Free Ballistic by Mark Greaney

for a young Western drug trafficker. Eddie flew into a rage, attacked his interrogators, and was only fought off with the butts of two big SKS rifles that were driven into the base of his skull. He was returned, unconscious, to the basement with a fat, bloody knot on the back of his head. Then Gentry was dragged up for his “session.”
    When Court was told about the impending journey north to the work camps, he stunned his interrogators.
    â€œOkay, I’m done with this shit. I’ll give you the names of my contacts in Vientiane, bank account numbers, tell you where we pick up the poppy and how we get it over the Mekong into Thailand.”
    Both men’s eyes turned away from the Muay Lao match on the TV and locked on the gaunt, sweat-soaked man sitting in front of them.
    â€œYes. You talk now!” ordered the senior man.
    â€œNo. It’s better I write it all down. Easier for you to understand.”
    Both men nodded. “Yes.”
    â€œBut I want some things from you.”
    â€œWhat you want?” Fresh suspicion dulled the pleased expression on the men’s faces.
    â€œMy friend is hurt. I want his head bandaged. Carefully bandaged.”
    The senior man waved a hand through the air. “No problem.”
    â€œI want a warm, dry blanket. I want a bottle of that water you guys are drinking.” He pointed to a plastic two-liter jug on the table. Again, the interrogators nodded. “What else?”
    â€œI guess some paper and something to write with would be good.”

    The guards bandaged Eddie with Court lying nearby in the cell and admonishing them with his frail voice and weak gestures, ordering them to use more gauze and more tape. At first Gamble tried to push them away, insisting that the knot on his head did not need to be mummified in order to heal. But Court was adamant, and finally Eddie relented and let Court take charge of his medical care.
    Court had his pad and his pen and a fresh wool blanket, and he wrote down notes throughout the afternoon and evening. During the night he opened the bottle and drank most of the clean water himself, only passing the last few swigs over to the man who’d been keeping him alive. Eddie took it and polished it off greedily, but only after Court assured him he’d had all he wanted.
    When the daily ration was brought the next morning, Court surprised Eddie. “I’m taking all your food.”
    â€œNo, I’m giving you half. Holding your sweaty ass up over the shitter burns a lot of calories, amigo.”
    â€œLook, I need some extra strength today.” Court pulled both tin plates over in front of him as he spoke.
    â€œWhat for? What’s going to happen?”
    â€œIf it doesn’t work out, I’d rather you didn’t know. It might be better for you that way.”
    Eddie looked worried. “C’mon, Sally. You aren’t in any condition to try anything. Let me talk to the guards today; if they think you are giving up some intel and I offer up some disinformation, then maybe they’ll come through with that medicine you need.”
    â€œNo . . . This isn’t about me getting medicine. It’s about getting the hell out of here.” Court began eating from both plates. Gamble looked on hungrily. Between bites of turnip and slurps of bone broth, Court said, “Oh yeah, one more thing. I need all your bandages.”
    Slowly, with no idea what the hell was going on, Eddie Gamble took the gauze and the tape from his head and handed it over.
    Court spent the next half hour lying on his side under his blanket, his back to his fellow prisoner. Eddie asked over and over what was going to happen, but his cellmate would not answer.
    The guards came to take Eddie to his interrogation. As they left, Court called out. “Tell them that I need another pen. This one ran out of ink. If they bring it before I go up, then I’ll have my list ready.”
    Eddie looked at him a long