Hot Blood by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page A

he’d slept on a damp carpet. There, a dog had woken him by licking his hands. Then he was put into a rattling van, with what felt like crates piled round him, and driven for hours to a third location: a room with windows that had been covered with sheets of plywood. He’d been tied to a wooden chair and they had taken his watch, wallet, shoes and belt. The hood had been removed and he had been given cold boiled rice with a piece of barbecued fish.
    He’d asked who they were and what they wanted, but their only response was to slap him with gloved hands. After he’d eaten they had left the hood off but sealed his mouth with duct tape. His captors wore ski masks and said nothing to him. He stayed tied to the chair for a day and half a night, then the hood was put back on and he was hit from behind. He’d feigned unconsciousness but they’d hit him again and he’d passed out for real.
    When he woke up he was in the basement and everything had changed. He hadn’t been bound or gagged. He’d been given food, plenty of water and the paperback book. One of the rules of surviving a hostage situation was to befriend your captors so that they related to you as a human being, not just as a captive, but instead one of the men introduced himself to Mitchell. He said his name was Kamil and apologised for what had happened. He spoke reasonably good English and had a smile that Mitchell was sure would win him more than his fair share of female admirers. Nothing would happen to him, Kamil had promised. A number of hostages had been taken at different locations around the country, but they would all be released within a few weeks. He said he would make Mitchell’s stay as pleasant as possible under the circumstances. If Mitchell had any requests for reading matter, Kamil would do what he could to provide it. He was sorry about the poor quality of the food, he said, but assured Mitchell that his captors would eat the same provisions. Mitchell had asked for a beer and Kamil had laughed, then patted his shoulder. They were like two old friends chatting, but for the man in the doorway cradling an AK-47.
    Mitchell didn’t believe Kamil’s assurances. Few hostages were released in Iraq. Most ended up dead. Kamil never raised his voice, never threatened Mitchell, never questioned him. Mitchell knew why. They didn’t need anything from him: he was a pawn in whatever game they were playing.
    Kamil was the only one of his captors to reveal his face. The others wore ski masks when they were in the room. Mitchell reckoned there were six in addition to Kamil, perhaps seven. There had been five and Kamil in the basement when they had made the video. It had been on the morning of his second day there. They had fed him first: a paper plate of rice with some sort of lamb stew and a paper cup filled with chunks of pickled mango. Then Kamil had brought in a Panasonic video-camera on a tripod and placed it close to the wall on the right of the door. He’d pinned a sheet, on which was printed Arabic script, to the wall on the left. Then he had given Mitchell an orange jumpsuit and asked him to put it on. It had been a request and Mitchell had complied. He was sure that they intended to kill him at some point but there was nothing to be gained from confrontation. He would have to choose his moment to make a stand. Of one thing he was sure: when they came to kill him he would fight back.
    Kamil had asked Mitchell to kneel, then tied his wrists together. For a brief moment Mitchell thought he’d misjudged the situation and that they were about to kill him, but he held on to the thought that first they would want to show the world they had him. He had knelt on the hard concrete floor and stared into Kamil’s eyes, looking for any sign that his new-found friend had murder on his mind. Mitchell knew that with his hands tied behind his back his options were limited, but he could do a lot of damage with his feet.
    Kamil had thanked him, then gone to the