6
Tingles of darknesstrickled across his periphery, his body prickling with the first stages of losing consciousness.
“Merc.”
He jerked his head up, banging it on the log. The tent blurred in his vision.
“Merc. Wake up.”
Merc blinked rapidly trying to bring his surroundings into focus, the sand and tent a blur of tan. A shadowy figure swam before his eyes.
“You’ve had worse than this. You gonna let a few little cuts stop you?” The voice floated to him, distorted at first but becoming clearer with every word.
“Who are you?” Merc asked, using his remaining strength to speak.
“Who the hell do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” Merc ground his teeth together, trying to bring his vision into focus. He could see a pair of legs encased in desert camo tucked into tan army-issued boots.
“I’m hurt, brother. We trained together since we left the ranch. We’ve been together since we were kids.” The voice taunted him. Teased him.
Merc tried to lift his head. He saw a narrow waist and tan, thick arms. A scar that cut through a thick blond beard. Straight white teeth stretched into a smile.
“Who are you?” Merc asked desperately. “Tell me.”
“You don’t remember me, my friend? I’ve left you alone too long.” The blond beard faded black, and Salaam’s pointy, scarred face sneered into focus.
His energy disappeared and Merc dropped his head, fighting to keep from groaning at the dream. He’d known that man. He felt their connection like a lost limb. Dammit, why couldn’t he remember?
“Ah, I see you do know who I am. Now, where were we? Tell me your name and your rank.”
The dream sapped his determination. What kind of man couldn’t even remember his past?
Merc heard the whistle of leather flying through air a second before his torso erupted in burning pain. He jerked, his body bowing back on instinct, but clamped his lips together. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurt.
“Name and rank.” Salaam flicked the razor-tipped flogger at his side, and Merc thought that must be what Satan looks like as he tortures his victims in hell.
“Elf number two-fifty-two,” Merc said and braced for the next blow.
Salaam didn’t disappoint. This one hit right on top of the last one. “Name and rank.”
Merc lifted his head slowly, careful not to slosh his brains around too much, and offered up a grin. “Easter Bunny. Rank number one, motherfucker.”
Salaam hissed in a breath, his temper starting to rise. “You like pain, my friend?”
“What can I say, I’m a bit of a masochist.” Merc tried to shrug but just ended up hanging his head.
Salaam swung, the flogger hit Merc’s chest, and a thousand razor points dug and ripped into his flesh. Merc bit the inside of his cheeks so hard he tasted blood.
“Name and rank.”
“You can call me Dr. Evil.”
Salaam screamed and brought the flogger around from the left, catching Merc in the side. He bowed sideways, the sharp pain stealing his breath. Salaam came back from the right. And the left. And the right.
Merc tensed, his body tight and immobilized with agony, he braced for the next, welcoming the pain. He could use the motivation, just like he had in his training, to fight. To win. Pain meant he was still alive. And if he was alive, he could escape. He just had to kill the bastard holding the whip.
Salaam’s harsh breaths filled the tent. Merc looked up in time to see him drop the flogger and go for the long knife at his belt. “You’ll talk. I’ll cut you until you do.”
