next to Julia.
N o , said another part of him, a stronger part. You’re not dead yet, old man.
Sidorov had tied him to a wooden chair and then simply did nothing to him. That was the torture. No standing or lying down, no bathroom breaks, and starvation. Sidorov’s goons would let Thorpe drink as much water as he wanted, but food was strictly denied. It was now day three, and Thorpe’s lower body was completely numb. His head throbbed constantly, his belly ached and distended, and every muscle he could still feel was in agony at the combination of starvation and discomfort.
So far, Thorpe had not screamed.
On this evening, he was only guarded by a single thug, a local hire who he didn’t recognize as one of Sidorov’s regulars. Thorpe knew that even if he could somehow get free of his bonds, his extreme weakness and exhaustion would ensure that this thug could take him. Sidorov didn’t need to post more than one guard now, because Thorpe’s body was wearing down.
When he first woke up, Sidorov had been there, and so had Morris, who was wrapped in bandages after an underworld doctor had cut Thorpe’s bullet out of him. Morris was the one who had told them to take Thorpe’s clothes, a lesson he learned after Thorpe’s watch had freed him the first time. But now, both Morris and Sidorov only visited occasionally. Ignoring a prize as hated as Thorpe meant they were working on something big. Something that required a lot of attention.
There was s crash somewhere to the left, out of sight. It was Sidorov, kicking the door open. He entered slowly, hunched over, carrying a heavy, lidded bucket in each hand. Thorpe’s eyes needed a moment to focus before he could read the labels on the buckets. Sidorov had brought two 17-litre containers of driveway sealer. Tar.
Following Sidorov was a second goon, one who had guarded Thorpe the day before. This one rolled an empty oil drum. Thorpe understood immediately. They probably had feather pillows somewhere too.
“So that’s it, then?” he asked Sidorov.
The Russian grinned. “I’m looking forward to your death.”
“I heard you could torture a man for weeks on end. Those stories must be rubbish if you can’t even go four days before killing me.”
Sidorov was already setting up a little ring of cinder blocks. He would want a fire under that barrel to get the tar nice and hot. He spoke casually, as if he didn’t even feel the malice in his words. “Mr. Thorpe, if I could, I would make you my masterpiece. I would cut off pieces one-by-one, letting each heal before I took the next. I would leave you as a faceless, armless, legless beast. I would take one lung, one kidney, both eyes, and all your teeth. I would burn and freeze and bludgeon and stab you. I would deafen you with loud music and feed you your own organs. I would deliver your heart to your Queen. But I am a busy man and I don’t have time to give you what you deserve. Tar and feathers shall do.”
Thorpe didn’t hesitate in his response, not wanting Sidorov to think, even for a moment, that this torture was working. “I don’t see any feathers.”
Sidorov started to say something, then stopped and his cheek twitched. He spoke to the Russian thug, and the Russian gave a nervous answer.
“It seems we forgot the feathers. Nevertheless. The tar will take time to warm up. By the time I get back, we’ll have quite a show.”
He barked orders at the two goons, and left the same way he had come. The two goons set about building a fire pit from the cinder blocks, placing the barrel on top of it, and pouring the thick black tar into the drum. The quiet inner voice once again thought of Julia.
And then there were two quiet sounds. Twip-twip.
And the goons dropped dead.
There had been no warning. No siren, no signal. They had entered and infiltrated in total silence, like fog creeping through an open window; a team of MI-6 agents coming in from every direction. They swarmed toward Thorpe, cutting him
N o , said another part of him, a stronger part. You’re not dead yet, old man.
Sidorov had tied him to a wooden chair and then simply did nothing to him. That was the torture. No standing or lying down, no bathroom breaks, and starvation. Sidorov’s goons would let Thorpe drink as much water as he wanted, but food was strictly denied. It was now day three, and Thorpe’s lower body was completely numb. His head throbbed constantly, his belly ached and distended, and every muscle he could still feel was in agony at the combination of starvation and discomfort.
So far, Thorpe had not screamed.
On this evening, he was only guarded by a single thug, a local hire who he didn’t recognize as one of Sidorov’s regulars. Thorpe knew that even if he could somehow get free of his bonds, his extreme weakness and exhaustion would ensure that this thug could take him. Sidorov didn’t need to post more than one guard now, because Thorpe’s body was wearing down.
When he first woke up, Sidorov had been there, and so had Morris, who was wrapped in bandages after an underworld doctor had cut Thorpe’s bullet out of him. Morris was the one who had told them to take Thorpe’s clothes, a lesson he learned after Thorpe’s watch had freed him the first time. But now, both Morris and Sidorov only visited occasionally. Ignoring a prize as hated as Thorpe meant they were working on something big. Something that required a lot of attention.
There was s crash somewhere to the left, out of sight. It was Sidorov, kicking the door open. He entered slowly, hunched over, carrying a heavy, lidded bucket in each hand. Thorpe’s eyes needed a moment to focus before he could read the labels on the buckets. Sidorov had brought two 17-litre containers of driveway sealer. Tar.
Following Sidorov was a second goon, one who had guarded Thorpe the day before. This one rolled an empty oil drum. Thorpe understood immediately. They probably had feather pillows somewhere too.
“So that’s it, then?” he asked Sidorov.
The Russian grinned. “I’m looking forward to your death.”
“I heard you could torture a man for weeks on end. Those stories must be rubbish if you can’t even go four days before killing me.”
Sidorov was already setting up a little ring of cinder blocks. He would want a fire under that barrel to get the tar nice and hot. He spoke casually, as if he didn’t even feel the malice in his words. “Mr. Thorpe, if I could, I would make you my masterpiece. I would cut off pieces one-by-one, letting each heal before I took the next. I would leave you as a faceless, armless, legless beast. I would take one lung, one kidney, both eyes, and all your teeth. I would burn and freeze and bludgeon and stab you. I would deafen you with loud music and feed you your own organs. I would deliver your heart to your Queen. But I am a busy man and I don’t have time to give you what you deserve. Tar and feathers shall do.”
Thorpe didn’t hesitate in his response, not wanting Sidorov to think, even for a moment, that this torture was working. “I don’t see any feathers.”
Sidorov started to say something, then stopped and his cheek twitched. He spoke to the Russian thug, and the Russian gave a nervous answer.
“It seems we forgot the feathers. Nevertheless. The tar will take time to warm up. By the time I get back, we’ll have quite a show.”
He barked orders at the two goons, and left the same way he had come. The two goons set about building a fire pit from the cinder blocks, placing the barrel on top of it, and pouring the thick black tar into the drum. The quiet inner voice once again thought of Julia.
And then there were two quiet sounds. Twip-twip.
And the goons dropped dead.
There had been no warning. No siren, no signal. They had entered and infiltrated in total silence, like fog creeping through an open window; a team of MI-6 agents coming in from every direction. They swarmed toward Thorpe, cutting him
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