“No,” I said, holding up a hand, continuing the performance. “Let him finish.”
Sweat soaked his hairline and ran down his skin. Fear had a way of wringing a man out. He sagged against the restraints, breath shaking. “I didn’t pick her,” he repeated, quieter this time, like saying it softer made it more believable. “I just took advantage of what fell into my lap. That’s all.”
That admission—not the words, but the intent—sent a tremor through Grace that wasn’t fear. It was memory. And rage.
I pivoted, enough to see Grace, to gauge her mood. As shaken as she was, the flush in her face was growing redder. When she met my gaze though, she just nodded. She could do this. Good. I spared the pulsating sack of shit in the chair a glance, the remote still dangling from my fingers. He watched it like it was a blade hovering over his throat.
“Thank you,” I said. Ignacio jerked like I’d struck him. I’d be amused about that later. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Because now he’d confirmed what we already suspected.
Someone ordered the kidnapping. Ignacio had merely taken advantage of his position. He wasn’t the mastermind—just a parasite who latched onto opportunity.
Ignacio blinked hard, as if that sliver of progress might save him. It wouldn’t.
“So,” I continued, “who gave the order? Who paid the bill?”
His breath stuttered. “It—it wasn’t me. I told you. My crew?—”
“No,” I cut in, “I didn’t ask who took the job. I asked who paid for it.”
“I don’t— it wasn’t my role—” He squirmed, panic rising like a tide. “Talk to the others. They handled the arrangements. I just?—”
I thumbed the remote.
The jolt wasn’t violent, but it waslonger—enough seconds that his scream tried to form but caught behind his teeth, coming out a strangled, garbled choke. His back arched. The zip-ties cut into his wrists as he writhed. Alphabet actually winced at the duration; Bones looked like he wanted it to last longer.
I let go of the button.
Ignacio slumped forward, panting, sweat dripping off his brow. He glared up at me, eyes watering.
“Hijo de puta,” he spat, voice shaking with fury and pain.
I hit the button again.
A shorter pulse this time, but sharper, meaner. He jerked hard, almost tipping the chair, a broken bark of pain ripping from him.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice to something patient. Almost gentle. “We want a name.”
Bones’ boots creaked as he leaned forward, the sound alone promising violence. Grace didn’t speak—didn’t need to. Her silence was a blade.
Ignacio shook his head, breath hitching. “I—I don’t know! I wasn’t told?—”
I angled the remote. “Ignacio. You’re lying again.”
“I'm not,” he insisted, voice cracking. “I didn’t handle the money. I didn’t speak to the guy. That was Rudy’s job. Or Domingo. I swear?—”
He kept talking. Rambling. Listing random crew members, shifting blame from one ghost to another like he could exhaust us with names that didn’t matter.
I cut him off with another shock—short, but unforgiving. He yelped, gasped, choked on air.
“Enough,” I said. “We’re not here for the grocery list of your little playgroup. We want the name of the person who ordered the grab.”
He whimpered. Actually whimpered. “I don’t know it.”
I studied him.
No, despite his pleading, he still wasn’t telling the whole truth. As for this part? This part he might actually believe would save him.
