A handcuff, on the other hand, seemed like a pain in the ass. Not just because they were heavy and needed to be maintained, but mainly because unless you wanted to buy a shit-ton of cuffs, you had to go back and retrieve them every time you used a pair.
It seemed like an unnecessary hassle and brought up the question: Why does Wikus carry a pair of handcuffs?
He found the answer engraved at the base of the cuff snapped around the lead pipe, in tiny letters that read REPUBLIC ARMS MODEL 65—SAP.
Model 65 . . . general issue for South African cops assigned to Koevoet, Hayes thought.
Koevoet, or crowbar as it was translated in English, was the nickname of South West Africa’s Police Counterinsurgency Unit. The group of specially trained men who used controversial and often brutal tactics to “pry” apartheid-era insurgents from the civilian population.
Hayes had never met any face-to-face, but he knew enough about their reputation to start thinking about using the ceramic cuff key sewn into his waistband to get the hell out of there.
But before he could let himself out, the door swung open and Wikus stepped gleefully into the room.
“Oh, mate,” he said, slamming the door behind him and throwing the latch, “you and me, we’ve got something to talk about.”
“Like what?”
“Like the naughty things I found in this,” he said, tossing Hayes’s bloody assault pack on the table.
23
BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA
Cyrus Vandal sat in the center of the shipping container, naked except for the pair of ratty sweatpants and the black hood his captors had pulled over his head. Using his legs, he scooted back in the chair, the cold metal frame against his bare skin sending goose bumps rushing across his body.
But it was a momentary discomfort, barely noticeable after the previous twelve hours he’d spent shivering in the darkness, the corrugated-steel prison sucking the heat from his body. He did everything he could to stay warm while his Slovakian captors beat on him until their arms got tired.
When he still refused to talk, one of his interrogators stepped to the edge of the container and ordered one of the guards sitting outside to priniest’ hadice—bring the hose.
Before joining the CIA’s Special Activities Division, Vandal had spent ten years as a Navy SEAL. Thanks to the twelve brutal days he spent at SERE, he knew what was coming when the man in the navy-blue track suit appeared with the faded green garden hose.
“We’ll see how tough he is now,” one of the interrogators said, taking the hose from the man in the track suit.
At SERE the cadre had taught them to shut off their mind—“go to your happy place.” But at the moment all Vandal could focus on was the nozzle being shoved into his mouth and the rush of well water down his throat.
Most men would have cracked, told them the color of their mother’s underwear after that, but not Vandal.
“C’mon, guys,” he choked out, after vomiting a stomachful of water on the floor, “I was a SEAL, you think this is the first time someone has tried to drown me?”
“Just wait until the boss gets here,” the lead interrogator said after zip-tying him to the chair. “We’ll see how funny you find it then.”
But Vandal had no intention of waiting. As soon as his captors closed and latched the door he went to work on the zip-ties securing his muscled arms behind his back.
Sitting in the darkness, he knew there were easier ways to make a living than working for the CIA’s Special Activities Division. Jobs that didn’t involve getting your ass beat by a handful of Slovak gangsters.
But where’s the fun in that? he thought.
Without a watch there was no way to tell the time, but when Vandal paused to take a break, he could tell that the sun had come up from the heat radiating off the container. After catching his breath, he worked his thumb over the edge of the cuff, feeling the notch he’d cut in the plastic.
Almost there.
Vandal set the notch against the sliver of metal on the back side of the chair, pulled his arms apart, and was busy trying to saw through the cuffs when he heard voices outside the Conex.
He redoubled his efforts, worked at the cuffs until the sweat rolled down his face and his shoulders were hot from the lactic acid building up in his muscles. He leaned forward and pulled his arms apart, straining against his bonds.
The plastic popped but refused to give. Before Vandal could try again, the metallic jangle of the latch being thrown told him he was out of time.
With no other choice, he slumped forward in his chair and dropped his head, assuming the position of defeated prisoner seconds before the door groaned open. He sat there, ears straining in the dark, feeling the eyes on him, waiting for someone to speak.
Then he heard it, the raspy voice of Ján Malicar—leader of the Dunajská Streda underworld and one of Interpol’s most wanted criminals.
“So this is the guy who’s been giving you so much trouble?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Bring him outside, we’ll see how tough he is.”
The guards stepped inside, their boots echoing off the Conex as they walked over. “We told you, asshole,” one of the men said before grabbing the back of his chair.
They dragged him back the way they’d come, the metal legs scraping over the floor like nails on a chalkboard.
Before he could close his eyes, the hood was ripped free, the sunlight blinding after the hours of darkness. Vandal tried to drop his head, get away from the light, but before he had a chance, a pair of rough hands had him by the chin and were torquing his head skyward.
“So, you are the Yankee dog the Americans sent to kill me?” Malicar demanded, hand dropping to the knife strapped to his hip.
“That’s right,” Vandal replied in perfect Slovak.
“He speaks,” the man smiled to his cronies as he ripped the blade free, the light glinting off the razored edge as he held it in front of Vandal’s eyes. “Let’s see what else I can get you to say . . .”
But before he had a chance to finish his threat, Vandal snapped his head forward, driving his forehead into the man’s nose.
“Aaaaagh!” the man screamed, hand racing to his shattered nose, the blood already gushing down the front of his shirt.
Before the guards could leap into action, Vandal spread his arms as wide as he could, clenched his core tight, and whiplashed his body forward in the chair. The second the cuffs snapped free, he was on his feet, scooping the chair off the floor and flinging it at the guards.
The man with the broken nose swiped at him with the blade, but Vandal twisted left, watched the blade flash past his face, and caught the man’s wrist. He twisted until he heard the snap of the bone and then, in one smooth motion, hip-tossed the man to the ground.