Free Black Site by Dalton Fury Page B

against the wall.
    “Get your ass up,” growled Monk.
    “What’s going on?”
    “We’re taking you to see somebody.”
    Kolt did not move, recovered a bit from the shock of the intrusion. “And if I don’t want to go with you?”
    “Nobody is asking what you want.” Monk kicked a bottle out of the way as he approached. It was a short walk to the opposite wall of the trailer.
    Raynor made it to his feet, wobbled a bit. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but—”
    “Are you drunk?”
    “What? No. I’m a little hungover, but I—”
    Monk looked to Benji. “Find the bathroom, start the shower. Ice-cold.” The baby-faced blond-haired operator disappeared up the tiny hall to the little bathroom. The water started in seconds.
    “Back off! I can take my own damn shower. Just tell me what’s going—”
    But Monk grabbed Kolt by the arm, turned him toward the bathroom, and pushed him forward.
    Kolt could have fought—even in his present state he was no shrinking violet—but Monk had him beat in speed, size, and sobriety. In fact, the master sergeant was so overbearing that Raynor found himself intimidated, and did what he was told.
    Three minutes later, with Benji and Monk standing by the door and watching his every move, a shivering Kolt Raynor kicked around in the clothes on the floor, found a pair of khakis that were not too wrinkled and a sweater that was not too stained. He pulled them on, toweled off his shaggy hair, and grabbed his wallet, cell phone, and keys off the tiny kitchen counter. The icy cold shower had awakened him, but a pang of nausea in his chest and stomach remained. He wanted to lie back down, but instead he followed the two Delta operators out the broken door and down the drive to Monk’s pickup truck.
    In the cab no one spoke for several minutes as Monk drove south. Kolt assumed he was being taken into Fort Bragg, though he could not fathom why, unless it had something to do with what had happened off the coast of Somalia. But when the truck headed east on Highway 1, passing the turnoff to go south to the base, Raynor began with the questions.
    “Where we going?”
    “I told you,” said Monk. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”
    “But not somebody from the Unit?”
    Benji broke in. “Just sit tight, Racer.”
    “I haven’t done anything.”
    Monk chuckled angrily. “That’s for damn sure.”
    Soon they were heading north on Highway 22. It was a clear and cool September morning. The green hills rose and fell on both sides of them. For a moment Kolt thought they were taking him to the Moore Country Airport, but the truck shot on by the turnoff at seventy miles an hour.
    “What’s in Carthage?” Kolt asked. It was the next town to the north, but it was small, and Raynor did not really suspect it to be their destination.
    So he was surprised when Monk responded, “Somebody that wants to take a look at you. If he doesn’t like what he sees, and I expect he won’t, we’ll take you back to that shit hole you call home and drop you off. You can fix your own damn door.”
    Shortly after 9 a.m. they turned into a cheap motel just off the road. Monk drove around to the back and pulled up next to the only two cars in the lot. Benji got out of the cab, motioned for Kolt to lead the way to the door just in front of the two cars.
    Kolt found the door unlocked.
    He entered, followed by the two Delta operators, but only after they scanned the parking lot and the grove of trees behind it for several seconds. Once inside the two-bedroom unit, Monk shut the door, enshrouding the three men in low light.
    Kolt stood in front of the TV and looked around for some explanation of what was going on. Monk and Benji just stood there with him in the dimness. Raynor said, “If you guys start taking your clothes off, I’m going headfirst out that window.”
    Benji burst out in surprised laughter. Monk rolled his eyes, opened his mouth to say something, but a gentle rapping at the access