Chapter Nineteen
Trevor
Rough fabric scrapesagainst my cheek as I try to raise my head. It’s dark. I’m still wearing the hood. But it’s no longer strangling me. My senses return slowly without the use of my eyes. How the hell Dax does this every damn day, I’ll never know.
Then again, it’s not like he has a choice.
My whole body aches. I’m sitting up, that much I know. And I’m barefoot. Rough stone or concrete under my toes. Ropes secure my ankles to whatever they have me sitting on. A metal chair, I think. As I try to twist my legs back and forth, the thin, rough bindings abrade my skin.
My wrists are similarly bound, and I give up trying to free myself quickly when I realize there are more ropes at my elbows and knees.
I don’t know how long it’s been since they dragged me off that plane. Hours? A day? I don’t feel side effects from any sort of sedative, so it’s probably only been a few hours. My head pounds, dehydration leaving me feeling like my tongue is two sizes bigger than it should be.
Listen.
If I have any hope of getting through this, I need to rely on my training.
Don’t panic. Assess the situation. Make a plan. Bide your time. Execute with conviction.
A dull, low noise around me starts to coalesce into sounds I can recognize. Human suffering on a mass scale. Quiet moans. The occasional scream or curse—in Spanish.
No footsteps. Very little movement. Scuffing noises, like an arm or a leg sliding over the rough concrete. I try to recall the few photos and online rumors I was able to find about The Crypt.
Think.
My thoughts feel sluggish. Five underground levels. The first isn’t rumored to be all that bad—for a prison. Standard six by eight foot cells, each with a toilet, sink, and cot. But those are largely for show only. Those the Farías government only want to receive “a slap on the wrist.”
Each level below gets progressively more…inhumane.
I don’t know how long I sit quietly, controlling my breathing, counting the different pitches of coughs and moans. There could be up to thirteen separate prisoners within earshot. Maybe more. For all I know, some aren’t making any noise at all.
I can’t go much longer without water. My muscles are starting to cramp painfully, and with no ability to move, every time they do and I jerk, the ropes cut deeper in to my wrists and ankles.
“Hey, assholes! Some food and water would be nice! Unless you flew me all this way just to let me die on day one! Seems like a waste of jet fuel.”
Several voices call out, urging me to stay quiet.
“Silencio.”
“Cállate.”
“No los hagas venir.”
The last one—don’t make them come—is exactly what Iwantto happen. I need information. I need to see what’s on the other side of this hood and face the shitstains who think torturing a former CIA assassin is a good idea.
“You want me dead? Ignore me, then. I’ll just sing the national anthem until you come shut me up.”
Too far, Trev. Too far.
But I’m committed now. And possibly fucked in the head.
“Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light. What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?”
My throat is so parched, it seizes up on me, and after I cough hard enough I probably would have thrown up had there been anything in my stomach, I continue.
“Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, o’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming? And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air—“
I’m shouting so loudly, I don’t hear a thing. Until someone punches me in the gut, and I double over, unable to breathe.
