Special Constable Lindsey - A Patrol Gone Wrong
Special Constable Lindsey Hargrove, 26, ponytail, crisp navy uniform, badge glinting under the warehouse’s dying fluorescents, stepped inside alone. Radio silence from her partner all shift. “Just a quick look,” she told herself.
She never got the chance to finish the sentence.
Four Russian enforcers materialized from the shadows. No words. Just fists, zip-ties, and a hood over her head. When the hood came off twenty minutes later she was on her knees in the center of the concrete floor, wrists cuffed behind her back, shirt already torn open, vest hanging like a broken wing.
The one they called Dima crouched in front of her, gold tooth flashing.
“Who sent you, little cop?”
Lindsey spat blood. “No one. I was on patrol. Wrong place, wrong time.”
He smiled, stood, and nodded to the others.
They cut the rest of her uniform away in seconds: boots kicked aside, pants sliced off, bra ripped down. Only the thin white department T-shirt remained, soaked instantly with sweat and clinging to her chest. Rough hands forced her arms overhead, chaining her wrists to a ceiling hook until she dangled on tiptoes.
A car battery sat on a crate. Two thick jumper cables ended in vicious alligator clamps.
The first clamp snapped onto her left nipple. Lindsey screamed, body jerking like a puppet. The second clamp bit the right. Tears blurred her vision.
Dima flicked the switch.
Electricity surged. Her spine bowed, teeth clenched so hard she tasted more blood. The smell of scorched cotton and skin filled the air.
“Names,” he said calmly. “Who told you we’d be here tonight?”
“I don’t—ahhh—know anything!” she sobbed when the current stopped. “It was random! I swear!”
Another flick. Longer this time. Her legs kicked uselessly, boots long gone, bare feet scraping concrete.
They repeated it six, seven, eight times. Each shock worse than the last. Her voice cracked into hoarse whimpers. The white shirt turned translucent, clinging like wet paper, dark burn rings visible around each clamp.
Dima leaned close, breath sour with vodka.
“Everyone has someone, little cop. You will talk.”
Lindsey lifted her head, tears streaming, body shaking uncontrollably.
“There’s no one,” she whispered. “It was just… bad luck.”
He studied her for a long moment, then shrugged and reached for the switch again.
The warehouse lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere far away a siren wailed, too far, too late. Lindsey closed her eyes and waited for the next white-hot wave, praying they’d finally believe the truth: she had nothing to give them, and that was the worst torture of all.
