Deep inside my very being, the monster rejoiced at the chance to release six days of pent-up anger and frustration. The neat freak in me recoiled at the mess that was sure to come. I used to do jobs like this quite a bit, but it was Milo’s thing now. For me personally, it was distasteful to say the least.
“We’re here, Boss.”
Sarge tore me from my gleefully gruesome thoughts and Frank held the car door open. My heavy boots crunched on the gravel parking lot behind the club. Of all of my businesses, my newest acquisition was the only one with a basement. In a past life, the nightclub was an upscale Italian restaurant, and the original owners had put in a rather spacious, and quite expensive, wine cellar. It was the perfect room for what I had planned. In fact, I had imagined using it many, many times over the last six days. I grinned.
I was time to break it in.
Frank stayed with the car while Sarge and I were met at the back entrance by Shade. I nodded as he fell in line with Sarge and trailed behind me.
“Who’s here?” I asked as I continued weaving through the back of the club.
“Me, Little Joe, Six, and Feyo, Boss,” Shade answered.
I stopped at the open door at the top of the stairway that led down to the wine cellar and frowned.
“Where’s Milo?” My first lieutenant would never miss an opportunity to inflict pain. Plus, I damn well expected him of all people to be present when we interrogated someone.
“He said he’s on his way but won’t get back in time. He’s southwest of San Antonio, following a lead. Said we should just start without him.”
I gaped at Shade. “What? Milo is supposed to be in charge of our men, not out tracking Los Guerreros. Who the fuck is monitoring all the communications between everyone and sorting through maps and shit? Crossing off areas and compiling information?”
The excitement I felt in the car ebbed when I realized my lieutenant had once again failed to follow my goddamn orders.
“I’m doing it, Boss,” Shade said, his skin turning red. “I didn’t know you ordered otherwise or I wouldn’t have—”
I held up a hand. “No need to apologize.” Shade did nothing wrong, but I was going to fucking skin Milo alive when he got back in town. As to the issue at hand, “Let’s see what this piece of shit has to say.”
With an inhuman grin, I led my men down the stairs.
* * *
“Por favor, I do not know anything else.”
I leaned against the cold cement wall, arms crossed over my chest, and watched the man. His name was Jesús and it was said he was an upper level dealer for Los Guerreros, one of the unfortunate men left behind to run business in San Antonio while El Cuchillo hid like a little pussy bitch. Jesús wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t large, either. Didn’t matter. I could give two shits what the fuck he looked like. He could be fucking Hercules and he’d find himself in the exact same position. His size wasn’t the issue. It was the black and red tattoo on his left inner forearm that landed him in his current, quite dire, situation.
The mark of Los Guerreros.
El Cuchillo made all his men get branded with the design when they “passed” his test, whatever the fuck that sick shit was. I heard conflicting stories over the years about the initiation rites of the sadistic San Antonio leader. They encompassed everything from killing an innocent civilian to kidnapping and raping a woman. It was the second one that brought my rage thundering to the surface, the monster in me growling and snapping with fury, craving the blood of Miri’s captors. My doll was missing and those soulless bastards had her. Add in the fact that Cuchillo wanted to start selling women as sex slaves and Jesús, naked and shackled in my ex-wine cellar, was in deep fucking shit.
I stayed against the wall and remained silent, merely observing. Giving the man time to imagine everything I was going to do to him. I was content to focus my emotionless stare on him from my comfortable spot across the room. He turned his head in my direction and tried to talk his way out.
“Please. No sé nada. I am just a dealer. El Cuchillo does not tell me anything.”
Jesús struggled to break the chains that bound him to an eight-foot, stainless steel table bolted to the floor in the center of the wine cellar. This was my first time using the new piece of furniture. Or was it equipment? No matter, I was fully confident the man had no way to free himself.
With my face still fixed in an unreadable mask, I approached the table. When I stopped at the end, behind his head, I bent low and whispered in his ear.
“I think you know more than you let on, Jesús, and I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what I want to know.”
“I don’t—”
My hand shot out and I grabbed him by the hair. He yelped when I yanked his head up off the table and slammed it down as hard as I could. The metallic clang echoed in the small, concrete space and Jesús cried out in pain.
“Shut up,” I hissed. “I didn’t even break the skin, you fucking pussy.” I tightened my grip in his medium-length black locks and continued with my questions. “Where did Cuchillo go, hmmm? Why would he leave his city unprotected? Why would he trust stupid fuckers like you to run his business? He wouldn’t have gone far, so tell me. Where. Is. He?”
The man’s body trembled with fear. I loomed over him and caught the subtle stiffening of his jaw and determined glint in his eyes. Interesting. He was going to fight me, fight his instinct to give in and beg for his life.
Fine. His mistake.
I lifted his head and slammed it down again and again, four… five, six times. Enough for blood to smear the shiny steel surface. Once more, I stopped and leaned over to repeat my question.
“Where did Cuchillo go?”
Despite the tears streaming from his eyes and the crimson flush of his dark skin, Jesús bared his teeth and growled, “Fuck you, y chinga tu madré!” He turned his head and spat on the floor. For all his brave, but pointless, posturing, I knew I’d break him. For the most part, torture and interrogation was Milo’s job over the last few years, but before I rose to become Boss, I questioned enough men on my own to have become quite adept at extracting answers.
“Fuck my mother, huh? Too bad for you my mother was a useless, junkie whore who never spent a single day acting like she had kids, you little piece of shit. She’d gladly fuck you... if she were still alive.” I circled the table to stand at the trembling man’s right side. Jesús’s eyes widened when a vicious-looking silver blade slipped from its sheath and seemed to magically appear in my right hand. I held it over his face. “You will tell me what I want to know. Your only decision in this entire scenario is how much you wish to suffer before you die.”
Not waiting for him to reply, I raised my arm and drove the blade straight into his shoulder joint. Jesús screamed and thrashed his head side to side. Bound to the table, he was unable to writhe and fight to escape the pain. His entire body shook while he shrieked. I leaned on his torso and pressed my weight down on the knife, until my face hovered over his. Jesús screamed again when the blade went deeper, so loud, in fact, it hurt my ears. But goddamn, the hurt was so fucking satisfying.
“Tell me where he is,” I snarled and twisted the knife in his joint. A previous enforcer taught me this move, and it almost never failed to get results. Jesús wailed and just as I predicted, the begging began.
“Stop! Stop! Por favor! I don’t know!”
I twisted the blade again and Jesús shouted himself hoarse. Fucking pussy. I hadn’t even begun to work him over. This was merely a warm-up to the main event. An effective one, but still a warm-up. El Cuchillo was hiring weaklings if this guy was any kind of example.
I calmly removed the knife and extended my hand. Six stepped up and tossed over a clean towel I used to wipe the blade. When I was satisfied, I pushed up my sleeve and returned the knife to its wrist sheath.
“What to do next,” I pondered out loud as I slowly paced the room.
Jesús tracked me with swollen, red eyes. He was no differe
nt from every other guy I’d had to “interrogate” over the years. All bluster and big talk. Holding out in the name of loyalty. As if Cuchillo wouldn’t put a bullet in this asshole’s head without a second thought. The man on the table whimpered, but the stupid shit offered no information to spare himself further pain.
I sighed long and loud before turning to face Jesús. He watched, eyes huge, as I stalked toward him. The guy was good, I’d give him that. He managed to return that feisty, flinty look to his eyes… until I bent over and pulled out my serrated KA-BAR. Seven inches of finely honed, black carbon steel, the knife was terrifying enough to make even the bravest man shit his pants. Jesús was no exception.
“No! Don’t!” He struggled to free himself again, despite already knowing there was no escape.
I ignored his continued pleas and turned the knife over in my palm so he got a nice good look at his very near future. The man was still begging when I lightly touched the sharp, clip-point knife to his left forearm. He froze when cold metal touched his skin. Jesús knew the slightest movement on his part would allow the blade to slice through him like butter.
“Is this the reason you remain loyal to El Cuchillo? Your tattoo?” My lip curled up in revulsion. “How did you earn it, Jesús? Did you rape a helpless woman? Kill an innocent? Is that what you sick fucks do for fun?”
“No! We only do it for…” He stopped mid sentence, but I heard enough. “No, I don’t!”
Nice save. But it wasn’t enough to help Jesús. I pressed down and his skin split as easily as a peach. The man screamed so loud I was sure our ears would be ringing for hours. He begged and cried as I worked. Lucky for him, I kept a nice sharp blade. Made it clean and quick. When I was done, I looked up at Jesús. His face was covered in tears and snot, any trace of his smug attitude gone. Despite his earlier bravado, he was easier to break than some.
I tossed the bloody four-inch square of skin onto his chest.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” I asked. “A tattoo of a knife?” I let my words sink in while Jesús composed himself. Well, as much as one could compose themselves after having a large chunk of skin sliced from their body. “Now you no longer bear the mark of Los Guerreros and you need not worry about loyalty. So tell me, Jesús… Where. Is. El Cuchillo?”
The man’s lip trembled and his throat worked as he swallowed several times.
“I’m losing my patience, Jesús.” I brandished the bloody KA-BAR, speared the carved flesh, and held it up in front of his face. Dark red drops fell from the swath, landing on his chin and neck. “Tell me now, or you lose a body part. You have many I can work with, and believe me when I say I can do this all fucking day.”
“I-I don’t know anything.” He sniveled and foamed at the mouth, his head lolling to the side. I grabbed his hair, pulled his head to face me, and bent down so he could see my eyes.
“Tell me about Cuchillo’s deal with Brick. The human trafficking. I want to know all of it.”
Jesús’s eyebrows rose and he licked his lips. “I don’t know about a deal.” I watched his eyes dart to the side and his Adam’s apple jump as he swallowed and knew he was full of shit.
“You’re lying.” I walked around the table and grabbed his hand. As the first words of protest left his mouth, I brought the KA-BAR down hard through his joint and sliced his index finger clean off.
The man shrieked and jerked in his chains, sobbing. I returned to his head and laid the finger on his chest on top of the excised tattoo. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying. He was breathing so erratically, his chest convulsed and the finger rolled off. It landed on the metal table and bounced to the floor. A few of my men chuckled and I couldn’t hold back my smirk. It was funny as hell, yet not funny in the least. If Miri’s life weren’t on the line, I’d find it pretty damn fucking amusing. Hell, Milo would be roaring with laughter. If my motherfucking lieutenant were here, that is.
Right now, I gave zero shits about funny ha-ha. All I wanted were some goddamn answers.
“Now, tell me about Brick and tell me about the girls,” I repeated. The dude was beside himself, his eyes rolling back in his head until they showed more white than brown.
Jesús bawled as he blurted out everything he knew, which was quite a bit, only none of it was anything I could use to find Miri. The stupid fuck really didn’t know where Cuchillo was. When he was done blubbering, I frowned at the bloody mess and stepped back.
With a tip of my head toward Sarge, Sarge moved in place and Six handed me a new towel. All of my employees knew how much I loathed touching anything covered in blood or dirt. I wiped my beloved KA-BAR clean and slid it back into its sheath. Then I grimaced at the red streaks on my hands. I was so intent on getting here and extracting information, not only did I not change, but I forgot my goddamn gloves. In the moment, blood was the least of my concerns. Now? Ugh. I would need to scrub my hands as well as take care of the splatter on my arms and sheaths.
That’s when it sank in that after slicing up Jesús, I was no closer in finding Miri than I was this morning.
“Fuck!” I spun and slammed my bloodstained palms against the solid wall over and over. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Boss, we’ll get her. Now we know Cuchillo has men in the city, we can get another one of his men,” Shade said.
I rested my forehead on the cool cement wall and tried to calm down. “That sick son of a bitch has had her for days, Shade. I just…” My throat worked to swallow but the irritated tissue was way too dry to manage. Instead, I shook my head and pulled my shit together. No way would I break in front of my men. I needed to present a strong front to ensure their help in finding Miri. Criminals didn’t rally behind a sniveling, pussy weakling. They followed a leader. A Boss. I took a deep breath and glanced down at my clothes. A drop of blood was on the front of my shirt. That shit sent me right over the edge again.
“Fucking motherfucker!”
“I told you, we’ll get her, Boss.” Shade took a step back. Smart man. I was literally a walking nuke, ready to drop a mushroom cloud at any second.
“That’s not it,” I snapped.
“Then… what is it, Boss?” Shade asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“That fucking piece of shit got his blood on my clean shirt. Son of a bitch!”
I turned to take out my anger on Jesús, the filthy, useless pig, but Sarge was already done. A cascade of dark blood was pouring from an enormous gash in the man’s throat. I wrinkled my nose and moved back even though I was already far enough from the disgusting crimson torrent to stay out of splatter range. Lucky fucker probably bled out in seconds.
“He should be goddamn glad he’s fucking dead and that I have a change of clothes upstairs,” I snarled.
Sarge and I ditched our clothes and shoes and left them in the cellar for the guys to take care of. With the slick, sealed concrete floor and walls and the oh-so-helpful drain in the center of the room, cleanup would be a piece of cake. Upstairs, Frank handed me a duffel and we were dressed and on the road less than ten minutes later, the rest of my men on their way to meet us in one of my warehouses to formulate a new plan. With proof that Cuchillo’s men were in San Antonio, we had to reorganize and dig around to find their hideouts. I made one last call and everything was in place.
That bastard took what was mine and laid his hands on her body. Hurt her. Frightened her. My hands curled into fists on my thighs.
When I found him I would make him wish he was never born.
Miri
Days and nights passed, each one blurred into the next. I was removed daily to be beaten and abused in front of the camera, always enough to make me cry and scream, but never enough to scar or injure me beyond bruises and superficial pain. Why they didn’t do worse, I wasn’t sure. I certainly didn’t want to know. The fact that Cat said girls were shipped in and out of here made me think it was possible Cuchillo wanted me alive and relatively unharmed so he could sell me to the highest bidder when he was done taking out his revenge
on me.
They took Cat from the room way more often. Each time, she would go without a fight, her spirit broken months ago. Some of the times, she was returned quickly. The glazed-over look in her eyes let me know she got her hit of heroin or whatever drug they were using to keep her docile, then returned her to our room to nod off on her high. Other times, Cat was missing for hours. After those longer absences she would withdraw into herself. Cat would lock herself in the bathroom or hide under the covers on the bed, but in those moments she never, ever shed a single tear or spoke a single word.
Despite the lack of emotions on the surface, Cat’s disheveled appearance told me enough of what was done to her while I was left behind. Clothing torn or buttoned up wrong, messy hair, a few new bruises or scratches here and there. It was obvious Cat was being used for sex by one or more of the men in the house. While that was nauseating in itself, what was worse was that Cat was so used to the assaults, she always returned to the room with the same flat, emotionless expression. It was as if my friend’s spirit had been beaten from her body, and only a hollow shell that looked and sounded like Cat remained behind.
“Miri? You okay?”
There was genuine concern in Cat’s voice on the other side of the bathroom door, where I was busy retching into the toilet. If I wasn’t buried half in the bowl, I’d laugh in her face.
In what possible world would anything about this situation be okay?
I swallowed and gasped for air between dry heaves. “I’m fine,” I croaked, my throat raw from stomach acid and hours of screaming during my torture sessions in the chair. I had been here seven… eight days? Maybe longer. And I was already incredibly weak. My body sore, my anxiety so sharp I had been throwing up multiple times per day, which meant I hardly absorbed any of the sparse amounts of food served twice a day. I heaved again and tears leaked from my eyes. My ribs exploded in pain every time my stomach tightened and I leaned over the bowl. Breathing had become a chore simply because of the red hot fire that burned in my ribs with each inhale.