I crouched down until my face was level with his, elbows on my knees, bottle dangling from my fingertips. “You want spice, Agent? Fine. Harley, the jumper cables.”
There was a little pause. I could almost feel the air turn electric with anticipation.
Harley set down the bag, zipped it open, and pulled out the cables, heavy-duty clamps at each end. The rubber grips had been peeled back on purpose, so all that was left was cold, hungry metal. Hillabrand’s eyes flicked to the bag, and for the first time, I noticed a little crack in his performance. His bravado dropped an inch. Maybe two.
I leaned in, voice low. “You know, I always wondered if you FBI types got to see real action, or if you just sat behind a desk and played with your own dicks. Guess we’re about to find out.”
“Shove it, Azzaro,” he mumbled. He was blinking a lot now. Sweat had started above his brows.
Harley switched on the self contained unit, as I opened and closed the clamps. I took my sweet time rolling up Hillabrand’s sleeves. “Left or right, Agent?”
He didn’t answer, so I shrugged and picked left. “Harley, hold steady.”
Harley gripped Hillabrand’s shoulder. I clamped the alligator’s teeth to the tender inside of his wrist, right over the veins. He jerked, jaw clenched, but didn’t make a sound. The next clamp went to the opposite wrist, just as pretty.
“Ready?” I murmured.
He glared at me. “Fuck you.”
“Good enough.”
I gestured. Harley flipped the breaker.
At first? Nothing. Hillabrand’s eyes just went wide, and his body tensed, but the current was running, I could see it in the way his hair stood up, the way his teeth gritted so hard his jaw could have snapped. Then his throat worked up a groan. Muscles all down his arms and chest twitched and jumped like a puppet with tangled strings.
I counted off the seconds, slow enough for him to know I was counting.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Hillabrand started to shake, sweat pouring down now, his head lolling back. I let it go to nine before cutting it.
He sagged, breathing ragged, arms trembling like Jell-O.
Harley laughed. “You want to try that again, Boss?”
I grinned. “You have a favorite number, Hillabrand?”
He spat to the side, voice hoarse. “You want my bank account? Last four digits are eight, six, six, two.”
I clucked my tongue. “Still not the answer I wanted.”
I hit him again.
This time, he screamed.
It wasn’t even the loud kind of scream, more like a guttural growl that he tried to hold in, but it tore out of him anyway. The pain had to be excruciating. I’d seen it before, and I never got used to it. But I watched and waited.
When I cut the current, his head lolled back, mouth open, eyes fluttering.
Harley whistled. “Damn, he’s tougher than you’d think.”
I leaned in, brushed the hair from Hillabrand’s forehead, and slapped his cheek—not hard. Just enough to bring him back.
“Who’s your rat, Hillabrand?”
