clockwise, and Gardner felt his bones jump out of his skin. The pain was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It started on his skin and burned through to his inside, like acid. The first jolt was light. The second fried his stomach, as if someone was pulling out stitches. Then the jolt abruptly stopped, and his stomach was sewn up.
‘I appreciate American innovations,’ Golan said. ‘They turned execution into an art form. The electric chair is my favourite. Such a long and painful way to die. They say the average victim takes five minutes to expire. Sometimes the current cooks their body to a temperature that melts their eyeballs.’
‘Fuck you,’ Gardner wanted to say. But his jaw felt loose, as if it was hanging on by a thread.
A third charge, this one more intense than the last. The screams inside him grated, like a saw cutting metal. The hairs on his arms and chest began to burn. The smell was bitter. He felt as if he was being skinned alive.
‘Tell me,’ said Golan. ‘How long do you think it will be before
you
die?’
Fighting the pain was hopeless. His training in the Regiment simulated torture, but nothing had prepared him for this. The tactical part of his brain told him that Golan was a psychotic fuck who took pleasure in seeing him writhe in agony. So there’s going to be breaks between the shocks. You can use those—
The fourth wave hit. Pain ricocheted beneath his skin. Needles stabbed his bones. He clenched his jaw.
‘Come on, friend. Give me a little yell. It must hurt, no?’
A smell drifted to Gardner’s nose. Burning latex. He wondered what the hell it was. A second later he understood that he had a way out.
My prosthetic hand. It’s come loose.
He glanced up at Golan. The Israeli hadn’t latched on. Gardner hunched up his shoulders. The join between the nub of his forearm and his artificial hand was melting. Half of the lower limb had detached. He shook his elbow. Golan went to administer a fifth charge.
The next charge is the killer, Gardner thought. He buzzes you again, there’s no way back.
Then he caught a snap, and the thud of his hand against the floor.
He was free.
18
1503 hours.
Gardner went in fast, and he went in hard. He’d learned his lesson from his previous dust-up with Golan. The Israeli was an expert in Krav Maga. And the only way to fuck up someone trained in the world’s dirtiest and most effective martial art, was to beat them at their own game.
He raised his left thigh until his knee crunched against Golan’s balls. Air gusted out of the Israeli’s mouth as he lowered his hands to his squashed gonads. Gardner exploited his shoddy defence with a palm-strike to the bridge of his nose. The flat of his hand shattered the frame and lenses of Golan’s glasses, and the man howled as plastic splinters darted into the corners of his eyes.
With just the one functioning hand, Gardner was fucked if Golan unleashed a torrent of blows upon him. His muscles were zapped, fried, distended. But the taste of freedom and the early scores against Golan gave him a second wind. Energy flowed through his veins.
Gardner kicked Golan in the knee. The same right foot then swung down like a hammer on Golan’s left foot. The Israeli faltered. Gardner dealt him a two-fingered jab in the eyes. The jab became a combo attack as he followed through with an elbow to his ear and smashed his face into his left knee. Golan’s legs caved in.
Golan fell to the floor
.
Fucking poleaxed. Gardner delivered a succession of boots that swung into every crevice of Golan’s crumpled body. His legs, back, face, arms.
Then Golan was still. Gardner saw the pistol grip in the back of his trousers. He dug it out. A Sig Sauer P228. The stainless-steel handgun felt good in his hand. Catching his breath, Gardner drilled the muzzle against Golan’s dazed skull.
‘I know where Aimée is,’ Golan said.
Gardner felt something catch fire within his chest. ‘Don’t fuck with me,
‘I appreciate American innovations,’ Golan said. ‘They turned execution into an art form. The electric chair is my favourite. Such a long and painful way to die. They say the average victim takes five minutes to expire. Sometimes the current cooks their body to a temperature that melts their eyeballs.’
‘Fuck you,’ Gardner wanted to say. But his jaw felt loose, as if it was hanging on by a thread.
A third charge, this one more intense than the last. The screams inside him grated, like a saw cutting metal. The hairs on his arms and chest began to burn. The smell was bitter. He felt as if he was being skinned alive.
‘Tell me,’ said Golan. ‘How long do you think it will be before
you
die?’
Fighting the pain was hopeless. His training in the Regiment simulated torture, but nothing had prepared him for this. The tactical part of his brain told him that Golan was a psychotic fuck who took pleasure in seeing him writhe in agony. So there’s going to be breaks between the shocks. You can use those—
The fourth wave hit. Pain ricocheted beneath his skin. Needles stabbed his bones. He clenched his jaw.
‘Come on, friend. Give me a little yell. It must hurt, no?’
A smell drifted to Gardner’s nose. Burning latex. He wondered what the hell it was. A second later he understood that he had a way out.
My prosthetic hand. It’s come loose.
He glanced up at Golan. The Israeli hadn’t latched on. Gardner hunched up his shoulders. The join between the nub of his forearm and his artificial hand was melting. Half of the lower limb had detached. He shook his elbow. Golan went to administer a fifth charge.
The next charge is the killer, Gardner thought. He buzzes you again, there’s no way back.
Then he caught a snap, and the thud of his hand against the floor.
He was free.
18
1503 hours.
Gardner went in fast, and he went in hard. He’d learned his lesson from his previous dust-up with Golan. The Israeli was an expert in Krav Maga. And the only way to fuck up someone trained in the world’s dirtiest and most effective martial art, was to beat them at their own game.
He raised his left thigh until his knee crunched against Golan’s balls. Air gusted out of the Israeli’s mouth as he lowered his hands to his squashed gonads. Gardner exploited his shoddy defence with a palm-strike to the bridge of his nose. The flat of his hand shattered the frame and lenses of Golan’s glasses, and the man howled as plastic splinters darted into the corners of his eyes.
With just the one functioning hand, Gardner was fucked if Golan unleashed a torrent of blows upon him. His muscles were zapped, fried, distended. But the taste of freedom and the early scores against Golan gave him a second wind. Energy flowed through his veins.
Gardner kicked Golan in the knee. The same right foot then swung down like a hammer on Golan’s left foot. The Israeli faltered. Gardner dealt him a two-fingered jab in the eyes. The jab became a combo attack as he followed through with an elbow to his ear and smashed his face into his left knee. Golan’s legs caved in.
Golan fell to the floor
.
Fucking poleaxed. Gardner delivered a succession of boots that swung into every crevice of Golan’s crumpled body. His legs, back, face, arms.
Then Golan was still. Gardner saw the pistol grip in the back of his trousers. He dug it out. A Sig Sauer P228. The stainless-steel handgun felt good in his hand. Catching his breath, Gardner drilled the muzzle against Golan’s dazed skull.
‘I know where Aimée is,’ Golan said.
Gardner felt something catch fire within his chest. ‘Don’t fuck with me,
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