Free Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America by Ryder Stacy

They marched out from the control tower, twenty of the highest officers, their uniforms pressed for the occasion, their rows of medals glittering on their chests, to personally direct the prisoners’ entry into the fortress.
    The freefighting mutant was taken from the lead chopper hands cuffed behind his back, steel shackles around his ankles. The Red captain who was now in command of the attack force had heard too many stories of the man’s uncanny ability to escape every Russian trap that had been set for him to allow even the slightest opportunity. It would be his head for sure if Rockson made a getaway. A dozen Red troops stood around their prisoner, subs aimed at his chest and back. There was no way in hell he was going to get out of this one. Archer was another story. The man was too big and too strong to even shackle. He looked as if he could snap chains with his teeth. The captain decided to keep him in the netting, screaming his version of curses: animal growls ands grunts.
    The Red command stood about fifty feet from the slowly spinning rotors of the choppers and smiled broadly as Rockson was marched up to them.
    “So it is you, after all,” the top commander of the fortress, General Pushkin said. “We weren’t really sure they had captured you.” He held a large wanted poster up next to Rockson’s face with the words Wanted Dead Or Alive, 500,000 rubles Reward written on it below a sketched drawing of Ted Rockson, and then looked again at the Doomsday Warrior. “Unmistakable—the white streak down the middle of the head—the mismatched eyes—only one man could look like that.”
    “If I’d known I was so famous I would have given an autograph party long ago,” Rock said, spitting the words in the general’s face.
    “Guard him well,” Pushkin snarled to the guards. “And don’t harm a hair on his mutant head—this man is worth his weight in plutonium.” The brass watched with smug grins as the Doomsday Warrior was marched past them and into the large debriefing room just to the other side of the airport fence.
    The intelligence chief, Colonel Pastrok, sat at a large wooden table with a single chair on the other side. The guards pushed Rockson roughly down, one of them hitting him with the butt of his Kalashnikov on the freefighter’s shoulder.
    “Name?” the colonel asked with a false smile. He offered the American a cigarette from a Russian pack— Sputnik filters.
    “John Doe,” Rock answered. “And I don’t smoke except from a gun.”
    “Come now, we know you’re Ted Rockson. Let’s not play games with one another.” The interrogator’s face had a silver dollar-sized purple birthmark on the left cheek which contrasted sharply with his otherwise pasty flesh. His eyes narrowed as he spoke. “The more you cooperate the less painful it will be for you. That I promise you—as an officer of the Imperial Russian Army.”
    “I trust you Reds as far as I can sight my rifle,” Rock said dryly. “There are graveyards of Americans who listened to your bull. I’ve seen too much to even think of cooperation. Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with. Otherwise I might just escape from here.”
    “Kill you.” The officer laughed. “Oh no, Mr. Rockson, that will never do. You’re in for quite an extended period of interrogation. Or should I use the less glamorous term—torture. When we can get inside that mutant head of yours I’m sure we’ll find out wonders—not to mention the location of half the Free Cities in this hellhole of a country. Your capture may well signal the beginning of the end for your rebel forces. Take him away for now,” he commanded the guards. “Put him in Maximum Security Cell Three. I don’t want any other prisoners anywhere near him. Clear out the whole block. Just have this Rockson and that foul-smelling creature that was captured with him put in there. Separate cells. I want ten armed guards in there at all times. This man is not what you would