Read Online Brain Storm by Richard Sapir, Warren Murphy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Sapir, Warren Murphy
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Thrillers, Men's Adventure, Chiun (Fictitious Character), Remo (Fictitious Character)
Ads: Link
precise dignity that hinted of the man he would grow to be.
"You are quite resistant, Smith," Menk said with more than a hint of approval in his voice. "One wonders why a man of your caliber would waste your time and, yes, your life, on these worthless, lost souls. The French." Menk spit on the cold granite floor as if he had just spoken a curse. "Dogs to a man. Europe will fall as easily. And a new order will be established that will allow mankind to achieve a greatness that you cannot possibly understand."
"You are insane," Smith said softly. For the first time in nearly a week, he spoke in English.
Menk grinned broadly. "A pragmatic man," he said. "I am liking you more and more every day, Herr Smith."
"My incarceration and treatment are in clear violation of the Geneva convention," Smith said.
Menk smiled. He waved his hand around the room.
"There is no Geneva convention within the confines of these four walls," he said, laughing. 4'Have you not yet learned that?"
Smith said nothing. He was obviously in the hands of a lunatic.
The war in Europe was nearly over. Russian and U.S. troops were closing in even as Menk preened and threatened. The "glorious" Nazi Third Reich was at an end. Why did Captain Menk not seem to see that his brand of fascism was in its death throes?
Menk regarded Smith's silence with a curious tip of his head.
At last he crossed to his desk. Primly taking his seat, he called out an order on his office phone.
Seconds later the door opened, and a hulking man—whose broad shoulders nearly caught in the heavy oaken frame—entered the room.
Smith recognized the man. He was slightly over-weight and, despite the coolness of the stone building, perspired profusely. He walked with a limp, probably from an injury in an earlier battle, which would explain why he was not off fighting now.
Smith knew him only as Ernst. Menk's torturer.
Beneath his giant bicep, Ernst carried a tattered suitcase. The huge man set the package down on a wooden stool near Smith. Inwardly Smith cringed at the sight of the large valise. He knew what would come next.
As Ernst proceeded to pull a variety of gruesome and clumsy steel implements from the interior of the bag, Menk lazily pulled off his gloves. He examined his fingernails.
Beads of sweat formed on Smith's forehead. He had to bite down on his thin upper lip to keep it from quivering. Then Ernst seemed to find what he was looking for. In the wan light of the tiny room, he held up a metal rod much like a tire iron. At the end of the device, tiny metal prongs reflected the room's dull light.
Ernst would not be subtle today. With his clumsy fingers, he found the old bullet hole—the one that had been inflicted when Smith was first captured on this small island near the Peenemunde Army Experiment Station. They had given it some time to heal.
But not too much time.
Ernst jammed the small end of the metal device into the scabbing wound. Smith knew it was coming, had braced himself for the incredible, searing pain.
He grunted as the device was inserted. But he did not cry out. The sweat on his brow grew thicker. It was prickly and hot. The rivulets of perspiration that ran down his back were chilling. Smith felt the gooseflesh rise on his skin.
A mantra ran through his mind, the only help he had. Do not scream. Do not allow these madmen the satisfaction.
Ernst didn't seem disappointed. As Smith writhed on his ropes, the German gave the metal rod a full, harsh twist.
It was pain beyond pain. The metal spikes bit through the dead flesh. Living tissue tore away as the brutal man spun the metal rod in the other direction.
The circuit completed, he jammed the rod farther into the newly bleeding wound.
Smith succumbed to the agony.
As the American OSS agent screamed in anguish, Captain Josef Menk noticed that one of the ball bearings stitched into the back of his gloves had become exposed. He could see the shiny silver orb peeking out between the splitting seams
"You are quite resistant, Smith," Menk said with more than a hint of approval in his voice. "One wonders why a man of your caliber would waste your time and, yes, your life, on these worthless, lost souls. The French." Menk spit on the cold granite floor as if he had just spoken a curse. "Dogs to a man. Europe will fall as easily. And a new order will be established that will allow mankind to achieve a greatness that you cannot possibly understand."
"You are insane," Smith said softly. For the first time in nearly a week, he spoke in English.
Menk grinned broadly. "A pragmatic man," he said. "I am liking you more and more every day, Herr Smith."
"My incarceration and treatment are in clear violation of the Geneva convention," Smith said.
Menk smiled. He waved his hand around the room.
"There is no Geneva convention within the confines of these four walls," he said, laughing. 4'Have you not yet learned that?"
Smith said nothing. He was obviously in the hands of a lunatic.
The war in Europe was nearly over. Russian and U.S. troops were closing in even as Menk preened and threatened. The "glorious" Nazi Third Reich was at an end. Why did Captain Menk not seem to see that his brand of fascism was in its death throes?
Menk regarded Smith's silence with a curious tip of his head.
At last he crossed to his desk. Primly taking his seat, he called out an order on his office phone.
Seconds later the door opened, and a hulking man—whose broad shoulders nearly caught in the heavy oaken frame—entered the room.
Smith recognized the man. He was slightly over-weight and, despite the coolness of the stone building, perspired profusely. He walked with a limp, probably from an injury in an earlier battle, which would explain why he was not off fighting now.
Smith knew him only as Ernst. Menk's torturer.
Beneath his giant bicep, Ernst carried a tattered suitcase. The huge man set the package down on a wooden stool near Smith. Inwardly Smith cringed at the sight of the large valise. He knew what would come next.
As Ernst proceeded to pull a variety of gruesome and clumsy steel implements from the interior of the bag, Menk lazily pulled off his gloves. He examined his fingernails.
Beads of sweat formed on Smith's forehead. He had to bite down on his thin upper lip to keep it from quivering. Then Ernst seemed to find what he was looking for. In the wan light of the tiny room, he held up a metal rod much like a tire iron. At the end of the device, tiny metal prongs reflected the room's dull light.
Ernst would not be subtle today. With his clumsy fingers, he found the old bullet hole—the one that had been inflicted when Smith was first captured on this small island near the Peenemunde Army Experiment Station. They had given it some time to heal.
But not too much time.
Ernst jammed the small end of the metal device into the scabbing wound. Smith knew it was coming, had braced himself for the incredible, searing pain.
He grunted as the device was inserted. But he did not cry out. The sweat on his brow grew thicker. It was prickly and hot. The rivulets of perspiration that ran down his back were chilling. Smith felt the gooseflesh rise on his skin.
A mantra ran through his mind, the only help he had. Do not scream. Do not allow these madmen the satisfaction.
Ernst didn't seem disappointed. As Smith writhed on his ropes, the German gave the metal rod a full, harsh twist.
It was pain beyond pain. The metal spikes bit through the dead flesh. Living tissue tore away as the brutal man spun the metal rod in the other direction.
The circuit completed, he jammed the rod farther into the newly bleeding wound.
Smith succumbed to the agony.
As the American OSS agent screamed in anguish, Captain Josef Menk noticed that one of the ball bearings stitched into the back of his gloves had become exposed. He could see the shiny silver orb peeking out between the splitting seams
Similar Books
