as she did, and heard a burbling from nearby. Shocked by the fall, she nevertheless forced herself to one knee, the pistol in her right hand as she reached for the flashlight. When her fingers found it, she slowly scanned the room with the beam, stopping when it settled on the form of a young man bleeding from three bullet wounds. She rose shakily, ignoring the pain flaring through her body, and squinted at the dying man. He looked…familiar.
“You,” she whispered.
It was the motorcycle courier. He’d somehow made it back to Dhaka – they’d underestimated his powers of persuasion or his determination, obviously. She shone the light on him and saw another bullet wound, this one on his upper arm, the blood dried. At least she’d been right about hitting him.
He coughed twice, and then his eyes went wide and stayed open even as his final breath rasped from his chest. She stared at him for several beats, and then spun when a scrape from the far end of the room startled her.
Maya’s flashlight beam stopped at the huddled shape of Gil suspended by a chain that bound his wrists, hanging from an iron hook mounted to the wall. His shirt was torn, his skin blistered and lacerated, his face brutalized to the point she barely recognized him. A pool of blood collected around his feet, which were tied with rope. Nearby a blowtorch lay on the floor, hastily abandoned, as well as a truncheon and pair of gore-crusted pruning shears.
“Oh, God. Gil,” she whispered.
He didn’t register her other than to moan, a sound so hopeless and agonized it made her skin crawl. She moved to him and wrapped her arms around his torso, freeing his wrists of the weight of his body, and slipped the chain free of the hook before dragging him to the middle of the room and laying him down.
Maya did a quick examination of his wounds and understood that he was bad – they’d cut his fingers off and his toes – the blood loss alone would have been enough to kill him had they not then seared the wounds closed with the torch. She frowned as she inspected his ruined appendages, hyperaware of time passing, each second increasing the odds of either the police, or the imam’s men, arriving.
Gil’s remaining eye cracked open and he gave her an unfocused stare.
“Gil, it’s me. Maya. You’re going to make it,” she whispered.
He tried to shake his head, but the effort caused him to writhe in pain. He gasped and shut his eye, and then croaked a few words so softly she could barely hear him.
“Disk…corner…the computer…”
She understood immediately. The courier had made it back with the disk, and she’d interrupted the torture…and something else. Copying it? Decoding it? Sending it to someone after downloading it?
Maya flashed the light at first one corner, then another, and her gaze settled on a small laptop computer sitting on a card table, its hard disk light glowing faintly. She held the beam on it as she got to her feet and walked over to it.
There was no CD case, only the computer.
She eyed it and tapped the touch pad.
The screen blinked to life and demanded a password.
Hoping against hope, she felt along the base of the laptop until she found the CD compartment button and depressed it.
The hatch opened with a soft whir, and she held the flashlight on it.
Empty.
Gil groaned and she looked over at him. He’d said something about the disk. She moved back to where he was struggling for breath and crouched by his head.
“Did they do something with the disk? Download it to the computer?” she asked softly.
He wheezed and she looked away. She knew that sound. The sound of life departing, leaving behind an empty shell.
Gil lay still, and she turned to face him. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and closed his one eye, the other… Maya tried to imagine what Gil had endured, and bile rose in her throat. She choked it back, but it was no good, and she leaned over and gagged, heaving until there was nothing
“You,” she whispered.
It was the motorcycle courier. He’d somehow made it back to Dhaka – they’d underestimated his powers of persuasion or his determination, obviously. She shone the light on him and saw another bullet wound, this one on his upper arm, the blood dried. At least she’d been right about hitting him.
He coughed twice, and then his eyes went wide and stayed open even as his final breath rasped from his chest. She stared at him for several beats, and then spun when a scrape from the far end of the room startled her.
Maya’s flashlight beam stopped at the huddled shape of Gil suspended by a chain that bound his wrists, hanging from an iron hook mounted to the wall. His shirt was torn, his skin blistered and lacerated, his face brutalized to the point she barely recognized him. A pool of blood collected around his feet, which were tied with rope. Nearby a blowtorch lay on the floor, hastily abandoned, as well as a truncheon and pair of gore-crusted pruning shears.
“Oh, God. Gil,” she whispered.
He didn’t register her other than to moan, a sound so hopeless and agonized it made her skin crawl. She moved to him and wrapped her arms around his torso, freeing his wrists of the weight of his body, and slipped the chain free of the hook before dragging him to the middle of the room and laying him down.
Maya did a quick examination of his wounds and understood that he was bad – they’d cut his fingers off and his toes – the blood loss alone would have been enough to kill him had they not then seared the wounds closed with the torch. She frowned as she inspected his ruined appendages, hyperaware of time passing, each second increasing the odds of either the police, or the imam’s men, arriving.
Gil’s remaining eye cracked open and he gave her an unfocused stare.
“Gil, it’s me. Maya. You’re going to make it,” she whispered.
He tried to shake his head, but the effort caused him to writhe in pain. He gasped and shut his eye, and then croaked a few words so softly she could barely hear him.
“Disk…corner…the computer…”
She understood immediately. The courier had made it back with the disk, and she’d interrupted the torture…and something else. Copying it? Decoding it? Sending it to someone after downloading it?
Maya flashed the light at first one corner, then another, and her gaze settled on a small laptop computer sitting on a card table, its hard disk light glowing faintly. She held the beam on it as she got to her feet and walked over to it.
There was no CD case, only the computer.
She eyed it and tapped the touch pad.
The screen blinked to life and demanded a password.
Hoping against hope, she felt along the base of the laptop until she found the CD compartment button and depressed it.
The hatch opened with a soft whir, and she held the flashlight on it.
Empty.
Gil groaned and she looked over at him. He’d said something about the disk. She moved back to where he was struggling for breath and crouched by his head.
“Did they do something with the disk? Download it to the computer?” she asked softly.
He wheezed and she looked away. She knew that sound. The sound of life departing, leaving behind an empty shell.
Gil lay still, and she turned to face him. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and closed his one eye, the other… Maya tried to imagine what Gil had endured, and bile rose in her throat. She choked it back, but it was no good, and she leaned over and gagged, heaving until there was nothing
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