Текст книги "Operation Barracuda (2005)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

A man wearing civilian clothes walks into the pen from the front door. Before I have a chance to get a good look at him, he turns to Zdrok and his crew, has a word with them, and then moves onto the ramp by the sub. When he looks up at the ceiling, I feel my heart skip a beat. I now have the answers to a lot of questions. I now know how the enemy has been able to track my movements in Hong Kong, in L.A., and here. I now know how the Shop knew where I'd be and when.

Mason Hendricks, alive and well, shouts, "Fisher, you had better come down like a good boy. Otherwise they're going to shoot you down."

34

Asoldier brings in another searchlight and aims it on the trap in the ceiling, so I won't be going out that way. To put it bluntly, I'm trapped. Sooner or later one of those light beams is going to catch a part of my leg or shoulder and it'll be all over. The only thing I can do is to make it more difficult for them to see me.

But I have to risk moving to reach into my trouser pocket and retrieve three smoke grenades. The eye is most attracted by motion, so I inch my hand along my side as slowly as possible. I finally reach the pocket and unsnap the flap but I forgot that I placed my corner periscope in there, loose. The damned thing slides out and gravity does the rest. I watch in horror as the device falls to the platform, hitting it with a ding.

"There!" Hendricks shouts, pointing at me.

The soldiers aim their assault rifles as I reach into the pocket and grasp a grenade. I pull the pin and let it drop. The boomis louder than it is damaging, but the dark cloud of smoke it produces is what I really want. I quickly grab another one, pull the pin, and let it fall. Then the gunfire begins. The bullets spray the ceiling around me but I'm now able to scoot along the rafter beam out of harm's way. I don't move toward the trap door because they'll be expecting that. Instead I go the opposite way with no clue as to how I'm going to get out of there. The gunfire continues to spread in all directions–they're leaving no room for doubt.

There's one other option. I reach into my backpack and grab my only wall mine. It takes me five seconds to activate it and another five to attach it to the ceiling. I set it to explode in ten seconds, which better be enough time for me to scoot along the beam far enough out of the way!

The men below are still blinded by the smoke and are wildly shooting their guns. The wall mine is a gamble I have to take. I'm counting on it to blow a hole big enough for me to get through and at the same time provide even more smoke to cover my escape.

I move to the far end of the beam I'm on and cover my head as bullets rattle the ceiling around me.

KA-BOOM!

The building shakes with unexpected roughness, causing the beam I'm sitting on to jerk precariously and come loose! I hug the girder, feeling it sway with my body weight. I can't see a damned thing–smoke has filled the place and I have no idea if I'm falling or hanging by a couple of steel bolts. After a moment my equilibrium calms down and I perceive the beam isn't dropping, it's just dangerously close to doing so. I flip down my goggles and turn on the night vision, which sometimes helps to see through smoke screens. It outlines some objects and I can now plainly see the big hole in the ceiling that's at least six feet in diameter. The smoke will ventilate quickly so I'd better get moving.

The girder I'm hugging is still attached to the ceiling behind me by a few bolts. The end in front of me is hanging out into space above the slip. I have to inch my butt in reverse, move up the beam to the ceiling, and then grab hold of another girder to do a hand-over-hand in order to reach the hole. If I move too quickly, the girder I'm on will surely come loose. And of course the soldiers below are still firing their weapons into the air, creating a random hazard no matter what direction I go.

Ain't this the life?

When I'm about five feet from the ceiling, I hear the bolts begin to give way. There's a horrible wrenching sound behind me as I feel the beam jerk and drop a few inches. I can't risk sitting on it any longer, so I focus on the stationary beam above my head and try to propel myself those five feet from a sitting position. This is where that Krav Maga training comes in handy. By using the muscles in my thighs and performing a painful stretch between my waist and arms, I'm able to elongate–that's the best way I can put it–and give a little push-off at the same time. As soon as I do, the girder breaks loose and falls. For a split second I'm weightless in the air and then I feel my hands around the ceiling beam. I clutch it tightly, catch my breath, and then begin the hand-over-hand trip, twenty feet to the hole.

I don't look down but I can hear the men shouting to each other. The girder must have fallen on a few of them. It seems like an eternity before I reach the hole and the smoke clears quickly while I'm in transit. Sure enough, just as I reach the hole I hear Hendricks shout, "There he is! Shoot him!" The bullets fly but I'm already climbing through the opening and crawling onto the roof. I roll my body toward the edge of the building as the rounds perforate the steel, inches behind my trail.

As soon as I figure it's safe to do so, I stand and run to the rung ladder on the side of the building. Three guys are in the process of ascending it. I draw the Five-seveN and shoot the first man. He falls, knocking off the two behind him. The ground is crawling with soldiers and they're surrounding the building. For the second time in the last ten minutes I'm trapped, so I reach into the backpack to check my stock of smoke grenades. Damn, only two left. I do have a couple of chemical flares, though. And something else that might be useful.

I swing the SC-20K from off my back and load it with a diversion camera. Timing is crucial. In situations like this I wish I had four more hands. First I run to an edge of the building where there are fewer soldiers below. It happens to be the north side, in between submarine pens one and two. If I can get to the ground, at least I'll have a chanceto shoot my way out of the base. I lay the two chemical flares and the smoke grenades in front of me, then prepare two diversion cameras–one loaded on the SC-20K and the other at hand, ready to load.

Next, I take a chemical flare, break the seal, point it laterally from the pen's roof, and shoot it over the soldiers' heads. It bursts beautifully, spreading flame and sparks over the area. It won't hurt them but hopefully it will cause confusion. A smoke grenade is next–I pull the pin and toss it below me. It explodes and covers the ground with thick darkness. Flare number two is next and this time I aim it laterally in the opposite direction from the first one. It, too, explodes neatly and serves to disorient the men. I then drop my last smoke grenade, allowing it to detonate in the space between pens.

Finally, I launch a diversion camera, aiming the SC– 20K at the side of sub pen one that's nearest to the coast. As soon as the camera sticks it begins to broadcast the sounds of single-shot gunfire. I then quickly load the second diversion camera and fire it over the soldiers' heads, sticking it onto the side of a military jeep about thirty yards west of sub pen two. For a gag I set it to play–very loudly–a marching band's rendition of "Stars and Stripes Forever."

Total chaos on the ground. The Chinese soldiers don't know what the fuck is going on. They think someone's shooting at them from the beach side of the pens and a fifty-piece band has suddenly appeared on the other side. The flares continue to burn brightly over their heads, illuminating the smoke as if it were part of a psychedelic concert stage show.

I take the opportunity to leap off the roof. Because of the smoke, it's difficult to determine exactly where the ground is. I've made jumps like this before and know how to fall and roll to avoid hurting myself–but that's usually when I can see where I'm going to end up. My night vision goggles don't help much in this particular instance, either.

Hell, there's no use fretting about it. I take a stance and jump.

I hit the ground sooner than I expect and feel a tremendous pain in my right ankle. I try to compensate and roll but the damage is already done. I plummet to the earth like a lead weight. Just when I expect a dozen soldiers to attack me, nothing happens. The soldiers are still running around blindly, wondering where the heck I am. I manage to stand, wince in pain, and limp away. Damned ankle. I'm sure I didn't break it but I know it's sprained. As I move along, the pain diminishes. It can't be too bad. Down on the ground the night vision works a bit better and I'm able to navigate around the buildings. I pass the first sub pen and head for the north side of the camp. Behind me I still hear shouts and gunfire but by now the smoke is clearing.

The noise wakes up the rest of the men. I can see soldiers stick their heads out the barracks doors and windows. With my limp it probably looks as if I'm a crazy man skipping across the base. One guy sees me but he's too sleepy to figure out I'm the enemy.

It's a miracle that I make it to the fence. I hit the ground, crawl to the section that I cut earlier, and then slide through. By golly, I'm nearly home free. If I can just get clear of the base, hide somewhere in the dark, and avoid being found, I just might get out of this alive. I cross the road and move beyond the illumination of the base lights. The main highway to Fuzhou is up ahead. I'll probably have to avoid that for now and find a ditch or something and hole up inside it.

But now I can hear their vehicles revving up as they broaden the search. Changing direction and favoring my bad ankle, I jog parallel to the highway but stay in the shadows. It isn't long before they pull onto the road and begin to patrol at slow speeds. Obviously, they know I'm not too far away. When one of the jeeps suddenly stops and turns its searchlights in my direction, I drop to the ground. The beams cross over my prone body and then remain stationary. I hear the vehicle doors open and close. Uh-oh.

"Sam!" Lambert says. "You're surrounded! Get out of there!"

Movement headed my way. Soldiers.

I grab my SC-20K, make sure it's set for spray fire, and get ready to blast my way out of there. I remain still, wait for the right moment, and then release a volley of fire in the direction of the noises. I hit a group of men just as a searchlight finds and totally illuminates me. The soldiers fire at me as if there's no tomorrow, forcing me to hit the ground again. By then, I'm completely covered. It's no use. A dozen rifle barrels are aimed at my head.

I have no choice but to drop my weapon and raise my arms.

35

THEYtake me in a jeep back inside the compound. My backpack, SC-20K, Five-seveN, headset, and OPSAT are confiscated. They also empty all the pockets on my uniform and remove my boots. Two guns held to my head keep me compliant. During the short ride back to the base I hear Lambert's voice in my ears: "Sam? What's happened? Are you all right? Out satellite tracker's lost you."

In order to answer him, I feign a cough. In doing so I bring my right hand to my throat, press my implant, and say, "Throat hurts." The Chinese guards nudge me with the gun barrels– Put down your hand. I nod, smile, and do as they ask. Back in Washington, Lambert will know I've been taken prisoner. When the implants were first integrated into a Splinter Cell's standard equipment, a series of code words were created that could mean a variety of things. Hypothetical scenarios were constructed to which we matched these codes. As long as we're able to press the throat implant and speak, we can communicate with Third Echelon. The best way to do that in the company of the enemy is with something natural, such as a sneeze or cough–thus, my message to him told Lambert everything he needs to know.

As soon as we're back at the submarine pens, though, a soldier ties my hands behind my back with a strong nylon cord. Hopefully Lambert will begin to take steps to try to get me out–unless I've been Protocol Sixed. There's always that possibility. The rules of this dangerous game state that if the enemy captures us, then we don't exist. I've never been in such a situation before so I don't know how serious Lambert will be about it. I know of one Splinter Cell who was Protocol Sixed after being arrested for spying in North Korea. If there are other cases, I'm not privy to them. I suppose I'll just have to assume I'm on my own from here on out. To hope for something as rash as a rescue would be foolish.

I'm marched into a temporary building not far from the command post. Made of steel, aluminum, and some concrete and wood, it appears to be an all-purpose facility with offices and supply rooms. I'm taken into an approximately ten-foot-by-ten-foot cell containing a bunk built into the wall, and thrown to the floor. The soldiers leave, slam the door shut and lock it, and I'm alone.

I pick myself up and attempt to stand. My ankle still throbs with pain but I can live with it. Then I sit on the bunk and attempt to empty my mind of anything that could hamper my resistance to torture. Who knows what they'll do to me? Most likely they'll just execute me and get it over with but one never knows. Perhaps they'll use some exquisite Chinese "persuasion" to get me to reveal NSA secrets, not that there's anything for me to tell. I really don't know much classified stuff that might be damaging to our government. Third Echelon keeps it that way. At best I could give them details on how Third Echelon is structured and I doubt they'll even get that from me. I plan on saying absolutely nothing, no matter what they do to me.

Roughly twenty minutes go by before the door opens again. Mason Hendricks and Andrei Zdrok enter the room and shut the door behind them.

"I see you've made yourself at home," Hendricks says. "Sorry. We didn't mean to keep you waiting."

"Screw you, Mason," I say.

Hendricks chuckles and looks at Zdrok. "Fisher's a man with a big vocabulary." Zdrok smiles but looks at me coldly. "Oh, do you know Andrei? Andrei Zdrok, Sam Fisher."

"We bumped shoulders once but we've never been formally introduced," I answer. "Forgive me for not shaking hands."

"I think we should kill him now," Zdrok says. "He's too dangerous."

"Wait, my friend, wait. Don't you want to see him suffer? After all the harm he's caused our organization?" Hendricks asks. Zdrok doesn't answer but I can see he's chomping at the bit to get at me.

Hendricks leans against the wall and says, "Fisher, I suppose you want some answers."

"I don't give a shit, Mason," I say. "You're a traitor and a scumbag. That's all the answers I need."

Hendricks frowns and continues, "Come on, Fisher. You know as well as I do that the United States is heading in unfathomable directions. America's foreign policy has gone berserk. I simply shifted my allegiance. I don't live in the United States, Fisher. I've lived in the Far East for half my life. It's time I stop kidding myself and do what's in my heart."

"And that's to join a black market arms-dealing operation that supplies terrorists?"

"Fisher, I've been a Shop supporter for years. Long before you'd even heard of them. In fact, Andrei here refers to me as 'the Benefactor.' It's because over the years I've provided the Shop with a great deal of intelligence with regard to recruiting customers."

"You mean you've given away government secrets. You've compromised our own intelligence agencies."

"Perhaps," Hendricks says.

"So, Mason, now I know how the Lucky Dragons and the Shop have always managed to stay a step ahead of me, no matter where I went," I say. "You had access to Third Echelon's movements. Lambert told me as much. He trusted you. So you knew where I was at all times. Even in Los Angeles. Your hit man Putnik knew exactly where I'd be."

"That's right, Fisher. Of course, we don't talk to the Lucky Dragons anymore. We've had something of a falling out."

"So I hear."

"Now Andrei and I are going into business together. I'm leaving Hong Kong. Since he's lost two of his partners– thanks to you–I'll be joining him in the Shop. With my connections worldwide, it will be a wise investment. If I could trust you, I'd offer you a job within the organization. We could use a man like you."

"Go to hell, Mason."

"I figured that's how you'd answer so I didn't bother to ask."

"So what happened at your place in Hong Kong? Who did you burn up in your place?"

Hendricks shakes his head and says, "Tsk, tsk, tsk. It's shame that Yoshiko had to die. I was rather fond of her but she was conveniently in the right place at the right time. She worked at the Purple Queen, you know. As for the male corpse, he was someone the Shop provided to me. Some Caucasian they'd kidnapped from the street, cleaned up, and dressed in my pajamas. I had to make the Lucky Dragons, as well as Third Echelon, think I was dead, you see. You understand."

"Oh, of course. Very well done."

"Thank you. Now the problem is that I'll have to change my name and appearance and settle my old estate through a third party, which is such a bore. Oh, well, it had to be."

"And now you're free to help a mad Chinese general attack a defenseless country and extort the United States into not interfering. You're an enterprising guy, Mason."

"Oh, you've figured out our scheme, have you? Do you know what we're extorting the United States with, as you so delicately put it?"

"You've got a Russian warhead and you're putting it in one of the MRUUVs that the submarine headed for America is carrying."

"I'm impressed, Fisher. Two hours ago you didn't know that."

"And I've already transmitted the plan to Third Echelon. You'll never get away with it."

Hendricks's eyes flared. "You're lying, Fisher. You haven't told Third Echelon squat. The last communication you had with them was around the time you were caught and you didn't say anything about it. I think you just figured it out and haven't had the time to make a report. I monitor all of Third Echelon's communications, Fisher. How else would I have been on top of you every step of the way?"

He's right. I believe him. He had full access to our satellite feeds and could plug into my implant conversations.

Hendricks removes something from his coat pocket. He discreetly hands it to Zdrok, who grins for the first time since he entered the room.

"Andrei here has something for you. He wants you to know how much he appreciates everything you've done for him and the Shop."

Zdrok holds a pair of brass knuckles. He makes a big show out of slipping them on his right hand, over black leather gloves. While he does this, Hendricks motions for me to stand. I have no choice so I do so. He then moves behind me and tightly wraps his arms around my chest, preventing me from going anywhere.

"Don't try any of your Krav Maga moves, Fisher," Hendricks says. "I'm quite proficient in self-defense myself." I know he speaks the truth.

"Mr. Fisher," Zdrok says as he approaches me, "you have seriously damaged my company over the last year. It gives me great pleasure to hurt you in this way."

With that, he carefully lifts his fist, aims at my stomach, and lets me have it with as much force as he can muster. When the brass knuckles connect to my solar plexus it feels as if my entire abdomen has exploded. The pain is worse than anything I've ever known and I'm overcome by a wave of nausea and blackness. I vaguely remember falling to the steel floor like a sack of rice.

DAYSgo by. I know that because the guards bring me a plate of soggy lukewarm rice every twelve hours or so. Mealtime is an extremely pleasant experience, seeing as how my hands are still tied behind me. I get to lap the rice off a plate on the floor as if I'm a dog. And twice a day they come and escort me to the head. If I don't have to go when it's time, then tough luck. If I have to go when they're not around to take me, then tough luck. But I'm happy to say I haven't made a mess of myself yet. For the most part, though, they've kept me in this stupid cell for nearly a week. I'm very much alone.

And my stomach hurts like hell. A horrendously ugly bruise covers my solar plexus and I fear there may be internal damage. For the first day or so there was blood in my urine and stool but that seems to have subsided. Nevertheless, the area of my body between my rib cage and hip bones is in constant pain and is incredibly tender to the touch. Those cracked ribs I sustained in Los Angeles don't help either. Zdrok's brass knuckles really did a number on me. I hope I don't have a ruptured spleen or something like that, but then again I'd probably be much sicker than I am if that were the case. I'm no doctor. If any of those internal organs were indeed busted up, wouldn't I be dying? I suppose I should be thankful I'm not worse off than I am.

What the hell are they keeping me alive for? Every time one of the goons comes in with food or to take me to the head, I ask for Hendricks or somebody. The Chinese guards ignore me and just do their jobs. What's the point of keeping me here for days? I don't get it. They don't provide any medical attention for my stomach, they keep me in isolation, and yet they feed me.

I haven't heard a peep from Third Echelon. Perhaps they really have Protocol Sixed me. I would have thought that Lambert or Coen or someonewould have spoken through my implants and told me something. Instead it's been completely dead. The radio station is completely off the air.

There have been times when I've heard activity outside–shouts from soldiers, vehicles moving, even airplanes flying overhead. Yesterday it sounded as if the entire company was moving out of the base. It's been deadly quiet since then.

Then, out of the blue, the door opens and in walks Mason Hendricks, accompanied by Yvan Putnik, who is carrying a gym bag. I'm sitting on my bunk and don't make any effort to move. Hendricks greets me and doesn't bother to introduce his pal.

"How are you feeling, Fisher?" he asks.

I just glare at him.

He snorts. "That good? You look awful, too." He jabs me in the stomach and I wince. "That's a nasty bruise you've got there."

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing, really. Thought you might like some company after all this time. Perhaps you'd like some news of the outside world?"

I wait for him to go on but I try not to appear eager.

"A skeleton crew is here on the base. General Tun and the rest of his men are on a frigate off the coast of Taiwan. The attack is imminent." He looks at his watch. "I'd say it's going to begin in about an hour. They'll start with an air bombardment and then a sea assault."

I sigh but it comes out as a groan.

"Yes, I know, Fisher. Sounds pretty bad. And you know what? Our country is not going to do anything to stop them. Oh, we talked tough for the last several days, and I believe our president is in seclusion with the Chinese president right this minute. You see, General Tun told the United Nations this morning that the United States would be the target of his 'secret weapon' if we lift a finger to help Taiwan. China is claiming no responsibility but they're not raising any hands to stop him."

Hendricks begins to pace back and forth as he speaks. Putnik stands there solemnly, his spooky gaze fixed on me. He really does look like Rasputin.

"The Chinese submarine Maoreached the coastal waters of Los Angeles earlier today. Three MRUUVs were launched from the torpedo tubes. Two decoys and one armed with the warhead. Before the U.S. Navy could pinpoint the sub's location, the Maohad moved back into international waters. The bomb can be detonated manually from a control panel located on the submarine or here in the command post. Andrei Zdrok, Oskar Herzog, and I will have the pleasure of watching the drama unfold. We were going to leave last week but General Tun made us an inviting offer. You see, we had no place to go, so the good general offered us safe haven here on the base at least until after all this has blown over. He's going to help us relocate the Shop headquarters and he'll probably take over the position once held by General Prokofiev in Moscow."

"What about me?" I ask.

"Oh, what about you? You're wondering why we've kept you alive all this time. You can thank General Tun for that. As soon as he saw that a National Security Agency Splinter Cell had been arrested and was in his custody, the general left strict orders to keep you alive–for a while. I think he wanted to figure out what he wanted to do with you. Perhaps you could be some kind of bargaining chip in the talks with the U.S. I'm not really sure. I said it was a dumb move but he wouldn't listen to me. At any rate, all that doesn't matter now. We got word just a little while ago that the general no longer has any interest in you. With talks deteriorating between China and the U.S., with the attack on Taiwan imminent and Los Angeles about to be destroyed if the Americans defend the Taiwanese–he finally figured you're just useless to him. So Yvan here has volunteered to make you go away. Permanently."

Putnik grins at me. So this is it. They've kept me here like an animal and now it's time for the slaughter. Fine. Get it over with.

"Oh, Yvan doesn't speak English. But he wanted me to tell you he's going to take his time. He's interested in seeing how much pain a tough Splinter Cell like you can take. It's for his personal research, you see. I told him you'd be happy to contribute statistics to his work. I'll leave you two alone now. Goodbye, Fisher."

Hendricks raps on the door and a guard unlocks it. It slams shut behind him and I'm left alone with my executioner. Damn, I wish I had the use of my hands. I could take this guy, I know I could. Just give me a fair fight. Please.

Putnik slowly removes his jacket. Underneath he's wearing a T-shirt. He opens his gym bag and removes a roll of tape, the kind boxers wrap around their fists before stuffing them inside their gloves. I watch as he methodically covers his hands and every now and then punches the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. He then takes out a couple of knives. One is long and slender, like a stiletto. The other is clearly a Rambo knife the size of an American bowie. He places these on the floor next to the bag. Then he looks at me, smiles, and nods his head. He's ready.

I waste no time. I leap from the bunk and ram my head into his stomach, throwing him against the wall with a loud clang. Not stopping there, I kick him repeatedly until he manages to grab my bare foot and twist it sharply. It happens to be the ankle I sprained a week ago and the pain surges back. I can't help yelling as I fall to the floor.

Putnik stands and is no longer smiling. He moves forward and delivers a fast kick to my weakened, sore stomach. The pain is immense and it effectively paralyzes me for several seconds. Putnik walks around me, obviously intending to draw out the punishment as promised. But just as he's standing directly behind me, I recover enough to roll over onto my back and jab my feet into his crotch. The man cries out and twists away, holding onto his groin as if I'd set it on fire. I grin in satisfaction as I pull myself up and face him, ready to attempt a side kick to his chest. But he's ready for me; Putnik lashes out, growling like a wild animal. His eyes widen with madness, drawing further comparisons to old photos of Rasputin. The assassin leaps at me with the speed of a tiger and we both fall to the floor. His hands are around my neck as I try to buck him off. With my own hands tied, all I can do is jerk my upper body like a fish out of water and hope for the best.

Then, as if storm clouds suddenly decided to open and release a torrential rain, the high-pitched whine of an incoming missile fills the air. This is followed by an explosion that rocks the building so hard that Putnik falls over.

For a moment the two of us remain frozen. Then we hear gunfire outside. Shouts and screams. Then more gunfire. Putnik stands and raps on the door. No one comes to open it and he looks worried.

Another incoming shriek is even louder than the first. This time the temporary building we're in is hit dead-on. It's like being in the center of a vacuum–it feels as if the very air around you is imploding and your physical surroundings have ceased to be solid. I experience the sensation of falling but there's nowhere to descend. All I know is the world around me no longer exists and smoke and flames have replaced it.

36

DAZED, I kick rubble off of me and attempt to assess the damage. The smells of gunpowder and burning metal are the first things I'm aware of. Then I see the blue sky and white clouds above me and realize the building I was in has been blown to bits. I'm covered in ash, pieces of steel and aluminum, and chips of concrete, but my body appears to be unharmed, I think. But my hands are still tied, damn it.

There's more gunfire all around me. I see Chinese men running, shooting at soldiers. These men are not dressed in uniforms but rather in clothing you'd expect guerilla fighters to wear. Their heads are wrapped with red scarves.

Civilians! Civilians have attacked the base!

I roll over and brush against a jagged edge of metal that cuts into my arm. After cursing for a moment, I get an idea. I position myself in front of the sharp edge so that it rests against my wrists. As carefully as I can, I rub my wrists up and down against the serrated metal and allow it to dig into the cords that have bound my hands for a week. I manage to slice my skin a bit while doing so but I'm willing to withstand a few seconds of discomfort to be free. A minute later and the cord snaps loose. My arms groan with pain when I move them in front of me for the first time in days. It hurts so good–the relief is unbearably sweet. The cuts and nicks are bleeding all over the place but I don't give a damn.