The sucker was really getting it. Thirty strikes with that thin springy cane, they said. Had to take the hell out of you, every stinging strike. Three sets of ten. It struck Hunt it had been more.
But what else could you expect? From these militia thugs? It was what they did. Pushed others around for a career. No questions asked, no accountability. They got off on this, these junta brutes.
Hunt had enough problems of his own, though. He’d been treated to the mother of all beatings himself. His guts battered, every gasp sucked in hurt like hell.
Repeatedly thwacked in the lower back .. kidneys on fire. Truth-be-told, that sucker was doing him a favour. Giving Hunt a breather when they’d turned on the stranger. Doing the sucker over.
The sucker didn’t deserve it. Some innocent bystander. Got caught up in the raid. Hunt had tried putting in a word for him. Probably not done him any favours. Hunt had caught the colonel’s look. Jumped straight to the wrong conclusion. Well, Hunt would say that, wouldn’t he? To protect some high-value asset. Someone the junta would want to know about.
“Got anything to say for yourself?”
A hand was gripping the stranger tight by the neck. Before the words penetrated his swimming brain, a blow smacked him in the ribs. A hard knee-kick cracking hard into his side.
The tight grip shook his head hard. The knee again slammed hard into his side. Nearly knocking the sucker off his feet. Hunt heard the wind snorted into the hood. An innocent bystander .. but with this lot, these junta thugs who got off on abuse .. this was all routine. Judicial beatings.
Hunt heard him gasped out loud .. sucking in airless air. He didn’t even know the poor guy’s name!
“What you got to say?”
Thwack! The knee kicked up again. Hard. Smack in the abs. Solid. Folding him up. Punching the wind out of the guy.
“Wrong answer, motherfucker.”
The follow-through pounded the knee with force into the sucker’s ribs.
Just now the thugs had swapped over. A fresh brute who majored in knee-kicks. Battering him in the ribs. Alternating with knee-thwacks below the belt. Shocked by every blow, unable to predict when it was going to fall. Did it matter anymore? They had the poor sucker reeling inside that hood. Couldn’t know whether he was coming or going. Blind. Not knowing where to twist away.
A body-crunching blinder into his ribs. The bag puffed out with the pained cry. The force knocked him flying. Lifting him to his toes. Falling, his legs failed to catch him. He slumped down. Sweating running down his front, he had to be steaming inside the hood. First whiplashed across his arse. Then dozens of blows into his abs. Strong. Impressively etched muscle. But only so much they were going to take. Hunt’s own guts knew too well.
Battered, hard, sustained. Pain had to be driving him out of his mind. Confusion had his mind in a sickening swirl. On top of sweating like crazy inside that airless hood.
“Give the fucker another ten.”
Poor bastard. They were really working on him. That springy plastic biting chunks out of his whiplashed arse! Given with everything the thug had. Had to be fuelled by the mother of sadistic hard-on’s.
He couldn’t take it, no one would. This last set .. every cane bursting in a sharp yell .. the poor sod had collapsed. The force had knocked his legs out from under him. Exhaustion trapped him there, hanging. Draped off his wrists from that bar. His torso arched backwards, legs out behind. And still these animals kept on going at the sucker’s arse.
Slashing that smarting cane downwards .. defenceless target .. burning arse. Perfect target for the junta thug. His shirt was dark with the sweat. Ten strokes? Thrashed down with bodyweight onto the sucker’s arse. Ten? Who was counting anymore? Who fucking-cared? Pain making the poor bastard jolt. Tortured, crying out. Ten? Double that, more like. Animals. Brutes.
Didn’t deserve this. Innocent. In the wrong place, wrong time. But when this military had taken over .. running every second of everyone’s life .. controlling everything .. now everyone and everything jumped to their tune. No accountability..
Well, bystander or terrorist .. innocent or not .. in a place like this, down in the cellars .. unseen, unheard, no questions asked .. shit happened.
Hunt could feel sorry for the sucker, he’d done nothing, nothing to deserve this. Nothing Hunt could do about it, though. No point bleating over spilled milk. THIS was why Hunt and his guys had been fighting back. And look where they’d finished up.
Hunt wasn’t going to work himself up into a sweat about the sucker. THAT wasn’t going to change things. Look at himself. Judicial torture, months of it. Public execution. Hunt had troubles enough of his own.