A blank look crossed the attorney’s face. He opened his mouth then closed it again. I waited.
“I don’t—know?” It sounded more like a question than an answer. “I may ha—I did tell them she had a sister. A twin. But—I didn’t ask them to take her.”
Guilt hung off every syllable. Grace had been wanted. He just provided them an excuse. Or an opportunity. Maybe she’d already been slated because of the European connection. Maybe it was all some macabre coincidence.
Maybe we’d never have the real answer. It was enough to know they’d taken her and he was involved, however much it had been on the periphery. At the end of the day, he was responsible for what had happened to her sister. That, we would never forgive.
He all but sagged in relief when Lunchbox didn’t swing the rope again. I let him have his few second reprieve. But that was all it was. A reprieve.
“Let’s discuss the cartels that you worked with…” I said, then switched the questions between the two of them, rapid fire, not letting them pause to think or anticipate. Maybe Ignacio only worked as ground transport here, or maybe he was just another middleman. Sometimes they didn’t know what they knew.
We could work with the information.
Ignacio started talking first—too fast, too desperate—words tumbling out like he was trying to outrun his own terror.
“I—I know ship numbers,” he stammered, eyes wild. “And containers—specific ones—ones they flagged for pickup or offload—please—please—if I give you those?—”
“You’re bargaining?” Voodoo asked, voice low, almost amused. “Right now?”
Ignacio swallowed hard. “I—I know things—real things—containers, manifests, routes. I can give you those. I swear, I swear?—”
He jerked violently as the collar rubbed against his throat, whether from fear or instinct, I didn’t care.
“Tell Alphabet everything,” I said. “Every container number. Every ship name. Every route designation you ever handled.”
Ignacio gasped. “I—I don’t remember all of them?—”
Voodoo clicked the remote. A sharp pop of electricity.
Ignacio screamed.
“Try again,” I said, perfectly calm.
He rattled off a dozen numbers so fast Alphabet had to snap his fingers for him to slow down. Once we had the first list logged, we swung our attention to Sinclair.
“Your turn,” I said, tone deceptively polite. “Cartel contacts. Direct ones.”
Sinclair’s eyes rolled up for a second, then he shook his head violently. “I only—I only spoke to one—no, two—two from the Sarmiento line—one from La Madrina—one—fuck, fuck—one from the Castillo syndicate?—”
“Names,” Lunchbox demanded.
Sinclair’s chest hitched. “I didn’t—I didn’t keep track—I told you—Itold you—I didn’t want to know—didn’t want to remember—that way I couldn’t give anything up?—”
“That was stupid,” I said. “You should’ve kept track.”
“I didn’t!” he cried. “I didn’t—I swear—some were faceless—I only saw a few?—”
Lunchbox swung the rope lightly against his palm in a reminder.
Sinclair crumpled. Again.
“Five!” he blurted. “Five—I can give you five—I remember five—just five—please—please—don’t—don’t?—”
“Names,” Alphabet repeated, fingers poised over the keyboard.
Sinclair spat them out like rotten teeth he couldn’t swallow fast enough.
“Marcos Sarmiento or de Sarjiento—maybe La De Sargento. I just called him Marcos.”
