Extreme Measures Read Online Free Page A

morning, sunshine.” Rapp snatched the covers off Haggani and screamed, “Time to get up, you piece of shit!”
    Abu Haggani was wearing an orange prisoner jumpsuit. He rolled over with the look of a feral dog on his face and let loose a gob of spit that hit Rapp in the chin.
    Rapp blinked once before letting loose a slew of curse words.
    “I forgot to tell you, he’s a spitter,” Nash cautioned.
    “Goddammit,” Rapp yelled as he drew his sleeve across his face, his temper flaring.
    Haggani kicked his legs and began thrashing at Rapp. Rapp jumped back quickly and almost tripped over Nash. He caught his balance and then caught Haggani’s right ankle as it came within inches of striking him in the nuts. Rapp grabbed the foot with both hands and took a big step back, yanking the terrorist from his bed. Haggani hit the floor with a thud, and before he could recover, Rapp twisted the foot ninety degrees to the left. The move caused Haggani to straighten out and expose his groin. Rapp turned 180 degrees and brought the heel of his jump boot crashing down. There was a whoosh of air as the wind was driven from Haggani’s lungs. The man groaned loudly and reached to protect his crotch.
    Swearing loudly in Dari, Rapp dragged a far more cooperative Haggani from the cell and started down the hall. Nash rushed ahead and opened the next door. As Rapp reached the threshold, Haggani came to life again. He pulled himself forward and grabbed onto Rapp’s right leg. He opened his mouth wide and went for Rapp’s thigh. Rapp saw it coming, and just as Haggani’s teeth were about to connect, Rapp unleashed an elbow strike that caught the Afghani above the right eye. The blow hit with such force that Haggani’s head snapped back and then his whole upper body collapsed to the floor. His eyes rolled back into his head and his entire body went limp. A thin line of crimson about an inch long appeared where the terrorist’s right eyebrow ended. That’s all it was for a second or two, and then the blood began cascading from the cut.
    “For Christ sake, Mitch,” said a wide-eyed Nash.
    “What’d you want me to do? Let him bite me?”
    “No, but you didn’t have to cut him.” Nash bent over for a closer look. “I think he’s gonna need stitches.”
    “There’s nothing we can do about it now.” Rapp grabbed Haggani by the feet again and pulled him through the door, down the hall, and into the interrogation room on the left. Two men were inside, waiting. “Put him in the chair and tie him down,” Rapp ordered. “I don’t want him moving, and if he spits on you, you have my permission to slap the shit out of him.”
    Rapp walked back out in the hallway and into the cell bay. Nash was waiting in front of the first cell on the left. There, sitting on the edge of the bed with prayer beads in hand, was Mohammad al-Haq. The forty-nine-year-old senior Taliban member looked more like he was seventy. His hair and beard were almost completely gray. His posture and gnarled hands spoke to the harsh life he had lived while fighting for almost thirty straight years – first as a revolutionary in the seventies, fighting against his own government, then for the Soviets in the early eighties when it looked like they would win, and then for the mujahideen when the tide turned against the Soviets. After the conflict with the Soviets, al-Haq worked with the various factions of the Northern Alliance, including General Dostum, before he yet again switched sides and jumped over to join up with the Taliban as they rolled to victory. Al-Haq was the ultimate opportunist. His past indicated he would be very easy to turn.
    Nash opened the cell door and said, “Mohammad, I’m afraid the time has come.”
    The bearded man looked up at him with nervous eyes. There would be no spitting or kicking. “For?” he asked in English.
    “To reacquaint you with your old friend General Dostum.”
    The man looked heavily at his prayer beads, and then, at the urging