It was laughable to suggest JD would crack. This guy obviously hadn’t done his homework. Not in this lifetime or the next would either of us roll over.
When it was clear I wasn’t going to talk, the beatings resumed.
SMACK!
POW!
BAM!
Mr. Fist eventually tired of using me as a punching bag. That’s when the real fun began.
Someone yanked my head back, the bag squeezed tight around my face. My lungs sucked in a deep breath. I knew what was coming.
The cold water hit my face like a waterfall, soaking the fabric, flattening it against my skin. I kept my mouth shut and exhaled slowly through my nose to keep the water from flooding my sinus cavities. No stranger to underwater breath holds, I could go a long time without taking a breath. Longer than most. That would play in my favor.
But I soon ran out of breath to exhale.
The water poured into my sinuses, dripping down the back of my throat.
The key in situations like this was not to panic—to fight the involuntary urge to take a breath and suck in more water. It was a method of torture that didn't leave any scars. At least none that could be seen. But the mental trauma could take its toll. Hours and hours of this kind of thing, over the course of several days, could get to you.
The torrent of water seemed endless.
This was going to be a long, uncomfortable situation, with no end in sight. How long would this go on? Days, weeks, months? They’d get tired eventually and move on to something else. Wouldn’t they?
I worried about Buddy and Fluffy. Who would take care of the animals if I never made it home?
When the flood ended, I coughed and sucked in a breath.
My heart pounded. The water trickled down, soaking my shirt, spilling over my chest. Adrenaline flushed my veins, increasingmy need for oxygen. It was all about regulating your autonomic nervous system. Keep the demand for oxygen low. Focus, meditate, maintain composure. I didn't need oxygen. I didn't need to breathe. They would get tired before I would need to breathe. That's what I kept telling myself.
My lungs didn't quite believe it.
Before I had a chance to make up for lost oxygen, cold water hit my face again. That's the real kicker—when your lungs are on fire, screaming for air, and you want to take that big gasp, you’re met with a wall of water. And the worst part of it? You know that no one is coming to save you.
2
Ilost track of time.
It seemed like the waterboarding went on for hours. But that could have just been my perception of it. By the time they were done, my sinuses were inflamed, my throat scratchy from coughing, and my eyes puffy and swollen. Dizzy and disoriented with the wet bag still over my face, I sat in the chair, bound about the wrists and ankles, trying to settle myself as the world spun.
Footsteps shuffled out of the room, and the heavy steel door closed.
The loud heavy metal music blasted through speakers. It never stopped over the next few days, except when Good Cop asked me questions.
Questions that went unanswered.
Once a day, the bag was taken off my head, and I was given water and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on stale bread. It was just enough to keep you alive. If you could call this alive. Itfelt somewhere in between. Death seemed like a better option at times.
From the brief glances I got of the room, it had dingy concrete walls with no exterior source of lighting. Yellow work lamps on stands blasted 2,000 watts of halogen lighting on me at all times, day and night. I didn't get any real sleep—just half-ass losses of consciousness.
I figured JD and I were on the fast track to being disappeared. Soon, we’d be transferred out of Coconut Key to Gitmo or some similar site. A place where the rules didn't apply. As far as they were concerned, we were non-persons with no rights. We’d committed the ultimate sin. It was the ultimate hypocrisy.
The door unlocked and creaked as it opened. With the black bag still over my head, I didn't see who it was. But by the sound of the shoes, they were expensive loafers. The stride was confident. The scent of cologne hit my nostrils a few paces before the man reached me. "Take the bag off," he commanded, annoyed.
I squinted and blinked as the light hit my eyes. They were swollen, narrow slits after the beatings. I'm sure my face was all shades of the color wheel. My lip was fat and split. My whole body ached.
The man standing before me came into focus, still backlit by the lighting. He wore a navy suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a square face. In his mid-30s, he looked in reasonable shape for a pencil pusher. Definitely not a field operative.
