“Luis isn’t very polite,” I say, walking to the table and grabbing my knife. The serrated edge is perfect for cutting and lifting the flesh from his bones. “He refuses to answer my questions.” I trail the tip of the knife down his arm, slowly digging it into his ice-cold flesh. “Refuses to give me the name of the originating port.”
There are transporters that leave L.A. for Venezuela regularly, but I can’t just assume that’s how Jane and Vera were sent overseas. We have researched manifests of the L.A. port for two years from the time the Fords left Rydeville but couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. We need a name as well as the port of origin. There are several other US ports that sail to Venezuela, and they could have left the States via any of them. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack without something to work from.
I crouch at his feet and begin removing the patch of skin from just above his ankle bone. Luis screams, attempting to thrash around, but Charlie stands on his foot, holding him in place while I cut a nice even square of his flesh. The drill buzzes to life again, and the sounds ripping from Luis’s mouth as Charlie drills into the kneecap of his other leg is sweet, sweet rhapsody.
“We need music to work to,” Charlie says, reading my mind. Blood splatters his face and mask as he ceases drilling to open his cell. He props his phone up on the table, and I give him a “hell yeah” as his death metal playlist kicks in.
Between us, we carve up the sick prick, working companionably just like the old days. When I have a few choice pieces to work with, I lock eyes with Charlie and nod. He sets the drill down as I stand and admire the succession of holes in Luis’s right leg, running from the knee to his foot. Blood gushes from the wounds, but they’re only surface level. Charlie wouldn’t end his life so easily.
The music stops, and Charlie comes back to my side. His black jumpsuit is slick with blood, his face dripping in the stuff, and he looks completely in his element.
I hold the bloody skin patches in my hand as I lean down over Luis. His face is contorted in pain, and his eyes are wet with tears. “If you’re not going to fill your mouth with the words I need to hear, I’ll find something else to fill it with.”
“News flash,” Charlie says, jabbing a finger over his shoulder at the man crucified on the wall. “He filled the last guy’s mouth with chunks of his cock.”
Luis isn’t quick enough to hide his panic, and I chuckle. “I’ll go easy on you at first.” I hold up one of the squares I took from his leg. “It’s your choice. Tell me what I want to know, or start chomping, asshole.”
“Please, I don’t know anything.”
“Wrong answer, dickwad.” Shoving the bloody, fleshy lump between his lips, I clamp his mouth closed with my fingers and keep it sealed as he tries to spit it out. I hold it like that for a few seconds as he freaks out, his terrorized eyes widening with panic. Charlie grips his cheeks and arches his head back as I open his lips and push the flesh down with the handle of my knife to really drive it home. “I think it’s better if you chew.”
A gargling, choking sound fills the air, and I press my knee into his groin to hold him in place as I swirl the flesh around his mouth. Charlie and I exchange a look, and we sit him up straighter, plucking the mangled lump from his mouth and tossing it away. Can’t have him choking to death and ruining all our fun. “This is your final warning. Give me information, or we’ll chop up every part of your flesh and drip feed it to you.” I grin at my buddy. “I think we’ll try his ass next.”
“Feed shit to a piece of shit. I like it.”
I waggle my brows and grin. “More poetry in motion.”
“Don’t, don’t!” Panic threads through Luis’s tone. “I’ll tell you what I know if you promise to put a bullet in my skull.”
Charlie’s dark laugh bounces off the wall. “Can you believe this motherfucker?” Charlie turns the drill on and drives it through Luis’s nipple. “Who the fuck said you had any bargaining rights?”
“Men who get into bed with predators don’t deserve any leniency,” I say, slicing his other nipple off with my knife.
Luis shouts and roars, and tears leak from his eyes.
It’s beautiful to behold.
“But it’s your lucky day, fuckface.” I carve a line in his cheekbone. “I’m a busy man, and I don’t have hours to waste,” I lie, “so I’ll agree to your deal, but don’t try to fuck with me, Luis. If you do, I’ll take your punishment out on your preciousabuelita.”
Resignation floods his eyes. Finally. A fresh wave of adrenaline surges through my veins.
“There is a gringo in L.A. who oversees the shipments. I spoke to him on the phone a few times. I only have a first name.”
“What is it?”
“Miguel.”
I stab my knife into his gut. “What did I say about lying to me, Luis?”
“I’m not lying,” he says in between sobs.
“That’s not enough.” Charlie restarts the drill, and Luis begins hyperventilating. I slap him a couple times. “We need something more.”
“I don’t have anything more,” he cries.
Charlie and I share a look. Time to cut our losses.
Charlie brings the drill to his other knee while I move to the table and pick up the chainsaw. Darkness swallows me whole as I charge it up, and the raw, grating sound soothes a little of my pain. This has been the story of this journey. Get a great lead, followed by a dead end, and I’m tired of waiting for the ultimate revenge. Tired of not knowing who did this to my love.
