Two other prisoners tell us to be quiet, and I won’t risk drawing the soldiers’ attention to them. They’ve been here longer. They don’t have my training. But I have to reassure Luis, so I chance one more word. “Yes.”
* * *
Another three patrols pass by,and I can feel myself getting weaker by the minute. Two cornmeal cakes and a single cup of water isn’t enough to keep me alive for long, and the world spins when I push myself up.
Keys rattle from just outside my cell, and the door bangs open. Fuck. They were quiet, and now that they know I’ve been moving around, things are likely to get a lot worse for me. Rough hands fasten around my upper arms and drag me down the hall.
Back into the elevator, where they drop me in the corner and start kicking me. Curling my arms around my head, I twist until my back is against the wall and let all of my muscles go limp except for my abs. Liver, kidneys, head, dick, and balls. Those are the most vulnerable spots.
As the elevator jerks to a stop, the soldiers stop their assault and grab me again, and before I can get my bearings, I’m in another room. This one’s bigger. Emptier. No chair. No bars. Just concrete walls and floors with old stains I recognize. Bodily fluids. Blood.
With nowhere to strap me down, the soldiers keep hold of my arms. My bent knees are just touching the ground, and I keep my head bowed, hoping Ochoa will believe I don’t have the strength to raise it.
“Señor Moana. How was your first night with us?” Using a fistful of my hair to yank my head up, he slaps me across the cheek with his other hand.
“Peachy,” I manage. “Three stars. You’re spending way too much…on air conditioning.”
I expect him to order the soldiers to beat me for my sarcasm, but instead, he laughs. “Oh, Presidente Farías subsidizes our power. We are not concerned. But you should be, my friend.”
“Not your fucking friend.”
This earns me a quick punch to the stomach, but I’m ready for it and tighten my abs just in time. Ochoa stifles a grunt at the unexpected resistance, and his eyes narrow. “You are a strong man, Señor Moana. I respect that. So I will give you another chance to help me get what I want.” He releases his grip on my hair, and I stop pretending, lifting my head to stare him in his cold, brown eyes.
“And what’s that, dickwad?”
“Names.”
“Tom. Dick. Harry. That good enough for you?”
Anger twists his expression for a brief second, and then he schools his features into a mask of calm. “Those are not the names I am interested in. You will tell me all of the American assets in Caracas.”
“Did you miss the part where I’mex-CIA? That information’s well above my pay grade now.”
Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell him. And he knows it.
The warm air in the room is playing on my exhaustion, dulling my senses and my reaction time as my body yearns to sleep for even a few minutes. The next two punches hit soft tissue, and I retch, spitting blood and bile onto the floor at Ochoa’s feet.
“For every name you give me,” Ochoa says, stepping over the bloody mess, “I will allow you one hour of sleep. For every five names, a hot meal. But only if you tell me the truth.”
There it is.
He’s practically following the advanced interrogation and torture handbook to the letter. Every time he drags me out of my cell and into this room, I’ll be colder, hungrier, and more exhausted than I am right now. Self-preservation will kick in, and I’ll have to fight my base need tosurvive.
The lights never go off. Not even here. I’m already losing track of time. Soon, I’ll forget what the sun looked like, how it felt on my skin. And Dani. I won’t be able to call up her scent. The sound of her voice. The feel of her body against mine.
“One name, Trevor. Just one and you can sleep for an hour. Up here, where it is warm.” Ochoa’s voice is calm and reassuring. I can still see through his act. But for how much longer?
Raising my head, I spit in his face. “Fuck you.”
He pulls a square of linen from his pocket and casually wipes his cheek, but when he speaks again, his voice is hard and cold, his anger barely contained. “Take him back to his cell.”
* * *
Dani
It takes us an hour longer than expected to get to the safe house, and I have two messages from Austin that he’s stuck in the same terrible traffic we are.
Ronan is snoring in the seat across from me, with Graham and Ryker keeping a constant watch for any car that might be following us. We’ve taken half a dozen detours because Ryker “had a bad feeling” about something. Only one because of Graham.
