The Saint Of Baghdad (CJ Brink Book 1) by Michael Woodman

Author:Michael Woodman [Woodman, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Connlaswell Publishing
Published: 2018-12-30T22:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Jihadi Jill liked to tie CJ’s hands behind his back and hoist him up over an open door, latching his arms over the top so his body would hang by the armpits. It was a poor man’s crucifixion. Bloodless. Hours would pass with the pain growing and moans morphing into screams. But then, they too would pass.

Pain and breath.

So long as you had them, you were still alive. CJ was back in that space, following his breath. Pain everywhere. But muffled like the sound of a distant bomb blast from inside a shelter. He was more concerned with damage, maintaining a constant inventory. Head, neck, back, arms and legs. He was bloodied and bruised with humongous swelling. But nothing was fractured yet. And although the ribs had taken a beating, no bones had penetrated his pleural cavity, so his breathing was still good. He was sitting in a metal chair, his wrists bound to its arms with cable ties. The chair was set like a stage ringed by a wall of silent machines, a production line running in a U-shape under a roof of corrugated metal, surrounded by a yard littered with steel barrels. Grambo and the suit were standing at a nearby table. They were taking a break, drinking water from bottles and staring at CJ. The suit wiped his sweaty hands on his white shirt. His collar was open and his tie loose, his jacket flung across the table and topped by a pistol in a shoulder rig.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I think it’s the last time he puts me in a trunk.”

Grambo put down the bottle and went back to CJ, bending forward to get in his face.

“Welcome to America, mate.”

He lifted CJ’s chin off his chest and looked for a spark in his glazed eyes. The suit edged around to his side.

“Did we overdo it?”

“Screw that.” Grambo dropped his head and stepped back.

“Thanks,” CJ said, coming back to life with a jerk.

Grambo glanced at the suit and they shared a laugh.

“Don’t sweat it, tough guy. We’re just warming you up for Kowalski.”

“I owe you guys.” CJ shook his head as if in wonder. “They tried drugs, surgery. You name it. But it turns out that all I needed to help me remember was a good old-fashioned beating.”

“Glad to be of service,” Grambo said.

“I say ‘good,’ but that’s just a manner of speaking. The truth is, you guys are shit at this. You wouldn’t even make Al-Qaeda’s B team.”

Grambo lurched at him, but the suit grabbed his shoulder. “I’m going to finish this guy.” Grambo shrugged off his hand and towered over CJ, jaw set, fists balled. “You know where this place is, tough guy?” CJ’s eyes roamed around the conveyor belts stacked with red and yellow barrels. The air was acrid, viscous and noxious, like breathing sandpaper.

“Hell?”

“Now you’re talking. Welcome to Wilmington. It’s a real choice neighborhood. You got the port, chemical plants, oil refineries and hundreds of oil wells. This is Pollution City, and guess where it goes to the toilet? Right here.

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