The Australian watched Yorick with a stony, disapproving narrowness, then said a word. Two of the heavily armed men had an exchange in something that sounded vaguely like Russian, both looking doubtful. One slugged Yorick in the jaw, grabbed his hair once his head was down, and caught his hands up behind his back to shove him into the holding room. They started to pull his gear off. Another, and a third who came up to assist because Sam just seemed a little more formidable than the louder American, grabbed Sam by his upper arms and hauled him into the room opposite Yorick.
The Russian soldier who had survived with them was walking with a terse rigidity, but on his own, only guided by two insurgents, into the cell next to Yorick's when one of the SAS dropped to an easy crouch on the balls of his feet and yanked the goggles off Natalya's head, pushing her hood back with it. Chin length blond hair, no longer held in place, fanned out against the dirty floor.
"Well," he said, "this one looks Russian, at least."
"Fuck me," the Australian replied, sticking a cigarette into the corner of his mouth.
"A bunch of kids. I'd be insulted, but I guess they didn't know we were here."
Natalya felt irrationally grumpy. She was in her early thirties, she was pretty sure she'd surpassed the point where anyone got the right to call her kid. Of course, she'd only been twenty when this had happened. That was curious. From everything she'd heard, people who went home went home to when they'd left from. This was not then.
"Get her gear off, get the chair. We'll get some answers," the Australian continued, and as two insurgents hovered beside the other SAS officer as he reached for the zip on her jacket, Natalya jerked both of her knees up off the ground and into his temple. There was a flurry of movement as she disabled the two Chechnans, using their own weapons as blunt instruments, breaking one femur and one nose, but then there three more, and the ex-Special Air Services guy with, now, the headache had gotten his feet back. She felt her shoulder tug out of place as her arms were twisted behind her back, and then her own headache got considerably worse when the former officer hit her twice with a flat hand, first the front of it then the back.
That had been a silly thing to do, she reflected, as she gasped and then coughed on some of the blood from her lip that was now in her throat.
"Cell," the Australian said, and one of the insurgents started to drag her to her up to her feet.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2010-05-23 03:00 am (UTC)The Russian soldier who had survived with them was walking with a terse rigidity, but on his own, only guided by two insurgents, into the cell next to Yorick's when one of the SAS dropped to an easy crouch on the balls of his feet and yanked the goggles off Natalya's head, pushing her hood back with it. Chin length blond hair, no longer held in place, fanned out against the dirty floor.
"Well," he said, "this one looks Russian, at least."
"Fuck me," the Australian replied, sticking a cigarette into the corner of his mouth.
"A bunch of kids. I'd be insulted, but I guess they didn't know we were here."
Natalya felt irrationally grumpy. She was in her early thirties, she was pretty sure she'd surpassed the point where anyone got the right to call her kid. Of course, she'd only been twenty when this had happened. That was curious. From everything she'd heard, people who went home went home to when they'd left from. This was not then.
"Get her gear off, get the chair. We'll get some answers," the Australian continued, and as two insurgents hovered beside the other SAS officer as he reached for the zip on her jacket, Natalya jerked both of her knees up off the ground and into his temple. There was a flurry of movement as she disabled the two Chechnans, using their own weapons as blunt instruments, breaking one femur and one nose, but then there three more, and the ex-Special Air Services guy with, now, the headache had gotten his feet back. She felt her shoulder tug out of place as her arms were twisted behind her back, and then her own headache got considerably worse when the former officer hit her twice with a flat hand, first the front of it then the back.
That had been a silly thing to do, she reflected, as she gasped and then coughed on some of the blood from her lip that was now in her throat.
"Cell," the Australian said, and one of the insurgents started to drag her to her up to her feet.