Free The Proxy Assassin by John Knoerle Page A

Wisner, the director of OPC. I was sent here to liaise with Captain SorinDragomir, to assess the readiness of his squad in the event that OPC might want to offer logistical support for a future, yet-to-be-determined mission.”
    I paused to see how this was going over. Blank stares from the armbreakers. Doubtful they knew more English than ‘okay’ and ‘Mickey Mouse.’ But the old buzzard seemed to understand some of what I said. I concluded with, “And that is all I’m prepared to say.”
    The old buzzard used his long ropy arms to push himself up off his chair. His legs were little more than bowed sticks but his upper body was still strong, as if he’d been on crutches most of his life. I saw that his black eyes were afire as he slowly made his way to my end of the table. His armbreakers started to follow but he waved them off. He wanted me all to himself.
    I felt a strong and visceral dislike for this old creep. I knew I should submit to abuse in order to win the opportunity to sow disinformation. I also knew that if this son-of-a-whore raised his leathery mitt to smack me I would jump up, lock my cuffed hands behind his neck and use the peak of my brow to drive his nasal cavity deep into his forebrain which, according to Fearless Dan, our hand-to-hand instructor at spy school, usually does the trick.
    But the old buzzard hadn’t made it to a ripe old age by pushing his luck. He stopped short of throttling range and cleared his throat by way of a ragged cough followed by a putrid belch. He showed me black gums and yellow teeth.
    â€œDo not concern yourself, Mr. Schroeder, with your preparation.”
    I didn’t take his meaning, looked confused.
    â€œYour preparation to speak, that is our task.”
    Oh, shit. I pictured pliers and power drills, serrated knives.
    But it wasn’t like that. The armbreakers merely cuffed me to the back of the chair and took turns slapping me silly when Ideclined the answer the old buzzard’s questions about Captain Dragomir’s nefarious plot.
    They paced themselves this time, dumping water on my head when I pretended to pass out. I would come to and beg for mercy, absorb a few more smacks then blurt out some bullshit the old buzzard wrote down on a pad of paper.
    The whole thing felt like an act, like a dress rehearsal for the real thing. I suffered the abuse okay. It stung like hell until it didn’t. They weren’t doing any permanent damage, that’s all I cared about.
    And laying on a beating isn’t like twisting the dial of a generator that’s alligator clipped to your scrotum. It’s personal, your tormentors feel the impact of each blow. And they get tired.
    The armbreakers ran out of steam after an hour or so and looked to the boss man for further instruction. He had filled three pages of note paper with my ramblings. The old buzzard answered by stumping over to a sideboard and grabbing a bottle filled with dark purple liquid.
    My torture had just begun. The bottle was filled with plum brandy.
    I liked the boss man a lot better after a few pops. He even allowed me a chunk of cheese to quell the bonfire in my empty gut started by the purple gasoline. My ears rung and my cheeks burned but I was okay.
    Come to find out the old buzzard had learned some English during World War One when he worked with the Central Powers against Great Britain and the U.S. He learned some more English in World War Two when he worked with Great Britain and the U.S. against the Axis. But the political winds had shifted once again. The fascists had been defeated. The Yanks and Brits were the new-old bad guys.
    I asked him why that was, why the Magyars subscribed to Marxist-Leninist ideology. He didn’t seem to know what thatwas so I asked him why his people sided with the Communists. His explanation was straightforward.
    â€œWhen
Nazi ş ti
took power the Iron Guard killed our families. Now it is our turn.”
    He recounted