hands dirty. That was why he was such a big fan of electricity. It was nice and clean. No blood to mop up when everything was done. His team appreciated it as well, as they were the ones who had to clean up the room. It wasn't as if you could grab a janitor and bring him to the secure detention facility to clean up the blood from a rough session that in the eyes of some of his fellow countrymen was blatantly illegal.
Rickman's captors were obviously less concerned about the mess. The people in this part of the world were far more accepting of torture. In a sense, these animals had followed their version of a script. They had spared his feet and genitals and, for the most part, had slapped rather than punched him in the head. Most of the beating had been inflicted with a rubber hose and open palms, methods that were designed to elicit pain without causing life-threatening injury. At least that's what he kept telling himself as each blow landed. Even during the height of the beating, Rickman had kept a careful inventory of where and how they were hitting him. Fortunately, they had restrained themselves from striking him in the head too many times. Other than a heart attack, the easiest way to lose a subject during interrogation was to create hemorrhaging in the brain.
Rickman tried his eyes again and got one of them partially open. The eyelid fluttered to life to reveal his dank surroundings. He was