A man entered, plugged in the cord for the light, and there in the doorway was a bloodied and battered Richards. Two men were at his sides, holding him up. His wrists were bound in front of him with duct tape. The red marks on his chest confirmed what they had been doing, although it wasn’t all. Richards’s face was beaten and swollen—one of his eyes completely shut.

Sayyed entered the room, a man following him with a chair similar to the one Hurley was in. He showed the man where to place it and said to Hurley, “How are you feeling today?”

“Great!” Hurley said with enthusiasm. “You guys really do a nice job of making people feel comfortable.”

“Yes.” Sayyed smiled. “I’m sure you would show us the same hospitality if we were in your country.”

“Slightly better,” Hurley said, flashing the new gap in his teeth. “You know how competitive we Americans are. We didn’t put a man on the moon by making our women walk around in sheets all day and blowing ourselves up.”

“We all know that was faked.”

“Sure it was,” Hurley said agreeably as they placed Richards in the other chair. One of the men produced a knife so he could cut Richards’s duct tape. Hurley wanted that knife, and in Arabic asked, “Where’s my buddy Radih? Either of you boys ever get a blow job from his mom?” Hurley then launched into an invective-filled description of the sex acts that Radih’s mom used to perform for him.

Sayyed would never admit it, but this American’s descriptive abilities were in a league of their own. In fact, the descriptions were so detailed that even he wondered for a second if it could be true.

Hurley read the unsure looks on the faces of the two goons and said, “You really didn’t know Radih’s mother was a whore? You should try her some time. She’s getting a little up there in age … not quite as tight a fit, if you know what I mean.” Hurley winked at them as if they were of the same mind.

“That will be enough,” Sayyed said. He ordered the men to finish taping Richards’s wrists to the chair. When they were finished he told them they could wait outside.

Hurley smiled at them and waited until they were at the door and then shouted, “Don’t forget to ask Radih about his mother. Dirtiest piece of ass I’ve ever had.”

The door closed with a click. Sayyed placed his hands on his hips and let out an exasperated sigh.

“It’s true,” Hurley said, punctuating his words with an emphatic nod. “The woman was a sex machine. She should have paid me.”

Doctrine told Sayyed he should ignore the comments, but he felt that he needed to say something. “You are a very interesting man, Mr. Sherman. You must be very unsure of yourself.”

“Why do you say that, Colonel?”

“It is so obvious. Do I really have to say it?”

“Well, unless I’ve learned how to read minds since we last saw each other, I suggest you spit it out.”

“You are afraid you won’t be able to stand up to my methods, so you are trying to enrage my colleague to the point where he kills you.”

Hurley screwed on a confused look. “Colonel, you give me way too much credit. I’m not that smart. I’m just a horny bastard who’s slept with a ton of prostitutes … one of whom just happens to Radih’s mom.”

Sayyed laughed at him. “You are an unusual man.”

“What do I have to do to get you guys to take me seriously? I’m going to lie to you about a lot of shit, but I am dead serious about Radih’s mom, and I’m not knocking the woman, she was amazing. And besides, you can’t blame a woman for trying to put some food on the table. Can you?”

Sayyed thought about that for a second and simply shook his head. It was time to take charge again. He wheeled his little cart over and checked his instruments. When he was ready he broke open some smelling salts and stuck them under the other American’s nose. Richards snorted and opened his eyes. Turning back to the foul-mouthed older one, he said, “Your friend, Mr. Richards, was kind enough to give us his name.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Yes … well, let’s see if we can jog your memory. This is what we are going to do.” Sayyed picked up the tin snips and said, “I will ask you a question. If you refuse to answer or lie I will cut off one of his fingers.”

“Cool.” Hurley straightened up as much as the tape would allow. “I’d like to see you cut one off right now. Go ahead … let’s get started.”

“Mr. Sherman, what is your real name?”

“Come on, cut his finger off. Cut his wrist off … that would be really awesome.”

Richards was awake now, a panicked look in his eyes. “What the hell?”

Sayyed said, “He has already told us your name, but I want to hear you say it.”

“Fine … William Tecumseh Sherman. Are you happy now? Can we go home?”

“No. That is not the name he gave us.”

“I think I’d know my own name.”

“Last chance.” Sayyed placed the tin snips around the first knuckle on Richards’s left hand.

“William Tecumseh Sherman.”

“Wrong answer.” Sayyed pushed the two red handles together and there was a quick snip and the pinky fell to the dirty floor. Richards started screaming, and Sayyed quickly moved the snips over to Hurley’s pinky. “Your turn,” he yelled. “Name?”

Hurley had already turned his head away, as if he couldn’t bear to watch what was going on. He started to move his lips and mumbled a name.

“Louder … I can’t hear you.”

Hurley slowly turned his head, made eye contact with Sayyed, and then looked down at his pinky. The distance was about right. He pretended he was starting to cry while again mumbling, and when Sayyed moved just a touch closer, offering up his good ear so he could hear better, Hurley lunged forward, tilting his head to the right. He caught the top third of the man’s left ear between his teeth and clamped down with all of his strength, grinding and chewing and growling and then yanking his head back.

Sayyed screamed and broke free, his hand clamped around his bloody ear. He stumbled away and then turned to look at his subject. What he saw horrified him. Bill Sherman had a chunk of his ear hanging half out of his mouth. The insane American smiled at him and then started chewing on the ear, crunching it like a potato chip.

CHAPTER 58

RAPP looked out across the city. Night had fallen and that scar known as the Green Line now looked like a wide, formidable river, a black swath of darkness that cut the city in half. But travel two blocks in either direction and there were signs of life. Buildings lit up with inhabitants, traffic moving about the city, horns blaring, and underpowered engines revving—all the normal sights and sounds of a city. But not in that desolate corridor. Only twice in the last hour had he seen a car dare cross no-man’s-land. It appeared the cease-fire was activated as they usually are, by segregating the various factions. He could not see the east-west streets to the north, and it was likely that more cars had crossed in that sector, but not enough to change what was obvious. This was a literally a city torn asunder.

The problem as Rapp saw it was fundamental geography. He was on this side and they were on the other side—the they being Hurley and Richards. The only way to save them was to go over there, but Ridley had explained to him that going over there was a very bad idea. Going over there would result in his being captured, tortured, and then killed, in that order.

Rapp’s response to Ridley was, “So you’re pretty much admitting that Stan and Bob are going to be tortured and killed.”

“I’m admitting no such thing.”

“The hell you’re not,” Rapp said, his frustration finally boiling over.

Ridley shot back, “I know you’re the new wonder boy, so this might be hard for you to understand, but there are things that are going on that you have not been read in on.”

“Like what?”

“Things that are way above your pay grade, rookie.” Ridley caught his mistake and tried to temper his words by adding, “Listen, I don’t make the rules. There are certain protocols that I have to follow. Langley tells me who I can share things with. If you’re not on that list my hands are tied.”