Don't Order Dog_ 1(136)

So who was controlling the speaker?

Kearney had barely considered the question when a blow to the back of his head sent him tumbling forward into the apartment. An explosion of light filled his vision as his left temple slammed violently against an unseen object in front of him. Stunned, the sergeant dropped his handgun and threw out his arms as he fell heavily to the floor. At that moment his training took over. Kearney rolled onto his side and quickly scrambled to his knees just as another direct blow – this time to his forehead – spun him painfully onto his back. As he struggled to get up, his assailant dropped his foot onto Kearney’s chest and pressed him hard against the ground. He groaned and opened his eyes to see a smiling, dark-haired man standing over him.

“Lie still,” the man said calmly in a clear American accent. He kneeled down and quickly wrapped a small plastic strap around the sergeant’s wrists and bound them tightly together, then fastened the strap to the Kevlar collar of Kearney’s tactical vest.

“Who the fuck are you?” Kearney replied, straining angrily against his bindings. Every movement of his body caused an explosion of pain in his head, and he could feel the warmth of his own blood running in a thick stream down his temple. The man leaned forward and pressed his foot harder against his chest until Kearney was unable to breathe.

“I said lie still.”

Realizing there was no chance of escape, Kearney finally conceded and dropped his head exhaustedly to the floor. He gasped for breath as the man finally removed his foot from his chest.

“That’s better,” the man responded. He pulled a small, pen-sized flashlight from his pocket and alternately shined the light into both of Kearney’s eyes. “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer your question right now, but I doubt it even matters. You’ve suffered enough blows to your skull to produce a really nice concussion. You’ll be lucky to remember anything I say.”

He put the flashlight away and leaned over the sergeant with a curious stare. “However, we do have some questions for you.”

Kearney watched in surprise as another man suddenly appeared from behind the man’s shoulder and flashed him a wide grin. Even in the dim light he could see that the second man was tall and muscular, with bright blue eyes and a tousle of short, blonde hair. As the two men gazed down at him, Kearney realized with a dreaded sense of certainty that his smiling captors were his two intended targets.

The blonde-haired man looked over at the body slumped against the wall next to him. “God, what a bloody mess,” he said with an Australian accent as he turned and walked to the entry. Kearney listened as the front door was closed and locked. A second later the sergeant heard the click of a light switch and winced in agony as the interior was suddenly filled with bright light.

The dark-haired American removed a backpack from his shoulder before sitting down on the floor next to him. The sergeant tried once again to rise up, but the effects of the blows instantly brought on a nauseating wave of disorientation. He gently laid his head back onto the cold concrete as the Australian walked past him and sat down on what Kearney could now see was a bright red couch in the center of the room. Strangely, the man completely ignored the chair next to him where the lifeless body of Kearney’s second victim still sat.

“Why are you here?” the American asked him as he reached into his backpack.

“Do you really expect me to answer that?” Kearney replied.

“Eventually, yes.” The American paused and smiled at something concealed in his bag. “Ah, here it is.”

“Fuck you. I’m not giving you anything… no matter what you have tucked away in that fucking backpack.”

“They always say that,” the Australian man said in a flat, bored tone. “They always say ‘I’m not going to talk’. And then, about two minutes after the injection, they start weeping and carrying on as if you were their mother and they hadn’t seen you in twenty years.” He looked down at Sergeant Kearney and grinned dolefully at him with perfect white teeth. “But who knows? Maybe this one will end differently.”

“No,” his colleague replied. “It won’t.”

The sergeant barely had time to notice the small syringe pulled from the bag before the needle was plunged into his neck. The American watched Kearney with a cold, detached stare as he quickly depressed the plunger.

“I admit, I’ve never injected sodium thiopental into a person suffering from a concussion or brain trauma, so it’ll be interesting to see what we end up with.” He removed the needle and pressed a piece of cotton firmly against the sergeant’s skin.