"Smart," the Australian said, then returned the gun to its holster.
"Stupid bastards. So I assume your forward command's brains are decorating the lawn right now, which means we're going to have to make do with the highest ranking person in this room," he said, strolling between the cells.
"I know it isn't the self-proclaimed civilian, although I've had PFCs who talked more. And it's probably not your young American with the baleful glare. Given levels of expertise," he sighed, turning his head idly this way and that, looking between Natalya and her equally disengaged countrymen. He lifted a hand, barely, to wave his fingers. The door to Natalya's cell was shoved to one side and two men started in to drag her out again.
Ashamed, she felt a wild swell of panic. It hadn't been her. She'd been left for last, originally, curled on the cold floor of the cell nursing her ribs and her paralysis as they'd gone through the others. It hadn't been her. Looked like it was about to be.
"No." The Australian looked to Petrenko, the lines of the Russian's face taught but his eyes narrow, gaze steady.
"I am the highest ranking officer here." There was a pause as Natalya was pushed dismissively back behind the bars, and the other Russian's cell was opened. An insurgent with a plastic zip tie met him as he was shoved into the aluminum chair, kneeling briefly to tie the man's hands together behind the chair back.
The door to the outside opened and two more men bearing the distinctive non-uniform of the mercenaries strode in, brushing snow from themselves.
"Like a fucking sno-cone machine exploded out there, what a mess." The other paused, looking at the Australian's second.
"What happened to your face?"
"Fuck you."
"Easy on the English, boys," the Australian said, and nodded at their two captive Americans. There was a moment of surprised shifting before the new arrivals shrugged and moved to take up places against the walls.
A Chechnan of rank appeared and conversed briefly with the Australian before he removed what appeared to be a soldering iron from a plastic case. The Australian nodded.
"We'll be more direct to start." He walked to where Petrenko sat and stood in front of him, arms crossed, looking like he was mildly put out with an unruly recruit.
"Where's your back up?" There was a silence marred only by the distant hum of a small generator and the occasional drip of water onto stone.
"Did the Russians send your motley little crew, or is this a UN operation?" Natalya closed her eyes. Petrenko wasn't going to say a word. Even after three hours of torture, he wouldn't say a word. That's when they'd kill him.
She had to get them out. Her head hurt.
"Do the people you're working for know about the nuclear element?" He was asking this to get a response. Petrenko's eyelids didn't so much as flicker. The Australian sighed.
"I'll ask you one more time." He did, each question, in clear and careful Russian. Petrenko wasn't even breathing visibly. He sat, eyes ahead, as though the words didn't even reach his ears. He wouldn't talk, but he would, eventually, make other noises. Natalya's throat felt tight. Her own eyes were riveted to a point in space somewhere beyond the bars, but nowhere in the room. She had to think, and couldn't.
"Nyet? Nothing?" the Australian said. There was a moment of silence, and then he nodded to the Chechnan, who lifted his pistol and shot Petrenko through his right cheekbone. Natalya's body gave an involuntary jerk forward, but she managed to clamp down on any noise. They started pulling the body off the chair.
Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
"Then we won't waste any more time, there. Get Chatty Cathy out of his box," he said, and one of the ex-SAS started for Yorick's cell as an insurgent slid the door open.
no subject
"Stupid bastards. So I assume your forward command's brains are decorating the lawn right now, which means we're going to have to make do with the highest ranking person in this room," he said, strolling between the cells.
"I know it isn't the self-proclaimed civilian, although I've had PFCs who talked more. And it's probably not your young American with the baleful glare. Given levels of expertise," he sighed, turning his head idly this way and that, looking between Natalya and her equally disengaged countrymen. He lifted a hand, barely, to wave his fingers. The door to Natalya's cell was shoved to one side and two men started in to drag her out again.
Ashamed, she felt a wild swell of panic. It hadn't been her. She'd been left for last, originally, curled on the cold floor of the cell nursing her ribs and her paralysis as they'd gone through the others. It hadn't been her. Looked like it was about to be.
"No." The Australian looked to Petrenko, the lines of the Russian's face taught but his eyes narrow, gaze steady.
"I am the highest ranking officer here." There was a pause as Natalya was pushed dismissively back behind the bars, and the other Russian's cell was opened. An insurgent with a plastic zip tie met him as he was shoved into the aluminum chair, kneeling briefly to tie the man's hands together behind the chair back.
The door to the outside opened and two more men bearing the distinctive non-uniform of the mercenaries strode in, brushing snow from themselves.
"Like a fucking sno-cone machine exploded out there, what a mess." The other paused, looking at the Australian's second.
"What happened to your face?"
"Fuck you."
"Easy on the English, boys," the Australian said, and nodded at their two captive Americans. There was a moment of surprised shifting before the new arrivals shrugged and moved to take up places against the walls.
A Chechnan of rank appeared and conversed briefly with the Australian before he removed what appeared to be a soldering iron from a plastic case. The Australian nodded.
"We'll be more direct to start." He walked to where Petrenko sat and stood in front of him, arms crossed, looking like he was mildly put out with an unruly recruit.
"Where's your back up?" There was a silence marred only by the distant hum of a small generator and the occasional drip of water onto stone.
"Did the Russians send your motley little crew, or is this a UN operation?" Natalya closed her eyes. Petrenko wasn't going to say a word. Even after three hours of torture, he wouldn't say a word. That's when they'd kill him.
She had to get them out. Her head hurt.
"Do the people you're working for know about the nuclear element?" He was asking this to get a response. Petrenko's eyelids didn't so much as flicker. The Australian sighed.
"I'll ask you one more time." He did, each question, in clear and careful Russian. Petrenko wasn't even breathing visibly. He sat, eyes ahead, as though the words didn't even reach his ears. He wouldn't talk, but he would, eventually, make other noises. Natalya's throat felt tight. Her own eyes were riveted to a point in space somewhere beyond the bars, but nowhere in the room. She had to think, and couldn't.
"Nyet? Nothing?" the Australian said. There was a moment of silence, and then he nodded to the Chechnan, who lifted his pistol and shot Petrenko through his right cheekbone. Natalya's body gave an involuntary jerk forward, but she managed to clamp down on any noise. They started pulling the body off the chair.
Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
"Then we won't waste any more time, there. Get Chatty Cathy out of his box," he said, and one of the ex-SAS started for Yorick's cell as an insurgent slid the door open.