This wouldn’t stop until he was dead—or found a way to escape.
The pain was like nothing he’d been through before, worse even than being shot in the gut. Each time, he’d tried to wrap his thoughts around Gabriela to give him strength, but the pain had made his brain go blank. Or maybe that was the electricity.
This was just a rehearsal for what lay ahead. When Luis Sánchez had finished parading him before the news cameras, shit would get real.
Was he afraid? Hell, yes, he was afraid. He feared for himself but even more so for Gabriela—a woman in a house full of ruthless men. The thought of what they might do to her sickened him.
Did Ruiz believe her story?
Don’t think about that. Work the problem.
He sat in a wooden chair, his ankles bound to its legs, his arms twisted and tied behind his back, the ropes tight. There was no way to work himself free withsicarioswatching him the entire time. He’d only succeed in giving himself rope burns.
The room he was in had no windows and only one door. There was a large sink to one side, chairs scattered here and there. A fucking meat hook and chains hung from the ceiling. There were tools on a nearby bench—knives, an ax, a hammer and nails, a chainsaw, a drill, pliers, a blowtorch. The tile floor had a drain, proof that this room had been built for one purpose.
Torturing and killing people was messy work.
There were fivesicarios—all armed. They’d taken his backpack, his rifle, and his concealed pistol, leaving him with nothing. He had aced combatives—military hand-to-hand combat training—but he had no doubt these bastards would shoot him if he somehow got free of this chair and started throwing kicks and punches.
He would wait, and he would take it—whatever they did to him.
The door opened and shut, taking all sound with it, something he hadn’t noticed before. Was the room soundproofed? It must be. Would it drown out the sound of gunshots, too? He would love to find out.
Acne Man was back. “Don Sergio says we have to leave him be for now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun with him. Wake him up.”
That was interesting news.
Someone slapped Dylan’s cheek.
He opened his eyes, raised his head, but said nothing.
Acne Man pulled up a chair, spoke in Spanish. “I know you can understand me, asshole. I went up to see what the Boss wants me to do with you, but he was too busy fucking your whore of a nun. From the way she was moaning, I’d say she likes it, too.”
Dylan fixed a bored expression on his face, bit his tongue. He didn’t believe a word of it. The bastard wasn’t a good liar. It was clear that violence was the only skill in their interrogation arsenal. Without permission to tear him apart, they had nothing.
Acne Man didn’t give up, his descriptions of the action upstairs getting more extreme as he went on. Ruiz was fucking Gabriela. He had promised her to his men and then to his dogs—if there was anything left of her.
Dylan’s refusal to speak stole the bastard’s control, his pitted face turning a mottled shade of red as Dylan remained silent.
“I don’t like the way you look at me, you fucking asshole.” He drove his fist into Dylan’s gut, pain forcing the breath from Dylan’s lungs.
“I thought Don Sergio said to leave him be for now?”
“Someone has to teach him a lesson.” Acne Man rolled his electroshock toy close again, took the homemade paddles into his hands, and flipped the switch. “I won’t kill him, but I won’t let him sit there laughing at us either.”
He touched the paddles to Dylan’s skin. Electrical current rushed through Dylan’s body in a jolt of liquid agony.
* * *
Still huddled in the blanket,Gabriela finished her meal, forcing herself to swallow despite the butterflies that churned restlessly in her stomach. Outside, the storm had all but spent itself. She’d overheard Ruiz telling his men that Luis Sánchez was in the air again and would arrive soon.
She was running out of time.
She needed to reach Dylan and set him free. The two of them together had a much better chance against Ruiz and all his men than she did alone. But how could she possibly get to him? They would see her going down the stairs. And what would she do when she got there—knock on the door and ask the bad guys to let Dylan go?
The moment she pulled the trigger, thesicarioson the veranda would stream through the door to protect their boss, and she would be overwhelmed. She had only enough rounds in the Glock to take down fifteen of them—and that was if every shot hit its mark and was lethal. That never happened in the real world. She would need one of their weapons, preferably an rifle with spare magazines.
And how are you going to get that?