“You hit like a pussy, you marecon,” Santiago sneered.
Cruz slammed the wooden club into the side of the captive’s head; his ear began streaming blood as it swelled from the blow. Santiago appeared momentarily dazed, and for once didn’t have an insulting comeback.
That was more like it.
Captain Cruz glanced at Lieutenant Briones and made a gesture with two fingers. Briones fumbled in his uniform shirt’s pocket and fished out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to Cruz. He took it, and Briones lit it for him with a disposable butane lighter. He inhaled the smoke with evident satisfaction, and then blew a stream of nicotine into Santiago’s tearing eyes.
“These are good. What are they? Cuban?” Cruz asked.
“Argentine,” Briones told him, holding up the pack so Cruz could see it. “Parisienne. They’re made with black tobacco — they don’t have all the impurities the American brands do. They’re supposedly better for you. They taste better to me, so who knows…”
“Imagine that. Cigarettes that are good for you. What will they think of next?” Cruz sighed mild bemusement, and then approached Santiago. “So, you shit-bird, do you like cigarettes? Is that something you like to put in your mouth when you don’t have a burro cock in it?” He puffed a few times, ensuring that the cigarette tip was glowing red, then held the ember against Santiago’s neck. The sickeningly-sweet smell of searing flesh was a small price to pay for the shriek of blind pain and fury that burst from the warlord. Now they were getting somewhere.
“You see, you piece of shit, you’re not so tough. You’re a big man when you have a bunch of your boyfriends around with guns, but alone, you’re nothing. Listen to you, blubbering like a baby. I bet you’d give me a blowjob right now for a piece of ice, am I right?” Cruz asked conversationally.
Santiago struggled against the restraints holding his wrists, tearing flesh in the process. Blood dripped deep crimson from the black metal cuffs.
“So now you’re starting to figure this out.” Cruz paced around Santiago while he talked. “I can do anything I want to you. Anything. You have no power here. I am judgment day for you — I’m God and the devil rolled into one, and you will tell me what I want to know. I actually hope you hold out and this takes a while, puta. I’m going to enjoy inflicting every morsel of misery I can on your worthless carcass.” Cruz paused, blowing a few lazy smoke rings. “Two of the men who died this morning were my friends. I’m sure they experienced considerable pain before they passed on, so I look at this as payback on their behalf. If I have my way, before this is done you’ll be begging me to kill you. You’ll cry, and you’ll tell me things I didn’t even ask about just to get me to stop. And I’ll savor every minute of it. In fact, I’ll think up new and creative ways to cause you so much pain that you’d stab your mother to death with a crucifix to make it stop. So I hope you make me do this the hard way.”
Santiago glared at Cruz, his fury palpable. “I want to see my lawyer,” he hissed.
Cruz nonchalantly swatted him on the other side of the head with the nightstick, the impact making a dull thunk against his skull. He struck him on the upper arms a few times, for good measure.
“I’m your lawyer. And I say case closed, you lose. So now I’m going to ask a few questions, and then you’re going to answer them, or I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born. You want to try me on that? What’s that line from the Clint Eastwood movie? Do you feel lucky?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
Cruz took a final puff on his cigarette and then applied it to Santiago’s neck again, generating a bloodcurdling howl of agony.
“Well, I don’t believe that. I think you will. In fact, I’m betting on it. So here’s my first, simple question. Where’s Carlos Aranas hiding these days?” Cruz asked.
Aranas, or ‘El Lobo’, was the absolute boss of the Sinaloa cartel, and the object of Cruz’s investigation into the latest string of grisly drug-related slayings in Mexico City. Cruz was a special type of cop, the Mexican equivalent of the top echelon of Homeland Security in the United States, and he’d been given virtually unlimited latitude by the President himself to do whatever it took to bring the cartels, whose violence was terrorizing the country, under control. Cruz headed up an autonomous task force that was working its way up the food chain until it got to the chiefs of the various cartels — the Knights Templar cartel, the Tijuana cartel, the Gulf cartel, a host of others; and the most powerful and dangerous — the Sinaloa cartel.
Cruz had earned his role by being tough, extremely smart, relentless, and incorruptible. A combination that was rare anywhere in the world, but in Mexico, virtually unheard of. For Cruz, bringing down the cartels wasn’t so much an occupation as a religious cause, and his life’s exclusive focus.
And the biggest fish in that particular polluted pond was Aranas, whose savagery was legendary; a fact Cruz knew firsthand.
“Come on, Santiago. Where’s El Lobo hanging his hat?” Cruz asked again.
“You must be fucking crazy if you think I’m going to talk to you. Give up El Lobo? You’re insane,” Santiago said.
“That’s right. I am. And if you don’t give me what I want, you’re going to find out exactly how dangerous a crazy man can be, especially when he has your testicles in his hand, like I do yours. So talk,” Cruz insisted.
“Fuck you.”
Cruz sighed again and nodded at Lieutenant Briones, who burrowed around in a rucksack before extracting a two foot long tube with a pair of electrodes on one end and a handle on the other. A cable ran from the evil looking implement to a metal box with a dial, which Briones dutifully plugged into the wall. Cruz held up the wand and inspected the electrodes with a grim smile.
“Do you know what this is? We got this from some Guatemalans who were operating a kidnapping and torture ring. This is a picana — or as you’ll soon think of it, your worst living nightmare in hell. It delivers a high voltage electric shock, but with low current. Since you probably didn’t pay much attention in school, that means it’s excruciatingly painful, but won’t leave a mark, so it can be used for hours without leaving any trace. I’ve heard about these, but never actually used one.” Cruz brandished it like an epee. “I’ve been saving it for when I captured one of the Sinaloa cartel captains, but you know what? I’ll make an exception today, seeing as I’m in a good mood, and you’ll be the first I use it on. Now the question is, do we start with the genitals, or your anus, or maybe go with the less tender areas as a warm-up? I don’t want to see your miserable tiny prick if I don’t have to, so I’m thinking we start on your neck, and work down,” Cruz explained dispassionately.
Santiago’s eyes flared wide with terror.
“Oh, I see you might be familiar with it? Why am I not surprised? I’ll bet you never thought you’d have one used on you, though, huh, tough guy? Today’s just full of surprises, isn’t it?”
Cruz walked over to the table, picked up a bottle and returned to Santiago. He poured a few drops of water onto his neck, just above the blistering from the cigarette burns. Santiago shook his head, trying in vain to avoid the stream, further tearing his wrist skin.
“The water increases the conductivity, for maximum effect. Now, one more time, and then this gets uglier than you can imagine. Where is El Lobo?”
“Fucking your mother.”
Cruz looked at his lieutenant and laughed. “We have a comedian. That’s very funny stuff. Hold that thought for a minute.” He glanced at Briones. “Lieutenant, give me about half the maximum voltage to start, and let’s see how the funny man reacts,” Cruz instructed. “Bring that rag over here and help me stuff it in his mouth. We don’t want our esteemed guest biting his tongue off and spoiling the party.”