THIRTY-EIGHT
DLR looked the gringo up and down. Jerry, el Carnicerito, his young protégé, Spider’s number-two man Carlos, the two police who had brought Court down from the car, stood to the side in the dark cold room. Daniel, Emilio, and Spider stepped up closer to the prisoner.
Daniel stopped three feet from the tip of the American’s nose.
“You? You?”
The American stared back.
In Spanish the impeccably dressed man said, “I was expecting… I don’t know. Rambo, maybe?” The room erupted in laughter. And then in English. “You’ve caused me some problems, amigo. I’m just curious… Why?”
The Gray Man did not respond. He wasn’t sure if he could speak; he felt his teeth chattering.
De la Rocha shrugged, looked down at the rolling cart with the machine and the surgical instruments, then up at the prisoner.
“What kind of fun have you been having with my friend here, gordo?”
“So far just some shocks. I also took advantage of the lesions on his body from the broken glass.” He held up the pitcher, now empty, and de la Rocha sniffed it. His eyebrows furrowed for a moment, and then he smiled.
“A gringo margarita.”
“Sí, Don Daniel.”
“Muy bien.” Very good. “You have not yet used the donkey prod?”
“Not yet. Would you like to watch?”
Daniel rolled his eyes and looked back to his men. “Would I like to watch?” Back to Gentry. “Only a maricón would like to watch that. I pay him so I don’t have to watch a cattle prod shoved against your huevos and then electrified.”
Court bit his lower lip to stop the quivering.
DLR looked to his torturer. “Anything about the Gamboa woman?”
“No. He spoke to the other norteamericano in English. I did not understand, but he has not said anything of value to me. This one is very strong.”
Daniel regarded Pfleger for just a moment, then looked to Carlos. Carlos spoke English, and he had been in the room during the conversation between the Americans.
“Nothing, jefe.”
DLR turned back to look over the man shackled to the fence. “That is a beautiful scar on your hip there. I see an old bullet wound on your thigh, too.” He stepped forward and looked at it. “A year old at most.” He then turned Court’s head to the left with his fingertips. “A burn on your neck. Much older. Five years?”
No answer.
“These little cuts on your face and arms? The bruising on your chest?” Daniel shrugged. “You are no stranger to pain, I see. You may resist our efforts to pry information from you.
“No matter. We have the sister-in-law. I hear you two slept together last night. Did you enjoy your taste of our culture, amigo? Latin women can be very fiery, very passionate, yes? If you don’t talk, we will start work on her. The techniques at our disposal will remove that passion within minutes. We will turn her into a zombie in an hour.” DLR smiled at Gentry.
Then asked, “Where is Elena Gamboa at this moment?”
Court shrugged as best he could with his arms pulled wide.
“Obviously, we know you were attempting to arrange for her to get into the United States.”
Nothing from the tortured man in front of him.
“She will not leave Mexico.” Then the handsome man in the black suit said, “Why do you care? She is not your family. Do you have family?” No response from Court. DLR continued, “I believe family is the most important thing in the world. Don’t you?”
Gentry took a moment to control himself. Tried his best to sound strong. “I believe your family is going to miss you when you’re dead.”
“Ha, ha. A threat? He finally speaks and he threatens me? Carnicerito?”
“Sí, patrón.”
“It’s cold down here. Turn on the heat.”
“Sí, patrón.” The fat man turned the dial without placing the remnants of the wallet in his victim’s mouth, and Gentry went wild: his body was out of his control, his mind cleared of all thoughts except a frantic desire to escape pain and find relief, his heart pounded in his chest like when he was underwater with the crocodile above him and he could not find his shotgun and the gnashing teeth were coming closer and close—
The Little Butcher eased back the dial.
Gentry’s head dropped forward in exhaustion. Looking down, he saw he was pissing all over the floor. Sweat dripped off his nude body along with his urine and drips of blood. He was thankful he had managed to avoid biting off his tongue.
When he finally pulled his head back up, he saw Laura being shoved into the room from the stairwell, her hands bound in front of her, a single Black Suit pushing her forward from behind. The man handed her off to Spider, then turned around and disappeared back up the stairs.
Even in agony, Court felt the shame and humiliation as his bladder emptied in front of her.
She was dressed in simple blue cotton warm-up pants and a white tank top. Her right eye was black and red. Her lip fat. Even in the dim light where she stood, Court could see her fists were scuffed and bloody.
She’d been fighting back.
Good girl.
Daniel leaned close. “You almost pissed on my suit. That would have made me very angry.”
De la Rocha turned to the man holding Laura by the shoulders. “Spider, bring her into the light, put her on her knees in front of her gringo. We will see how deep is their love.”
The man shoved the tiny woman onto the cement, just a few feet in front of Gentry. The leader of DLR’s enforcers pulled out a silver .45 automatic pistol and handed it to his patrón. Daniel de la Rocha took the weapon and pressed it into Laura’s black bob of hair.
“If you do not tell me, right now, where my forces can find Elena Gamboa, I will blow off this pretty head. I will not count to three; I will not threaten to wound her; I will simply kill her, right here, right now, unless the next words out of your mouth tell me where Major Gamboa’s widow is hiding.”
Laura shouted in the small room, “Don’t say—”
De la Rocha pounded the grip of the .45 into her head. Laura went down onto the filthy concrete. Dazed, she struggled back up to her knees.
Court’s head rose, and he looked at Daniel de la Rocha.
Slowly, very slowly, he nodded, and softly he spoke. “Okay. Okay. Listen very carefully.”
De la Rocha pulled the hammer back on the pistol, pressed it tighter against her head. “Oh, I am listening, amigo.”
Court nodded again. Then he shrugged. “Shoot the bitch. I don’t give a fuck.”
De la Rocha just stared, his mouth slightly open. He looked back to the Black Suit behind him. “He is a cold fucker, no, Spider? Reminds me of you.” Then back to Gentry. “It is a bluff. A very good bluff, but you are bluffing. You care about what happens to her.” He thought for a long moment; clearly, he had not expected this reaction from the American.
Gentry said, “I didn’t sign up for this shit. The old American guy, Cullen, paid me five grand to watch over his dead buddy’s family for a couple of days. Two large in advance, three more after we got back from Puerto Vallarta. He didn’t say anything about a goddamned cartel hit on them.”
Now de la Rocha’s dark eyebrows furrowed. He took in the English. Weighed the words carefully. “You are private security? A bodyguard?”
“I was. I just retired.”
DLR conferred with Spider for a moment. Court could not understand what they were saying. Then de la Rocha turned back, shook his head.
“No. No, señor. I do not believe you. It was a nice try, but my associate’s men tell him that you escaped the hacienda, and then went back, at great personal danger to yourself, to rescue la familia Gamboa. That does not sound like the actions of any hired gunman I have ever heard of.”