I was twenty-one, and she was nineteen.
Langley—the briefing room smelled of burnt coffee and ambition. I walked in and saw her standing among the new recruits, hair pulled tight, jaw set, trying so hard to look like she belonged.
She spotted me and her face lit up.
“Surprise, big brother!” she’d stage-whispered, throwing her arms around me.
Later, in the armory, she’d held up a flashbang like it was a toy. “When we grab Chapo, I’m gonna yank out one of his gold teeth and sell it on eBay. Limited edition terrorist memorabilia. Retirement fund secured.”
She laughed like we were heading to summer camp.
Amy never worried.
Not once.
Not until the end.
“Ruslan!” Chapo’s voice snapped like a whip. “Fucking listen when I speak.”
I lifted my head slowly.
Every tear was gone. Burned away.
“If you keep me alive,” I said, each word carved from ice and hatred, “I will be the end of you. I swear it on her blood.”
For the first time, Chapo’s smile faltered—just a fraction.
Then it returned, wider than before.
He laughed quietly.
It wasn’t loud or cruel. It was soft, almost amused, like a man indulging a child who didn’t yet understand the rules of the world.
“I don’t think so,” Al-Chapo said, shaking his head. “You mistake hatred for freedom. Hatred is a leash, too.”
He stepped closer again and placed two fingers against my chest—tap, tap—right over my heart. The gesture was almost paternal. Almost gentle. That made it worse.
“First,” he continued calmly, “I will break you. Strip you down until nothing remains but instinct. Until your loyalty belongs to me alone—like a dog that answers only its master’s voice.”
His eyes gleamed with anticipation, not anger. Craftsmanship. Pride.
“Then,” he said, lowering his voice, “I will rebuild you into a legend.”
He turned away from me as if the decision had already been made, as if my fate were no longer worth his direct attention. He addressed his men without raising his voice.
“Every morning,” he said, precise and methodical, “twenty lashes with the electrified cane. Full charge. I want him conscious for every one.”
A guard shifted his weight, already picturing it.
“One loaf of stale bread at dawn. No water until noon. Two small bowls of cold beans at dusk—if he finishes his labor.”
He began to pace slowly as he spoke, enumerating my future like items on a ledger.
“Strip him naked and march him through the back gardens daily. Let the others see him. Let him labor beside the hostages on the cathedral construction—breaking rocks, mixing concrete, hauling stone. Twelve hours minimum. More if he collapses.”
My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might shatter.
“At night,” Chapo went on, “chain him outside on the gravel pit. No blanket. No mattress. Only stones beneath him so sleep never comes easily.”
