Beside the table, there was a footstool that allowed access to the top of the tank, which came within about two feet of the ceiling. That, Storm reasoned, was for feeding of the piscine critters that were swimming aimlessly about inside.
Curiously, there was also a partition that separated a quarter of the tank from the other three-quarters. On the left side of the partition there were dozens of species of saltwater fish. The right side appeared to be barren. It had the same fake coral, the same underwater vegetation. Just no fish.
Then Storm saw it wasn’t barren, after all. Mostly hidden in one of the rocky crags, Storm saw the ghastly, ghoulish face of a moray eel, the biggest one he had ever seen in captivity.
And that’s when he got his plan.
Storm returned to the sitting room, flipped over the dachshundlike coffee table, and, with four sweeping chops, sheared the legs off. He slid it along the carpet. It moved with relative ease. Storm grabbed the roll of duct tape, feeling Cesar’s eyes on him the whole time. Hector remained insentient.
Taking what now resembled a paramedic’s backboard into the bedroom, Storm laid it next to the still-slumbering Rivera. He rolled Rivera onto it, then began securing him to its surface with the duct tape, keeping his arms pinned at his side. As Storm turned him into a duct tape mummy, Rivera resumed his snoring, which had at least one benefit: any strange noises Storm might be making were inaudible next to that racket.
With Rivera properly tamped down — only his head and feet were uncovered — Storm slid his quarry and the impromptu backboard off the bed and onto the floor, then over toward the fish tank. The moray eel side of the fish tank. He removed the tank’s lid and set it aside so it wouldn’t get in the way of what came next.
He lifted the head end of the board so it was leaning against the side of the tank, then went around to the foot of it. With both hands, he lifted it and began shoving the leading edge up toward the top of the tank. Rivera was portly but small-statured. He probably didn’t weigh more than about two hundred pounds. Storm routinely deadlifted far more.
When he got the top of the board aligned with the top of the tank, Storm kept shoving, walking up the footstool as he went, until the backboard was finally where he wanted it: resting on top of the lidless fish tank.
Storm’s next task was to catch himself a fish. He selected the larger of the two nets and, standing on the footstool, dipped it into the fish-occupied side of the tank. The fish were not especially enamored of being caught, but eventually Storm was able to chase down a large, slow angelfish, which he brought out of the water, thrashing and flopping. He removed the fish from the net with his hand and brought it down to the end table, where it wriggled some more.
“Sorry about this, fish,” Storm said, removing a utility knife from his back pocket. He unfolded a blade and stabbed just behind the fish’s eye, putting it out of its misery.
He moved the footstool back over toward the eel side of the tank, where Rivera was still prone. His snoring, however, had finally stopped. Storm climbed the stool and, with the utility knife, began disemboweling the fish, smearing the guts on Rivera’s cheeks, forehead, and chin.
That’s what Rivera was experiencing when he finally came to: the very foreign feeling of being strapped to a table and having his face covered in fish entrails by a perfect stranger, who was dressed in what appeared to be a white leisure suit.
“What the…what is this? Who are you?” Rivera demanded. “Why can’t I—”
“Shhh. No noise, Mr. Rivera.”
The man, perhaps sensing that he was at something of a disadvantage, quieted for a moment as Storm continued his job. But as Storm rubbed what might have been a fish pancreas — did fish have pancreases? — on his nose, Rivera could not help himself.
“What are you doing?”
“Preparing you for the eel,” Storm said calmly. He tossed the pancreas, or whatever it was, aside. He had been careful not to let any of the fish parts fall into the tank. He didn’t want the eel’s appetite to be sated by an easy meal.
“What are you—”
“Eels have lousy eyesight but a tremendous sense of smell,” Storm said. “They’re like the bloodhounds of the sea. They let their noses tell them what to eat. I want to make sure your face smells absolutely wonderful to my friend hiding in the rocks down there. I’m betting if he’s hungry enough, he’d strike at pretty much anything that smells good to him.”
“Are you mad?” Rivera asked, struggling in vain against his duct tape binding.
“Some other eel facts: their teeth are razor-sharp, but what’s really impressive about them are their jaws. Not just the bite force — that’s something for sure. But also their stubbornness. Once a moray eel clamps on something, it doesn’t let go. Even in death. It’s something of a primitive design from an evolutionary standpoint, and I won’t bore you with the mechanics. I’ll just tell you that divers who have been bit by moray eels often have to pry the jaws off with pliers when they get back to land.”
“What is your…? What do you want?”
Storm did not answer. Rivera’s face was now glistening with the slick residue of what had once been the insides of an angelfish. Storm climbed down the step stool and repositioned it so he could grab Rivera’s feet. He lifted and, with the backboard sliding along the thick, beveled edge of the glass, lowered Rivera’s head into the tank.
It was, essentially, waterboarding. Storm style. With a hungry eel to provide a little extra fear factor.
Storm counted to thirty before sliding Rivera out of the water. He emerged, gasping and spitting.
“Jesus, man,” he said, between huge, hungry gulps of air. “What do you want? Money? You want money? I’ll give you mo—”
Storm tilted the head of the board back in the water, submerging Rivera once again. This time, he counted to forty-five.
The eel had not yet made an appearance, a mild disappointment to Storm. If Villante was right, Rivera was responsible for the deaths of more than a thousand people worldwide. Having a moray eel eat his face ought to be the least of his punishment. Storm brought Rivera’s head out again.
“God, please,” he said, his eyes bolted open with fear, his chest heaving as his lungs tried to recover from oxygen deficit.
“God is the least of your worries at the moment,” Storm said, then put the man under again. This time, he counted to sixty. And, perhaps, he did it a little more slowly than the previous two times. Just to give the eel a chance.
When he brought Rivera back to the surface again, no words came out. He was now focused only on survival, not on begging, arguing, or cajoling. Which is exactly what Storm was waiting for.
“Erik Vaughn,” Storm said. “I want you to tell me everything about how you had him killed.”
“Vaughn? What are you…what are you—”
Storm sighed impatiently and jammed Rivera’s head under again. Storm counted to ninety this time.
He worried he had perhaps overdone it. The man’s thrashing slowly stilled. When Storm brought Rivera back up, he did not appear to be breathing anymore. Storm was just beginning to consider giving the man’s diaphragm a quick pump when Rivera wretched out a stomach full of salt water, coughed several times, and resumed respiration.
“Please, please,” he said, weakly. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“I’m talking about the promethium laser beam you used to shoot Congressman Erik Vaughn’s plane out of the sky,” Storm said. “You’re going to tell me everything about it. Not only how you did it, but who you worked with and how you got the promethium. You’re also going to tell me where you’re hiding William McRae, the scientist you kidnapped. You’re going to tell me all of this in an impressive level of detail so I know you’re not just making it up, and you’re going to do it right now.”