Part IV

Part IV

After a short meal and a drink, Astapkovich and his guards were shown to the holding cell of the detained spy by Ostakovich. Having passed through a security checkpoint, guarded by two armed soldiers, the group entered the cell of the captive.

Sitting in a chair, handcuffed and visually beaten half to death sat Geppetto, the missing agent Andrew had been sent to recover. A single solitary light was hanging over top of him in the room. Wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, he had been sitting there for near a week, having little to nothing to eat, and very little water was offered. He had soiled himself numerous times and faced nightly beatings for every day he refused to divulge information.

Dry blood covered his mouth, and bruises could be seen all around his face and body. He probably wouldn’t last much longer, but had not let any information slip. His training had taught him how to deal with torture.

Astapkovich looked down at the man in front of him, frail and weak physically, but strong mentally. He could see it in the agent’s eyes as his stare burned through his chest. This man was angry, pissed off, and willing to fight for his freedom, or die trying. Aleksandr stroked his Stalinist mustache, his eyes never departing this man.

“How long has he been here?” asked Astapkovich, his stare still towards the spy.

“Nearing a week. We suspect he was seeking out intelligence on the program we’ve been developing for you. He put up a bit of a fight, but he was eventually captured.”

Astapkovich walked towards the captured spy, with a steady stride. He stopped in front of him, his eyes looking to the floor. With a strong force, Astapkovich pushed the prisoner to sit up straight. The spy was looking directly at him now, and angry expression worn across his cut and bruised face.

“Who are you working for?” Astapkovich asked. The spy diverted his eyes from the Russian. He grabbed the bottom of the man’s chin, forcing his fingers into his chin, getting to eye level with him. “Who are you working for?” he asked again with a thunderous voice.

He let go of the face and stood up straight. The spy was slouching again. Aleksandr stared at the back of his head as he began to cough. As large wad of spit came from the spy landing on Aleksandr’s shoe, deliberately. His head snapped back as his eyes pierced through Aleksandr’s.

Aleksandr, keeping his anger within, walked around to the back of the captured spy, remaining there for a couple of seconds. Like a flash, he grabbed the spy’s hair yanking it so his face was staring at the ceiling. From there, Aleksandr pulled his Tokarev from his holster and placed it at the back of the spy’s head, point blank. Pulling the trigger, the spy’s head exploded as the bullet entered the back of his skull. A fireworks display of blood splattered on the stone floor. He released his grip on the hair letting the now deceased spy slump in his chair. Aleksandr pocketed his pistol and kicked the spy and chair to the ground on their side. Blood pooled around the remainder of the spy’s head.

The others in the room sat in a state of shock after witnessing what had just unfolded in front of their eyes. No one said anything as Aleksandr calmly made his way back to the group. “Take me to see the program,” he ordered, “and get me a towel.”