He coughed. “I’m not giving you shit.”
I shrugged. “We’ve got time.”
I gestured to Harley, who moved to the machine, ready to flip it again.
But then I paused.
I didn’t want to fry the bastard’s brain. Not yet. Not unless I had to. There were other ways.
I stood and paced in front of him, shaking out the tension in my hands. My heart was racing, but my head was fucking clear. I could see it all: Hillabrand’s sweat-soaked shirt, the way his knuckles had gone white around the chair arms, Harley’s eyes watching me, waiting for the next move.
Electricity was one thing. Old school, reliable. But Hillabrand was right—I needed variety.
“Alright, let’s try something new,” I said, turning back to my bag of toys. I dug through it, rattling metal, searching for the next tool. There—a thin metal spike, and a blowtorch. Classic, but effective.
Harley watched. He knew this drill.
I flicked the torch on, the flame bright and hungry. I held the metal until it glowed orange at the tip, then turned and crouched in front of Hillabrand again.
He stared at me, sweat running down his cheeks. “That’s all you got, Gavriel? I expected more from the Owl’s Talon.”
I grinned, teeth bared, and pressed the hot metal against the side of his neck.
He didn’t scream, not at first. He just grunted, straining against the ropes, the smell of burnt flesh filling the little basement room. It was sharp, chemical, unforgettable.
When I pulled it away, a perfect round welt sizzled on his skin.
“You want another one?” I asked.
He spat blood. “Your mother fucks dead and in the ground better than you torture.”
I shook my head, almost laughing. “You’re a mouthy son of a bitch. You think you’re going to make it out of here? You think your rat is going to save you?”
He looked me dead in the eyes, challenge flashing. “I think you’re going to run out of tricks before I run out of loyalty.”
Fine.
I reached down, yanked his left shoe off. He tried to kick, but Harley pinned both his legs. I pulled off the sock, baring his foot, then pressed the glowing-hot metal spike against the tender arch.
This time he made a noise. Not a scream. A hiss, a wet curse, and a muffled groan.
I let it linger, just until the skin started to blister, then moved to the other foot.
“You want me to stop?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I want you to fucking die.”
I smiled. “You’re not going to get that wish today, Agent. But you might get a few new scars.”
I pressed the spike down, just below his ankle.
He panted and stared down at his feet, like he was determined to watch every second of it. Like the pain made him more alive.
I respected the hell out of that.
Still, I was going to break him.
I tossed the spike back toward the bag and stood up, letting Harley re-tie his feet, this time tighter.
