“Well, you did. And my son, too.”
“I know. It was wrong and I feel just awful about it. But I never planned for it to happen. It just did. Can you ever forgive me?”
“No. Not a chance. You need to burn in hell for what you did.”
Daisy’s voice turned soft. “It was a mistake and I’m sorry. I wish you could forgive me. We used to be such good friends. I just want things to be the way they used to be.”
Stephanie snorted an angry huff. “Things will never be the same because of you. Never. You can’t go back and undo what’s been done.”
“I know. It kills me inside. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m just glad it’s dark in here, so I don’t have to look at your face.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A thunderous punch landed on Bunker’s gut, making him gasp for air. Then another came, striking his cheek and snapping his head to the right. If his hands weren’t bound to the metal frame above his head, he would’ve returned the beating tenfold.
So far, he’d taken everything the masked men had thrown at him, literally, and hadn’t said a word. Only the occasional grunt as their grilling intensified.
He was defiant. Steadfast. Unwilling to crack. All the while, studying the trio between the waves of pain. He couldn’t see their faces—only their determined eyes behind the masks.
But that didn’t stop him from sensing their frustration or overhearing their comments to each other. Most of them came after they stripped him of his clothes and removed the bandages on his neck. It seemed the blowtorch scars had them more intrigued than the artwork across his body.
Somehow his presence in Clearwater had upset their plans, whatever they might be. And for some reason, they couldn’t proceed without discovering his identity first. He knew they were desperate, making him laugh inside.
He hadn’t seen Daisy since the two of them were ambushed in front of Tuttle’s place, then separated. Probably to keep them from communicating during transport. Perhaps they assumed he and Daisy were a couple, or that Bunker was a law enforcement officer, like her. Her uniform was a dead giveaway and so, too, were the location and timing of where they’d been detained.
He worried Daisy was in another one-window shack and naked like him, being questioned with the same vigor and tenacity. If he was right, then she’d crack soon. She didn’t have his years of training—or life experience—leaving her at the mercy of her own pain receptors.
Daisy didn’t know much about Bunker’s past, and that was a good thing. For him. Not her. Unfortunately, her suffering would continue until one of two things happened: she took her last breath, or they got answers. Satisfactory answers. Answers she didn’t know and couldn’t give them.
Even though he hated the idea of her being tortured, she knew the risks when she signed up for duty. The same was true for anyone who wore a uniform to work. Whether it be law enforcement or military, they put their lives on the line every day. Still, it didn’t make the situation any easier.
So far, these men had kept their interrogation at level one: physical beating. They weren’t amateurs by any stretch, picking their impact points with precision to inflict the most agony.
Yet they were running the detainment scenario by the numbers. So far, at least. What they didn’t know was that Bunker would never cooperate, no matter what they did to him. He’d been training for this moment all his life, and now it was time for the ultimate test. If it came down to his will against theirs, they were going to lose.
When you don’t care what happens to you and you have nothing to live for, it gives you an advantage. An endless advantage. Granted, death would most likely come for him today, but he didn’t care. Death was a victory of sorts. His salvation.
Before his next breath, another thump landed on his side, sending a pressure wave through his ribcage to the other side.
When he closed his eyes to suck in the pain, his old man’s favorite saying roared in his thoughts: Born to Fight. To some, those words might not make sense in a situation like this. But to Bunker, they did, cradling him in reassurance.
Just then, more of his father’s incessant preachings came to his thoughts. They played in a rhythmic chant, finding a familiar cadence that cradled his soul.
Pain is your friend.
So is fear.
Both of them keep you alive.
Both of them keep you strong.
A true warrior tests himself.
A true warrior punishes himself.
Because until he knows pain, he doesn’t know himself.
Bunker wasn’t sure how long he’d been tied to the vertical bedspring attached to the wall of the old miner’s shack. More than an hour. Less than a day. Long enough for his captors to do a number on his head and midsection.
Every impact point was sore and bruised, plus the streaks of blood across his body seemed to be growing with each round of strikes. Most of the gashes were on his cheeks, chin, and forehead.
“I can keep this up all day,” the man in the middle said in perfect English, readying his cloth-wrapped fist for another round of rights.
The punishers spoke without a hint of an accent, leaving Bunker to guess about who these men were and where they were from. Accents and dialects are important when sizing up an opponent. Accents can reveal an adversary’s motivation, or at least their tendencies, since different locales carry their own ideology. Accents give a diligent student an advantage if he’s paying attention. And Bunker was, to every word and every movement.
Thus far, the interrogator had kept the one-sided conversation to a minimum, only asking three questions.
“Who are you?”
“What are you doing in Clearwater?”
“Who do you work for?”
The other two men in the room hadn’t said much. Must be observers, Bunker figured as another punch found its mark. He steeled the left side of his abdomen, welcoming the pain as it penetrated like a sword.
When the man pulled his hand back in advance of another strike, Bunker locked eyes with him and held his stare. He didn’t blink until the blow landed on his cheekbone. The force tore open his skin, sending blood down to his neck.
Bunker wondered if anyone in the room could sense that he was enjoying the hurt. The more they dished it out, the more it bolstered his defiance to tell them nothing.
Little did they know, his extensive military and street training had kicked in shortly after first blood was drawn. He was now deep within his own mind where the pain morphed into something else, something powerful and spiritual—almost transcendent in nature—allowing him to retain control over his fear.
He knew his ability to take the punishment was going to test everyone in the room. Probably more than any prisoner they’d questioned before. Soon, they’d have no choice but to change tactics, once they realized their blows were useless.
The next evolution would no doubt involve the metal framework digging into his back. Ever since they’d removed his clothing, the coiled bed springs had been probing his skin for weakness.
There was only one reason to remove his shoes and socks, then strip him naked: to maximize skin contact before the water buckets were introduced to his feet with the help of high voltage. All of it was designed to enhance the anxiety level—standard procedure during interrogation.
Bunker took a count of the car batteries beyond the buckets: six. Overkill, he figured, but effective.
Two breaths later, the man hitting him said, “Last chance, asshole. You won’t like what’s coming next.”
Bunker gave him a bloody smile, sending a message that he didn’t care. If they were going to electrocute him, he welcomed it. It seemed fitting, given his past and all the horrible things he’d done.
“Take a break,” the observer on the left said. His volume was low, but not too low, almost as though he wanted Bunker to hear what he was going to say next, accidental like. “Let his pain settle in and do a little convincing for us. When the chief gets here, he’
s gonna want answers. Especially about all those tattoos. This man better be ready to talk.”
“If he’s not?”
“Then so be it. We’ll get something out of the women. Or the kids.”
Bunker’s attention locked onto the words he’d just heard.
Women.
Kids.
Plural forms of each term.
He and Daisy weren’t the only prisoners.
There were more.
The revelation made his chest tighten, like someone had just parked a school bus on it.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Albert Mortenson gave Dustin Brown the first of three stainless steel trays. The container looked like an oversized baking sheet without the grease. Or the cookies.
“Hold this under the feeder tip and move it around. That way we’ll get an even layer across the tray,” Albert said, keeping a close eye on the process.
“Like this?” Dustin asked, sliding the tray to the left, then the right, letting the red, gelatinous substance land on the surface and smooth out. It oozed from the tip like a batch of freshly made hot fudge being poured onto a sundae.
“Yeah, that’s about right. Just a little slower. Let it collect a little before you move it again. It’ll make the next step a lot easier if we end up with a smooth, even layer.”
“Reminds me of the taffy my mom used to make. Only this stuff is red instead of purple.”
Albert laughed, thinking of a similar time when he and his mom were baking pies in the kitchen upstairs, directly over this spot in the basement. “But this candy is much sweeter, if you know what I mean. And pure. Ninety-seven percent pure, to be exact.”
“Both will rot your teeth, too,” Dustin added in an upbeat tone, following through with the analogy.
Albert chuckled, feeling their kinship deepen. “But instead of costing you money, this treat will fill your pockets with the kind of cash you’ve only ever dreamed about. The kind of cash that will buy you anything you could ever want.”
“And anyone we could ever want, right?” Dustin asked, continuing to work the tray under the feeder.
“Oh yeah. Even that drop-dead gorgeous deputy you like,” Albert said, smiling at his new friend from inside the hood of the hazmat suit.
“Actually, Daisy’s your favorite. Not mine.”
Albert couldn’t deny it. “Ya got me there. I won’t lie. I figure a couple grand should do it. Chump change once we start delivery.”
“Really? Just throw money at her and she’ll drop her panties?”
“Trust me, every chick has her price. Even a deputy. You should’ve seen the smoking hot little spinner I had in LA. Every inch of her was perfect. And I mean perfect. She was this golden-skinned goddess from Panama and super religious when I first met her. But she caved on all her beliefs once I showed her the cash. Lots of it.”
“A spinner, huh?”
“Yep. And let me tell you, Latin chicks are amazing. And fierce.”
“I do like them a little smaller.”
Albert knew he had Dustin hooked. All he needed to do was continue to tap into the man’s primal desire. If he did that, his new pal would follow along like a lost puppy.
“Then that settles it, dog. We’ll get you two of ‘em with the help of my contacts south of the border. That way you have some variety. But first, we continue production until we have the inventory needed to satisfy my distribution network down in LA.”
“How are we going to get it there? It’s not like we can just send it UPS. Or drive it there ourselves. Nothing works anymore.”
“I got a couple of ideas about that. But let’s focus on one thing at a time.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we just sold it locally? We’re already here and so is the supply.”
“Nah, too risky. We’d have to expose ourselves. And our operation. Never a good idea. Sort of like the old saying, never shit where you eat.”
“But I thought the deputy badges were going to help with all that?”
“Not on a street level. First, we have to raise some serious cash, and the best way to do that is out of town, where the network’s already set up. Once we have the funds in pocket, we’ll import the slingers we need for this neck of the woods.”
“Makes sense.”
“When you first open a new area, you never recruit locally. Not when you don’t know the players. Especially in a small town like Clearwater. One mistake and everyone knows. I’ve found it’s best if the initial pushers are from out of town. That way, the LEOs think the supply is from out of town, too, and they don’t start a hard target search. The last thing we want is for the Sheriff’s Department or the State Troopers to start sniffing around. Can you imagine what would happen right now if they stopped by unannounced?”
“LEOs?”
“Law enforcement officers.”
“Like us.”
“Exactly. Only trained and dedicated. Not easy to bribe.”
Dustin finished covering the last section of the tray with Clearwater Red. “Okay, that’s one. I’m ready for another.”
Albert gave him the second tray. “After this, we let it sit. Once the blend is solid, we’ll smash the ice into pieces and weigh it. I figure this batch should come in around twenty-five pounds, give or take. Depending on how well we followed my recipe.”
* * *
Rusty Buckley parked his racing bike in front of the town hall and lashed it to a lamppost with a self-coiling heavy duty cable chain hanging from the top tube of the frame. He set the tumblers on the lock to a random combination, then took the water bottle from the holder attached to the down tube. It only took a few seconds to swallow a long, refreshing swig, replenishing his fluids.
The past twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind of assignments, keeping him on the padded seat of his lightweight carbon fiber ride. So far, the new Tommaso performance machine had lived up to the hype, giving him confidence he’d made the best choice, given his modest budget.
He wished he could have purchased the top-selling model, but couldn’t afford it. The Mayor had offered to help him upgrade, but he turned his grandfather down, wanting to pay his own way. The last thing he needed was rumors flying around that the Mayor stepped in and spoiled him. Never a good idea when you’re living in a small town where everyone knows you’re the grandson of the most powerful politician.
The intense burn in his thighs tugged at his attention as he walked to the entrance. The muscle strain felt invigorating after the two-mile sprint.
Ever since the blackout, he’d fallen behind on his Olympic training schedule. He decided to make it up by pushing himself whenever he was out on the Sheriff’s field assignments. Anytime he approached an uphill grade, he downshifted and began a full-on sprint, much like he’d have to do if he made the U.S. cycling team.
Rusty put two fingers to his neck to check his heart rate, wondering what time it was. His Fitbit Superwatch wasn’t working, but he knew he was late for his report. More than a half hour late, he guessed. But it couldn’t be helped. Not after what he’d discovered on the latest reconnaissance mission.
His mind churned through the new information, trying to figure out the best way to tell his grandfather what he’d learned. The door to the Mayor’s office was only three minutes away, so he needed to hurry. Then again, if he took the stairs one step at a time instead of two, he could delay his arrival time.
When he reached for the handle on the entrance door, a man’s voice called out from behind. “Hey Rusty. Great timing!”
He turned, seeing Sheriff Apollo and his familiar smile. Rusty held the door open. “Hey Sheriff.”
The chief lawman entered first, turning sideways as he brushed past Rusty’s outstretched arm.
“You headed up to see your grandfather?” Apollo asked.
“Yes sir.”
“So am I. If you don’t mind, we should walk together and catch up a bit.”
“Fine by me.”
“How’s that new bike holding up?”
“Awesome. Worth every penny,” Rusty answered, walking next to Apollo as they crossed the foyer.
“I’m sure it is. There’s a deep sense of pride when you work hard and save up for something you really want. I’m proud of you, son. We need more young people like you these days. I fear the new generation doesn’t appreciate the value of a dollar.”
“Yeah, I got a couple of friends like that. It’s kinda sad, really. I think it totally affects their motivation. Some of them should be much better racers, but they just don’t work hard enough.”
“Well, your grandfather and I know how much time and effort you put into your training. Which is why it goes without saying that we appreciate you taking a break from it to assist us. Did you get a chance to talk to your training partners? Are they available to help?”
“So far, they’ve all blown me off. I tried to convince them it was the right thing to do, but they gave me some lame excuse, like having stuff to do around the house. I think it’s really their girlfriends making them stay home with the power out.”
“Hey, at least you tried. I know your grandfather is proud of you for stepping up like this.”
“Just wish he’d say it once in a while. Sometimes, I feel like I’m invisible when I’m around him.”
“Don’t sweat it, Rusty. He’s a very busy man these days. Trust me, the Mayor talks about you all the time.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Rusty said, following Apollo into the stairwell.
The friendly conversation continued until the two men hit the third floor, where they turned and headed down the hall. The door at the end of the corridor was their destination.
For some reason, the hallway seemed a lot shorter than Rusty remembered. And the Mayor’s door looked twice as imposing, like a sentinel for the damned.
When a stab of pain hit Rusty’s chest, he realized he’d been too busy chatting with the Sheriff about his Olympic dreams to finish arranging the words in his head for his field report.
Now that the Sheriff was tagging along, it was even more important he didn’t sound like a complete idiot and embarrass his grandfather.
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 26
