Wild Frost (Tyson Wild Thriller #87)

Chapter 1

The heavy fist careened toward my face like a sledgehammer.

SMACK!

The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

The fist cocked back and struck again.

BAM!

More blood.

I spat out a mix of blood and saliva. It drizzled down my chin, down my neck, and stained my shirt.

I wasn’t really worried about the shirt.

The black bag over my head made it hard to breathe, and that was part of the point.

Disorienting and claustrophobic. The waterboarding would start soon after they softened me up.

I knew the drill, and these guys were textbook.

BOOM!

Another fist. This one hit my cheek, wrenched my head aside like the others, and rattled my spine. My teeth chattered. I was quite fond of my teeth and wanted to keep all of them. My brain bounced around in my skull.

Pain throbbed.

“I think you’ve made your point,” I said dryly.

“No,” Mr. Fist replied. “I don’t think I have. We’re just getting started.”

CRACK!

This went on for quite a long time.

“If you keep that up, he’s not going to be able to tell you much of anything,” a voice in the corner of the room said to Mr. Fist.

Through the fabric of the bag, hazy shapes were visible, backlit by a work light in the other corner. Mr. Fist backed off and shook out his hand, which was throbbing as much as my face. At least I hoped the son of a bitch was in pain, too.

It was time for the good cop, bad cop routine.

Footsteps shuffled near, and the good cop huddled close. He leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you just cooperated.”

I said nothing.

"Tell us how the reporter got the information."

"I want to speak with my attorney."

Good Cop laughed. "You're not under arrest.”

"So I'm free to go?”

There was a long, ominous silence.

"You violated a national security gag order,” he said in a low growl.

“You disseminated classified information in violation of said order.

Right now, you and your friend are in a very precarious position.

Your actions have posed a threat to national security.

Some might consider what you've done as an act of treason.

You could be classified as a domestic violent extremist. An enemy combatant.

If you're not careful, you could spend the rest of your days in Gitmo, awaiting due process.”

I laughed. "Due process. Is that what this is?”

Good Cop sighed. "Just admit that you gave the reporter classified information.”

This guy was a moron if he thought I was going to admit to anything. Yes, I had given Paris classified information to expose corruption. Yes, Julian Ashby had tried to kill us, and the feds were protecting him. Yes, I was pissed off about it.

“Look, your friend has already admitted to everything. Do yourself a favor and start playing ball.”

It was laughable to suggest JD would crack. This guy obviously hadn’t done his homework. Not in this lifetime or the next would either of us roll over.

When it was clear I wasn’t going to talk, the beatings resumed.

SMACK!

POW!

BAM!

Mr. Fist eventually tired of using me as a punching bag. That’s when the real fun began.

Someone yanked my head back, the bag squeezed tight around my face. My lungs sucked in a deep breath. I knew what was coming.

The cold water hit my face like a waterfall, soaking the fabric, flattening it against my skin.

I kept my mouth shut and exhaled slowly through my nose to keep the water from flooding my sinus cavities.

No stranger to underwater breath holds, I could go a long time without taking a breath.

Longer than most. That would play in my favor.

But I soon ran out of breath to exhale.

The water poured into my sinuses, dripping down the back of my throat.

The key in situations like this was not to panic—to fight the involuntary urge to take a breath and suck in more water.

It was a method of torture that didn't leave any scars.

At least none that could be seen. But the mental trauma could take its toll.

Hours and hours of this kind of thing, over the course of several days, could get to you.

The torrent of water seemed endless.

This was going to be a long, uncomfortable situation, with no end in sight. How long would this go on? Days, weeks, months? They’d get tired eventually and move on to something else. Wouldn’t they?

I worried about Buddy and Fluffy. Who would take care of the animals if I never made it home?

When the flood ended, I coughed and sucked in a breath.

My heart pounded. The water trickled down, soaking my shirt, spilling over my chest. Adrenaline flushed my veins, increasing my need for oxygen.

It was all about regulating your autonomic nervous system.

Keep the demand for oxygen low. Focus, meditate, maintain composure.

I didn't need oxygen. I didn't need to breathe.

They would get tired before I would need to breathe. That's what I kept telling myself.

My lungs didn't quite believe it.

Before I had a chance to make up for lost oxygen, cold water hit my face again. That's the real kicker—when your lungs are on fire, screaming for air, and you want to take that big gasp, you’re met with a wall of water. And the worst part of it? You know that no one is coming to save you.