Water poured out of the can’s nozzle like a raging waterfall, splattering hard onto the towel over Jack’s face. It ran in all directions, covering his face, splashing across his neck and darkening the collar of his t-shirt, soaking the towel, falling onto the table and running to the edge to drip in long streams to the cement floor.
Mac held his breath. He didn’t have to, he wasn’t the one being drowned, but he couldn’t help it. He knew what it would be like the moment Jack breathed in. Eyes locked on Jack’s face, he sat frozen, counting the seconds.
Jack was in good health and good shape. Their captors would probably underestimate how long Jack could hold his breath.
But he probably couldn’t hold it as long as Mac. He wasn’t a runner, and he was older. On top of that—
Before Mac could make more frantic calculations, Jack’s stamina ceased to matter because Mugshot Man placed a flat hand against Jack’s belly and leaned down hard, shoving air out of Jack. Lungs forcibly emptied, Jack reflexively tried to breath in, but his mouth and nose were muffled under the heavy weight of the wet towel. The wet fabric outlined the shape of Jack’s mouth as he tried to suck in a breath and got nothing but water instead.
Jack reacted all at once, almost like he’d been hit with a jolt of electricity, with heer, full-body panic. His limbs jerked, hands grasping air as he pulled blindly against the shackles, head rolling. Mac could still see the concave shape of the towel sucked partly into his mouth.
Mac strained against his bonds, leaning forward as if getting closer to the board would help Jack, his eyes locked on every movement that Jack made. He’d be okay when he could catch a breath but with the towel in his mouth and water continuing to fall, he wouldn’t be able to. When he breathed, he’d aspirate more water.
Jack knew that, too. He’d been in the CIA back when operatives were trained to withstand waterboarding by being waterboarded. He’d mentioned it once, and only once, with a look in his eye that made Mac stop asking questions. But no amount of training really prepared someone for it, not really. Jack struggled with the same panic Mac had felt minutes ago when he was breathing in water, suffocating under the stream of it, body crying out for relief. His mind had been empty of training, empty of techniques, empty of plans. All he’d felt was the awful sensation of drowning.
That was how Jack felt now.Â
