The bald man swore. “He’s wasting our time.”
“No,” said the woman sharply. “He knows where Khachatryan is. I could see it in his eyes: Heknows. We’ll make him remember. Get out the boot.”
Colcord stared as the bald man retrieved an ancient wooden box from one of the packs, laying it on the kitchen counter. With practiced movements, he opened the lid and began to lay its contents on the tile: a pair of plyers, a set of tweezers, a bone saw, some things he wasn’t sure what they were, and what he was pretty sure was an eyeball scoop—still covered in what looked like dried blood. Lastly, she reverently lifted out something Colcord recognized: an iron contraption, crude but all polished up and gleaming. She opened it, exposing wicked rusted spikes on the inside. The infamous Spanish boot.
“My deputies are on their way up here now.” Colcord tried to project his voice with strength. “If any harm comes to me, the FBI will be on you like a ton of bricks. You won’t get away with this.”
“You’re lying,” the woman responded. “We followed Agent Cash up here. She came alone. You followed. Alone.” She added, “We know more about you than you think.”
Colcord could feel the bald man removing his hiking boot and sock. He tried to jerk his leg away, but the rope had no slack and chafed painfully on his ankle. He felt the cold grip of iron as well as tiny pinpricks that tickled the bottom of his foot. He could feel the leather straps tightening around his calf.
“Where is Khachatryan?” the woman asked pleasantly. “You said Portugal. Where?”
Even if he did remember, Colcord had no intention of telling them. They were going to kill him anyway, and he was done talking. He wasa sheriff, entrusted with protecting people. He’d been trained for this. Even if decades had passed, it stayed with you.
“I can’t remember.”
The woman nodded at the man, and Colcord heard the squeak of an iron screw and felt a sudden pressure mounting around his shin. Another squeak, and suddenly the feeling of dozens of cold needles boring into the sole of his foot radiated throughout his body. He stiffened and suppressed a scream, focusing on a whorl in the wood above his head. The pain eased to a hot throb. Colcord felt wetness on the sole of his foot.
“Where is he?” the woman said.
“Fuck. You,” Colcord said, and successfully kept his voice from shaking.
The bald man’s brow furrowed.
“Give it another turn,” said the woman.
That hideous rusty squeak sounded again, and the pressure on Colcord’s shin mounted to an unbearable level, the sole of his foot on fire with an insane amount of pain. Colcord gritted his teeth against an involuntary, guttural scream, but couldn’t hold it in, and he heard himself roar.
The woman smiled and held out a palm to the man. The mounting pressure stopped, but the agonizing pain continued. The coppery smell of blood filled the air.
“This can stop, if you tell us where Khachatryan is,” the woman said.
“I don’t know,” Colcord gasped. He wondered what his foot looked like. Hopefully not a mangled mess like the others’. Nothing felt like it had broken yet, at least. He supposed it didn’t matter—all things considered.
The bald man said, “We’re wasting time. He doesn’t know. Maybe we’ll get what we need from the other one.”
“Fine,” said the woman. “Do it.”
The bald man brought out his gun again.
“I’m Catholic,” Colcord managed to gasp.
She laughed. “Oh, please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“I’m Catholic.You can’t just kill me like this. You’re not going to give me last rites like the others?”
The bald paused from checking his gun, head cocked. “You’re full of shit.” He raised it.
Colcord wracked his brains for something Catholic to say, something, anything.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…”he gasped. How did it go?
The bald man exchanged a glance with the woman.
“Keep going,” the woman said.
“Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death.”
