His voice trails off and he shakes his head. Ricky has no fucking clue who he’s dealing with.
"I’m disappointed, Ricky. Thought by now, you’d have wised up to your situation."
His jaw tightens. Then he mutters, "What now? You gonna torture me?"
I laugh. Not reassuringly. More like I find him amusing in a way that should make him very nervous. He stiffens again, eyes flicking to my hands, like he’s waiting for me to grab a knife or something. I even lean forward slightly, just enough to make him flinch. Then, satisfied he’s enough of a messy bundle of nerves, I relax, taking another slow sip of coffee. "No. You know, torture never really works, right?"
Ricky watches me, eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
"I’ll tell you a story.
I settle back against the counter, get comfortable.
"You’ve probably guessed I was in the service. I don’t hide it. I’m a fucking Ranger,” I say. “And back in the Rangers, I was on a mission I can’t give you the particulars of. Classified. But let’s just say it went sideways. I got captured. And my captors? They really wanted to know about my team, my mission, and our objectives. So, they started in with the torture. Beatings. Sleep deprivation. Leeches. Putting my feet in buckets of biting bugs. Some real creative shit."
Ricky swallows, but doesn’t speak.
"I was impressed at their creativity, because some of it really felt like it was straight out of one of those ‘Hellraiser’ movies. But I was also so pissed off at them," I continue, "that I started spinning lies. Just feeding them the dumbest bullshit I could come up with. Hell, most of my stories were straight-up ripped from TV shows." I grin at the memory. "Sent them on a wild goose chase for two weeks before my team finally got me out." I tilt my head at Ricky. "So, no. I’m not gonna waste my time torturing you. Because the point of torture is just to hurt someone, and that’s not what I said I’m going to do to you. Do you remember what I said I’d do? I said I’d break you."
I let the weight of my words settle between us. Let the silence stretch. Watch him gulp and squirm against his handcuffs.
Truth is, I didn’t just tell him I was going to break him, I’m going to remake him, too. I can’t put all my eggs in one basket and trust that Bianca will get me close enough to Victor to pull the trigger and put an end to him and his organization; this is a war, and in a war, you use every tool at your disposal to destroy your enemy.
Then I speak. "And there’s a lot of ways to really break someone, Ricky. Take a moment. Think about it. How do you think I’m going to break you? How do you think I’m going to make you do what I want?"
Ricky looks down. I can almost see the gears turning. The way his shoulders sag under the weight of it all. Good.
"Then what?" His voice is hoarse. A rasp. "What are you gonna do to me, then?"
I set my coffee down and fix him with a steady stare. "You have something I want." My voice is low. It burns in my throat. "So tell me what you want in exchange. Tell me your price."
Ricky swallows again. His throat bobs. “That’s it?”
“You can break a man, you can change a man, by making sure he’s properly motivated. By making him cooperate. You and I both know that there’s something deep down driving you. Something you desire more than anything else. Take a second, think, and tell me your price.”
Ricky stays quiet. Then he says, "I want to see Vanessa."
I study him. Then I nod. "Alright."
His head jerks up, shocked. “Alright?”
"We finish work today," I tell him. "You and I will bring some extra pastries over to Safe House, and you can find out if Vanessa even wants to see you."
His expression shifts. Hope flickers behind his eyes.
"But let me be clear," I add, stepping forward, looming over him. "If she does, you’re a lucky man. But either way? I’ll be watching you. And if you step out of line, I will chain you to my bed again, and this time?" I grin. "It won’t be nearly so fucking comfortable. Are you in?"
“I’m in.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bianca
I stare down at my trembling hands, hardly able to believe the notes scribbled in front of me, while my fingers shake around a pen I can barely remember how to hold. I steal a glance at Alex, wondering how she remains so impossibly calm under the onslaught of emotions that feel like they might literally lift me right out of my chair. Her quiet, steady presence fills in the gaps where I’m unraveling and keeps me from making a complete fool of myself, even as I struggle to exert every ounce of willpower not to let loose with an earth-shattering scream that should be reserved for stadiums, not conference rooms; I want to pump both fists in the air; I want to grab Alex’s placid hands and force them into a triumphant fist-bump; I want to unleash at least a dozen joyful, eardrum-splitting expletives that would send every buttoned-up person around this table into a full-scale panic and leave them convinced I'd finally lost my damn mind.
Maybe I have.
Because, for the first time in what feels like forever, I think there’s a chance things might actually fall into place instead of crashing violently down around me.
