An even smaller fish than I expected, then. I’m disappointed, but not surprised.

“What about this one?” I ask, walking to the other man in a chair. He appears a bit older, closer to thirty, his thin face clean-shaven. Like Ahmed, he’s been roughed up a bit, but there is no fury in his gaze as he looks at me. There is only icy hatred.

“John, also known as Yusuf. Born in America to Palestinian immigrants, recruited by Al-Quadar five years ago. That’s all I got out of that one thus far,” Peter says, pointing at the man hanging on the hook. “John himself hasn’t talked to me yet.”

“Of course.” I stare at John, inwardly pleased by this development. If he’s trained to withstand a significant amount of pain and torture, then he’s at least a mid-level operative. If we manage to crack him, I’m certain we’ll be able to get some valuable insights.

“And this one is Abdul.” Peter gestures toward the hanging man. “He’s Ahmed’s cousin. Supposedly, he joined Al-Quadar last week.”

Last week? If that’s true, the man is all but useless. Frowning, I walk up to him to take a closer look. At my approach, he tenses, and I see that his face is one massive, swollen bruise. He also reeks of urine. As I pause in front of him, he begins to babble in Arabic, his voice filled with fear and desperation.

“He says he told us all he knows.” Peter comes to stand next to me. “Claims he only joined his cousin because they promised to give his family two goats. Swears he’s not a terrorist, never wanted to hurt anyone in his life, has nothing against America, et cetera, et cetera.”

I nod, having gathered that much myself. I don’t speak Arabic, but I understand some of it. A cold smile stretches my lips as I take a Swiss army knife out of my back pocket and pull out a small blade. At the sight of the knife, Abdul yanks frantically at the ropes holding him up, and his pleas grow in volume. He’s clearly as green as they come—which makes me inclined to believe that he’s telling the truth about not knowing anything.

It doesn’t matter, though. All I need from him is information, and if he can’t provide it, he’s a dead man. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else?” I ask him, slowly twirling the knife between my fingers. “Perhaps something you might’ve seen, heard, come across? Any names, faces, anything of that sort?”

Peter translates my question, and Abdul shakes his head, tears and snot running down his battered, bloodied face. He babbles some more, something about knowing only John, Ahmed, and the men who were killed during their capture yesterday. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ahmed glaring at him, no doubt wishing that his cousin would keep his mouth shut, but John doesn’t seem alarmed by Abdul’s verbal diarrhea. John’s lack of concern only confirms what my instincts are telling me: that Abdul is telling the truth about not knowing anything else.