If you have not read Part I, please read it here.
I stayed silent knowing that no matter what my answer, there would be retribution – either for slighting him or for not admitting to it. Inside my head, I tried to put the pain out of my mind, but holy shit it hurt. He squeezed once more and then let go with a chuckle, “He probably heard that in some Hollywood movie,” he said to this compatriot.
Taking the cue from the guard, I murmured “Yippee kiya, motherfucker. Die Hard!”
The guard laughed and towards me, “See, I told you. These sand niggers pick up this shit from the Hollywood movies that they watch on their VCR.”
A quiet man with a cigarette said, “Get him cleaned up and dressed. The company wants to talk to him.”
“The company.” Ah, I knew that phrase all too well. The CIA – America’s stellar intelligence agency. So inept that many wondered why they were still considered an intelligence agency.
I was dropped to the ground in a heap with clothing thrown at me. I couldn’t stand up; now they wanted me to dress myself? I pulled the shirt over my head. I tried to stand up, but my legs refused to cooperate. I could see that the guard was getting angry. I was not moving fast enough for him. Screw him, maybe if they would stop using my body as their personal punching bag. I pulled the pants over my legs and slid my hips into them with a scowl from the recent sexual violation still throbbing.
The guard grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of my cell where he firmly deposited me in a wheelbarrow. As he wheeled me down the hall to “The Company’s” door, I could smell the vomit, feces and blood that had become a familiar companion in my cell. At the door, I was jerked out of the wheelbarrow and thrown into a chair in the room.
I looked around from my seat in the middle of the room, a table in front of me, a spotlight above. I couldn’t see anyone, but then these Company men liked to hide in the shadows. A voice echoed out from behind me, “As-salaam-wa-lakum Afzal. It’s been a long time since we met,” the voice said in a thick Pashto-American accent as the footsteps emerged from the darkened corner.
That voice is familiar. I have heard it before, but where?
“Do you remember me? I haven’t forgotten you,” he said as he stepped into the light and pulled up a chair across the table. He offered me a cigarette and smiled, “Take one. It’s your favorite brand.”
As I reached for the cigarette, he leaned in and said “So Kamal, we meet again.”
Holy shit! This motherfucker! My thumb instinctively moved to where my ring finger used to be. This was the sadistic bastard that took it.