Temple of the Gods - Andy McDermott [6]
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Eddie replied with a shrug. ‘But first, let’s set another scumbag free and get Strutter, eh?’
Trying to mask his concern, Boodu continued down the passageway, Eddie behind him. More people were quickly released from other cells. Another series of explosions shook the old fort: the final mortar attack. If things were going to plan, the prison would now be in chaos, with communications and most of the defences smashed. The next phase – creating an escape route – should now be under way.
But while freeing Zimbabwean political prisoners would be a great humanitarian feat, it wasn’t why Eddie was there. Only one prisoner concerned him.
The man behind the steel door they had just reached.
Keeping Boodu at gunpoint, Eddie listened at the grille set into it, straining to make out anything over the clamour of alarm bells. That the opening was there at all spoke volumes. Torture chambers designed for the purpose of extracting information were generally soundproofed, the atrocities committed within witnessed only by the torturers and their victims. This, though, let everyone in the cells hear the screams. Another form of torture, more insidious, one that didn’t even require the abusers to lay a hand on their other victims.
Through the door, he heard muted gasping. Anything else was masked by the bells and his own less than perfect hearing, damaged by years of exposure to gunfire and explosions. ‘Open it,’ he muttered to Boodu.
The Zimbabwean glowered, but pushed the door open. ‘It’s Boodu,’ he announced.
There was no answer. Surprised, Boodu stepped cautiously into the chamber. Eddie followed a couple of steps behind. On the far side of the shadowed room he saw the man he had come to rescue: Johnny Strutter, an overweight Kenyan man in his forties. Strutter was shackled face-first against the wall, his bare back marked with savage weals and bleeding lines where he had been whipped. There was also a strong, sickly smell like scorched meat. Burn marks dotted across Strutter’s shoulders and upper back told Eddie that it wasn’t from a barbecue. A bench beside him was home to numerous instruments of torture, some of which had been demonstrated to – and upon – Eddie the previous day.
Their user was gone, however. The torturer had fled like a coward at the first sign of danger. Whips and hooks and soldering irons were no defence against bombs and bullets.
Eddie gestured at Strutter. ‘Get him down.’
At gunpoint, Boodu unlocked the shackles. The overweight man collapsed when the last one was released, moaning. ‘Into the corner,’ snapped Eddie, signalling for Boodu to back away as he checked the prisoner.
Strutter forced open his pain-clenched eyes. ‘Chase?’ he rasped in disbelief. ‘Eddie Chase! God above, it is you! I almost didn’t recognise you with the beard . . .’
‘Can you walk?’ Eddie demanded curtly.
Strutter flexed his legs and grimaced. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been through a lot since I was arrested, old friend. You’ll have to carry me.’
Eddie fixed him with a cold glare. ‘Let’s get this straight, Strutter. I’m not your “old friend”, and I’m not fucking carrying your fat arse anywhere. I want one thing out of you – information – and if you can’t move I’ll chain you back to that wall and carry on where the last guy left off to get it.’
Strutter hurriedly got up. ‘On the other hand, I could walk.’
‘Glad we’re on the same page.’ Eddie turned back to Boodu. ‘All right, dickhead, let’s go. Strutter, take this machete. If he tries anything, stab him.’
Strutter took the blade and eyed Boodu. ‘It would be a grand thing for the entire world if I just stabbed him anyway.’
‘I know, but I’ll get a few quid for handing him over.’
‘You are back in the mercenary business? I thought you left for good.’
‘It’s just temporary,’ Eddie said as he returned to the door. The only people he saw outside were prisoners, a few of whom had acquired weapons from the guards and were exchanging intermittent fire through a door to the courtyard. Fort Helena was still in turmoil.
But even with