Page 116 of Good Enough
The irony that his face escaped any sort of beating was not lost on him. Broken noses, jaws, lost teeth, damaged eyes, cuts, and abrasions that took months to heal—those were the foundations of torture sessions for soldiers caught in enemy territory. But not for him. Oh no. His captor, the bastard, had wanted Waters to be able to see what he’d ordered done to her. His heart was breaking.
My fault, all my fault.
Someone crouched in front of him, holding a destroyed piece of material. Blue like the sea, silver zipper, a layered piece that had once been a kick pleat. His tormentor rubbed the remains of the filthy, bloodied garment in his face.
Waters refused to give him the satisfaction of looking up. More than that, he was afraid to. He was a coward. He couldn’t bear what would happen now.
The men laughed, and his tormentor moved behind him, using the material like a noose to pull his head up and back. Waters kept his eyes closed. He would not look. How could he?
Using the other hand, his tormentor spread his fingers over the top of Waters’ head and down to his eyes to pull back the lids to force Waters to see the scene unfold before him.
He forced himself to go inside his head. His eyes were open, but he refused to see what was going to happen. If he did, he’d never unsee it. It would drive him mad with grief, and he would not survive it. Not that he would want to, anyway.
And so it began. She screamed and screamed again to Waters to shut himself down. The more she yelled to him, the more the men laughed at her, taunted her, and egged each other on. He heard slaps and punches. Thumping as the table rocked with each grunt and groan that rose to a fever pitch, then stopped, then started up again but in different pitches than those that came before. Crescendo, halt, repeat. Over and over, he had no clue how many times. Eventually, the screams became muffled gurgling and gagging combined with even cruder taunts. And the other noises continued amidst the new ones, a sickening melody and harmony.
They’d been promised a reward, and in their eyes, they had certainly received it.
The man behind Waters lowered his head to Waters’ ear and whispered horrific things to him, but he did not hear them. He’d managed to retreat so far back into his brain that it was all just static.
And then, suddenly, it was over. He was released from his tormentor’s hold and the makeshift noose. Waters' head dropped forward, and his sight and hearing returned.
Even in this state of being beaten within an inch of death, he could actually hear a void in the room. Without asking, he knew she was gone. He hoped his own end would be brutal. He deserved it.
My fault, I caused this, all my fault.
The silence seemed to vibrate, which was odd. It was as if he could feel the ceiling shake, reverberating down through the hook in the ceiling, through the chains that held him upright on his knees, his ankles chained and shackled to bolts in the floor. Who knew that silence could be sensed through touch?
The vibrations increased, and dust from the ceiling sifted down onto him. An explosion. Rapid gunfire. Yelling in Arabic and English. Screams of surprise and pain went quickly silent with the thuds of his jailors hitting the ground.
As the dust settled, he heard fast, booted feet approaching the chamber and then a horror-filled whisper. “Jesuchristo!”
Steel.
The booted feet approached the table with the woman’s body splayed upon it. Softly, the voice spoke into a throat mic, “Sarah Miller is here. She’s deceased.” Waters registered the slight crack in Steel’s voice. “Demon, I need blankets. Sheets. Something.” He walked over to Waters, blocked the view of her body with his, and lifted Waters’ head. “I also have Waters. Massive trauma. TB, Demon, ándele, brothers.”
Oh my god, just too late, just too late, just too late.
It didn’t matter if they let him see her or not. His imagination created worse visuals than anything he would have actually seen.
Steel returned to the lifeless body of Sarah Miller. There was the clinking and clanking of chains being moved, followed shortly by running feet into the chamber. An abrupt stop. “Oh, feck!” Demon’s whisper did nothing to hide the medic’s agony at the sight.
“Keep it together,” Steel whispered. “Give me the blanket. He can’t see this. Go check on Waters.” There was a rustling of materials that he knew Steel was using to cover Sarah’s body.
Demon tore his gaze from the woman’s body, rushed over to Waters, and began a quick examination just as TB’s massive frame came through the chamber door. The terminator-sized giant grunted at the shrouded sight of Sarah Miller, then focused on Demon’s examination of their teammate. The medic clicked into his Bluetooth. “Nemo, we need immediate assistance at the LZ. Shattered kneecaps; multiple broken ribs; bloodied chest; bloodied back; all open wounds look on the verge of infection; both shoulders dislocated. The lights are on, but nobody’s home.” He looked up at TB. “He’s not walking out of here. Careful when you take him down.”
Gently, TB and Demon freed his ankles from the floor bolts, then turned his body one hundred eighty degrees on the suspension hook, which burned like a sonofabitch. He’d gladly take the pain if only it meant Sarah was still alive. Now that she was dead, nothing mattered.
He felt the chains go slack, his wrists released, and someone had his body in their grasp, keeping it from falling completely to the floor. “This is gonna hurt, Boss.” Waters felt himself get slung over TB’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
“Steel,” Waters groaned. “He needs to—”
“Under control, Boss, he’s got her. Close your eyes,” TB ordered and began to carry him out of the chamber and to the waiting chopper.
As they exited, he heard a prayer being spoken in Spanish, which his brain translated.
“We beseech Thee, O Lord, in Thy mercy, to have pity on the soul of Thy handmaid; do Thou, Who hast freed her from the perils of this mortal life, restore to her the portion of everlasting salvation. Through Christ our Lord, Amen.”
With that, Waters passed out.