Free Hard Man to Kill (Dark Horse Guardian Series Book 4) by Ava Armstrong Page B

once the stark realization had come to the terrorists they were in for a world of hurt. Like most of the men who had come to Guantanamo, they had not even been water boarded. Now they were going to long for those interrogation techniques.
    Ben and Elvis took turns questioning the two new men, as Al Safir lie motionless in the corner with his hands and feet bound.  After three hours of slapping the two men around, they wouldn’t talk, and it was time to take the gloves off.  The point being, they had said enough to Ben to give him the knowledge that they had information, but the fools actually believed they couldn’t be broken.  He hadn’t met one yet that couldn’t be. 
    Mizoul was kept downstairs and Farouk brought upstairs for a little while.  Al Safir had passed out in the corner, but was still breathing.  Mizoul knew he was in for something, but didn’t know what.  Ben asked him a series of questions and Mizoul refused to look at him.  Tossing him onto the dirt floor, he pulled his bound hands up onto the metal chair. 
    “Fingers – you have ten of them – do you want to keep them?”  He pulled out the fixed blade and ran it over Mizoul’s index finger slowly slicing into the flesh.  Blood spurted, and the tough terrorist cried out in pain.  Ben stuffed the rag back into his mouth and continued cutting.  Apparently, this guy wanted to play rough. 
    Ben stared into Mizoul's eyes. “I have PTSD, bad flashbacks of being tortured by you bastards, and a knife. I can do this all day. ” Ben pulled the knife.  The first pass was more of a yank than a cut. But, even though he’d gotten Mizoul’s attention, the bastard wouldn’t talk. 
    Mizoul screamed through the rag.
    After the finger was excised, Ben took another rag out of his backpack and bound the wound to slow the bleeding.  Mizoul’s howling was muffled.  His eyes now filled with fear, as rivulets of sweat mixed with tears poured down his face.
    Ben scowled. In Arabic he shouted, “You think this is bad? Just wait.  Because I'm going to keep cutting. And, once I get to your tongue, there’ll be nothing left of you to talk.”
    Mizoul grimaced and acquiesced.
    As soon as Ben removed the rag from his mouth, Mizoul blurted out everything.  No longer did he hold back or put on an act filled with loyalty and pride.  There was nothing left.  Ben tossed him into the corner with Al Safir, and spoke into the com, “Bring down Farouk.” 
    The men led Farouk down the wooden ladder into the tomb.  He took one look at the two lying in the corner, and Ben shoved him down to the dirt floor face first.  Straddling his back, Ben hissed into his ear, “Tell me.”
    Farouk was filled with terror.  Ben took the knife and sliced off chunks of his hair. He pulled the robe off him and tossed the garment aside.  Naked on the floor and trembling, Farouk cried out as Ben put the knife to his neck. 
    “Tell me,” Ben shouted, his voice filled with rage.  He saw Farouk’s eyes glued to Mizoul’s bloody hand.  “Yes, I cut off his fingers.  You’re next,” Ben said in Arabic.  “I might cut something else off your body.  You won’t be needing it where you’re going.”
    Within minutes Farouk gave him all of the information he had, and Ben even wondered if he made some of it up.  There were two other detainees released earlier from Guantanamo, Ibrahim Alim Shah and Muhammed Ghafoor.  The plans had been in the works for months.  They were being helped by several cells in Chicago, setting up a coordinated attack in the United States, of all places.  The elevated trains in Chicago would be bombed, similar to the event that occurred in Spain. 
    Once he got the information he called Moshe.  “Tuesday is the target date.  These assholes are setting up an attack in Chicago.  Everything is in motion.  Backpack bombs.  I’ve got names and phone numbers.  I’ll text them to you.  Get this shit to the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security