by Hilton, Matt
Molina ignored my taunt.
He walked past, with me dancing on my toes to keep him in view. He approached the stainless-steel range at the far end of the room and fed the rope into the sink. Then, watching me with a gaze as hard and soulless as a lump of concrete, he took down the hose and aimed the nozzle at the rope. Hitting a lever, he allowed the water to spray all over the woven hemp. He wasn’t washing off the blood of its previous victims, but weighting the torture weapon all the more. That or he meant to make the rope more pliable so that it would impact on the maximum area of my body with each swing. Bastard intended hurting me bad.
Chapter 40
The first stroke of the wet rope came to my abdomen.
I’d never known pain like it.
I’ve been shot, stabbed, beaten, but nothing came close to the agony induced by such a simple torture implement as that length of soaking hemp. First came the solid cudgel-like blow, followed a moment later by the rasping tear of rough fibres across the skin, compounded by the blast of atomised moisture that cut deep into the dermis. I’d swear the stinging welt rose an inch from my hide even before Molina jerked the rope away for strike number two. He slashed me across both thighs this time, and there was nothing I could do to halt the recoiling of my muscles, the involuntary spasm of my legs that snatched my toes from the floor and left me hanging on the bindings round my wrists. It almost tore my arms from their sockets.
I fought the pain, tried to get my feet under me.
Molina walked behind me and the next blow came blind, yet not unexpected, to my lower spine. There was no way I could alleviate the pain or the tortuous position of my body. I shuddered out a cry that hurt almost as much as the physical torture.
Molina had no pity.
He slashed the rope across my right triceps, and I feared he’d broken my arm. If that was the case, and he’d done a proper job of shattering my humerus, it might have alleviated some of the pain in my shoulders when my arm gained an extra joint and allowed more freedom of movement. Yet my arm wasn’t broken, the damage was centred in the tissue of my muscles and skin. I couldn’t hold in the cry that followed, yet there was enough rage in me to change it from one of beseeching to one of challenge. Molina snorted at my bravado and played the rope across my buttocks in a way that was repulsive, as suggestive of male rape as if he’d whispered the threat in my ear. The lascivious way in which he allowed the stiff rope to probe at my backside was more insidious than the promise of further beatings. I twisted away from him, trying to face my tormentor.
He grabbed my bindings with his free hand, yanked me back to where I’d started. Craning my head round, I could barely see where he shortened his grip on the wet rope. In the next instant he thrust the rope between my thighs, hauling up on it so that the rope whacked me painfully in the testicles. I thought I’d black out. I would have vomited if my stomach hadn’t been so empty.
‘I used this on her,’ he said.
His voice was unaccented. He sounded like an Ivy Leaguer, and not the Central American gangster he was.
‘That’s all you could use on her, you limp-dicked piece of crap,’ I croaked.
‘Did you fuck her?’
‘What?’
‘You screwed her, right? I’d expect no less from the cheap whore.’
‘Does that give you a secret thrill, Molina? Thinking of another man screwing your wife? What’s wrong: you can’t get it up these days without some sick stimulation?’
Molina jabbed me in the balls again.
‘I raped her, Joe Hunter, and I did not need this.’ He jabbed me for a third time, and if not for the fact my scrotum had shrivelled tight in reflex to the abuse, then major tissue damage would have resulted. ‘I used this–’ another jab – ‘after I’d finished with her, to ensure no other man would go with her again.’
‘Bastard.’ My curse came nowhere close to what I wanted to call him. But I couldn’t think of words strong enough to express my hatred, not when his words had just given me hope. Maybe he was toying with me afresh, but from what he’d just given away, Kirstie was still alive. Violated, perhaps, but still alive.
‘Kirstie is the mother of your son,’ I reminded him. ‘Does that mean nothing to you?’
‘No. She was a whore when I met her, was a whore throughout our marriage and things haven’t changed since.’
Molina hauled me round, this time using a fist in my hair to manoeuvre me into position. He was in kicking range, but I had neither the strength nor the hope that I could hurt him badly enough to satisfy me.
‘What did she promise you, Joe Hunter?’ He pronounced my full name as if it was something to be despised. ‘Did she offer to fuck you if you came to my house and stole my son? Is that why you chose to become my enemy, Joe Hunter? Do you think the promise of her stinking pussy was worth it?’
‘You disgust me,’ I growled. ‘You think you’re some big shot, but you’re nothing. You’re a foul-mouthed punk, a fucking coward who won’t even face his enemies on level ground.’
‘I disgust you?’ Molina laughed harshly. ‘Well isn’t that a shame! By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll know what genuine disgust feels like. Here, how’s this for starters?’
He spat in my face.
I held his gaze while the saliva dribbled down my cheek and dripped from my jaw.
‘My friend, the CIA agent, tells me you used to be something,’ Molina went on. ‘He warned me that you were a dangerous adversary, Joe Hunter. I believe that his impression of you is somewhat overblown. You disgust me. You are nothing. You are an inconsequential piece of meat waiting to be butchered. But I’ll still take much delight in cutting you to pieces. Perhaps I’ll bring the knife soon, but–’ he made a show of eyeing me up and down – ‘you still require some tenderising.’
‘Like I said: Bring it on.’
‘Thank you. I will.’
The wet rope slashed across my chest. Every strand of the rope felt like a single brand that tore at my skin. It was difficult to hold back the tears, but I managed, though my eyeballs stood out with the effort.
‘You have insulted me, Joe Hunter. Both your attack on my home, and the stealing of my son, I take very personally. Such acts cannot be tolerated. I am a man with enemies, Joe Hunter, far more powerful than you. Once they learn of your deeds they will appraise my position in the hierarchy and find me wanting. They will believe that they can attack my home, take my son, and maybe try to take everything I own, including my life. You have caused me untold embarrassment and inconvenience, and the only way to put things right is to make a supreme example of you. I will show those who now think me weak that they are wrong. This–’ his next strike came furiously and almost tore my lips from my face – ‘is nothing to what I have in store for you and your friends.’
I hung from my bindings. The pain in my mouth outweighed the rest and was the only thing that held back the creeping unconsciousness that swam through my vision like dirty flood water.
‘How did you ever expect to succeed in your stupid plan? Did you think a line on a map would stop me from taking back what is rightfully mine? Had you made it across the border, did you think the pursuit would end there? I’d hunt you and my whore wife to the end of the earth if need be. I would not stop.’
‘Please . . .’
‘Please what? Spare you?’ Molina laughed, and it was a nasty sound.
‘Please hit me again,’ I corrected him. ‘I can’t bear to listen to your bullshit any longer. You’re so far up your own arse you give suppositories a bad name.’
My words hit him like a slap to the face. He took a step back, blinking slowly, his features darkening with a flush of anger. He allowed some of the rope to slip through his fingers, lengthening the part that trailed from his fist. He was preparing to let loose a flurry of devastating cuts on me. He took a half step forward, and was checked by a bang on the door. He swung to the source of the noise, the cords in his neck straining with unchecked anger. I wasn’t sure if he wa
s mad at me or at the untimely intrusion of Howell Regis, who came in unannounced.
‘What do you want?’ Molina’s voice came out high-pitched, like the spoiled brat I believed him to be.
Regis checked me out. He curled his lips back on yellow teeth as he appraised my battered body, not in distaste at the state of me, but at the fact I was still alive.
‘I need to speak with you, Jorge.’ Regis waited, still disgusted that I was in the here and now. ‘It won’t wait.’
‘I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed.’ Molina gripped the rope, as if he would lash out at his co-conspirator for having the gall to distract him.
‘It’s important.’ Regis’s voice had taken on a wheedling tone. He was fearful, and I wasn’t sure it had anything to do with Jorge Molina or the wet rope.
‘This is important,’ said Molina, shaking the rope in my direction.
Regis jerked his head, indicating that Molina should follow him outside. Apparently whatever he had to say wasn’t for my ears. I wondered – no, hoped – that Rink had found his way to Molina’s den and was tearing the place apart.
Molina snorted, but he threw down the rope. He looked at me. ‘I’ll be back.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
Both men left the room. The door was heavy and insulated. It didn’t fully close behind them though, the catch holding it open a fraction. It didn’t offer an avenue of escape, not while I was strung up like a Christmas turkey, but it allowed me to hear the sound of their heels fading down the hall, even if I could make out nothing of the bitter words they shared in low whispers.
The timely reprieve had most likely saved me. Molina’s rage was such that he was prepared to beat the innards from me with his torture device. I’d goaded him into the act after all, in the hope that – somehow – he would make a mistake and come too close to avoid the teeth I’d have sunk into his windpipe. Now, I realised, all I’d achieved was to prolong the intense agony, and the lingering death I was assured when Molina returned, calmer of mind.
Earlier I’d hurt everywhere.
That was nothing now.
I’d gone beyond mere pain, transcended a plane of existence where sheer agony dominated everything and there was no respite.
However, as I’ve noted before, the strength of human resilience can be shocking.
I was so beaten up, my muscles and tendons on fire, my skin crawling as though an electric current surged across it, my brain thumping so madly inside my cranium, that I’d have been forgiven if I gave up and slumped against my bindings. But I didn’t do that. No. As soon as my enemies were out of earshot, I immediately craned up, searching for a way out of my predicament.
I could see where the rope had been fed over a ceiling-mounted hook. The hook itself was attached to a bracket that ran the width of the room, wall to wall, and had been fixed to sturdy wall mounts by heavy bolts. Other empty hooks decorated the length of the bracket, and I assumed that animal carcasses had once been lined all along it, worked on by various butchers in the workspace. There was nothing complicated about the set-up. The rope hadn’t even been doubled round the hook, it was merely fed over it, and the other end tied to a retaining loop on a wall above one of the stainless-steel worktops. If I could gain some freedom of movement for my arms, I thought I might be able to flip the rope off the hook. I contemplated attempting the impossible and trying to forward-roll at the end of my bindings, taking body and legs through the gap between my elbows. Maybe a circus contortionist could have achieved the move, but not me.
Next I wondered if I could tip forward at the end of the rope, do a mid-air headstand and feed my toes into the narrow gap between the bracket and ceiling, using the strength of my legs to suspend me while I tried to flick the rope from the hook. Yeah, right. Even if such a move were possible, it would mean dropping to the floor with nothing but the top of my head to cushion the blow.
I had to find another way.
My fingers were too numb to work on the knots. Even if I had sensation in my fingertips, the entire weight of my body had hung on those knots and had cinched them tighter than I could ever hope to loosen. I checked out the nearby worktops and calculated my chances of reaching them if I jumped, but that was a non-starter: there was not enough play in the ropes.
I was certain that Molina had used his rope device on my friends, the blood was testament to their beatings, but I doubted he’d done anything to Kirstie yet, despite his sordid bragging to the contrary. That was all so much bullshit to torment me. Even so, I believed that Kirstie’s torture was imminent, and perhaps being raped by a length of stiffened rope would be the least of her suffering. While I still breathed there was no way I’d allow it to happen. Even if that meant ripping one of my arms out of its socket, I’d never give up trying to save her. But dismemberment was low on my escape plans. There had to be something to help me, if only I could figure it out.
The only item nearby was the sodden rope Molina had discarded.
I fished for it with a big toe, trying to drag it towards me. I had the ludicrous notion that I could manipulate the thick rope between my feet, bending it and folding it so that I could form a wedge to jam under my soles and give me the extra elevation I required to gain some slack in my bindings. There was as little chance of that plan succeeding as my ideas of aerial acrobatics earlier. The rope was out of reach by about six inches, whichever way I strained and stretched.
Frustrated I threw myself back and forward, hoping that the weight of my body coupled with gravity would be enough to snap the rope or tear the hook from the bracket. It was pointless, and only served to place extra stress on my shoulders. Finally I got my toes under me once more and, bent as far as I could, I heaved in racking gasps of air. I could feel the focus of my rage altering from a need to escape to a sense of futility. In this state I was no good to anyone.
A noise brought my head up.
My contortions had brought me round to face the partly open door. Filtering through the narrow gap came the sound of footsteps in the hall. I could count only one set of feet. Whatever the urgency, Regis hadn’t held Molina’s attention for long: Molina was returning to finish what he’d started.
I steeled myself, determined that this time I’d take the beating without uttering a sound, make the bastard move closer to taunt me, where I’d then go for broke. If I killed that piece of shit, then maybe I could stand on his corpse and gain the slack I required. Yeah, right! There was about as much hope of that as of me winning the lottery, and I hadn’t even bought a ticket.
The door swung inward and a silhouette blocked the light from outside. Too big to be Jorge Molina. My heart pumped hard for a few seconds, and then it was as if a pin had popped a balloon. It wasn’t Rink come to rescue me, but James Lee Marshall who’d returned for round two. Something glinted in his right hand, and I recognised it immediately as a Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife, a weapon whose use we’d both been trained in during our Para days, and one I’d grown infinitely familiar with while at Arrowsake. He must be nostalgic about our past and wanted to kill me with a weapon I’d appreciate.
As he moved into the room, he was bathed in the sterile glare from the overhead striplights. The look on his face wasn’t one of humour, triumph, or even the stern set of one on a murder mission. It was a look of intense regret. Marshall actually looked sorry to be the one to kill me.
I stared at him as the lid drooped over his good eye. Call me crazy, but I could feel no hatred for him.
‘So Molina sent you to do his dirty work?’
‘Shut it, Hunter.’ He was sickened by what was about to happen, and I felt a bit sorry for my old mate.
‘If you’re going to do it, do it clean, OK.’
Marshall simply moved round behind me. He didn’t want to look into my face while he slipped the blade in. I contemplated kicking back at him, hoping to score a hit to his bollocks before I went, but knew Marshall wouldn’t fall for that trick. It would only piss him off and perhaps force him into wounding
me sorely a few times before administering the coup de grâce.
Though violent death was something to fight against tooth and nail, it was always on the cards for someone engaged in my lifestyle. I’d accepted that I’d probably end up on the point of a knife or riddled with bullets sooner or later – and how I’d avoided that up to now amazed me as much as it did everyone else who knew me – and as a warrior I’d always planned to go out without regret or recrimination. Yet, I didn’t want to die like this, executed like a pig in a slaughterhouse. Not while so many others still depended upon me. Never had I begged for my life to any man, but I was on the cusp. I opened my mouth, hating the pinching in my throat as I attempted to form words.
‘I said to shut it,’ Marshall said. He grabbed my head in his left palm, forcing me to face away from him, and the dagger drove in towards the small of my back. Immediately I collapsed, the strength to stand failing me, my mind full of exploding stars and a wash of red that turned rapidly to black.
Chapter 41
Rink stood over the corpse of a man.
It wasn’t the first he’d stood astride during this long night.
The team who’d searched for him in the mountain pass had fallen to knife and gun, one of them to a broken neck. Rink had appeared in a blizzard of dust from out of a mound of grit dumped by the bucket of the excavator when Molina’s men had first moved it to launch their ambush. From behind he’d grasped the hunter’s head between his palms and wrenched it round so he was face to face with his would-be slayer. The man had died wordlessly, probably unaware that he’d even been set upon.
Rink had taken the man’s gun, blown away another punk, and then disappeared into the darkness once more.
The two that remained had no idea their friends were corpses and came on, confident that their prey was trapped in the quarry at the head of the pass. Rink allowed both of them to enter the dead end, before he dropped from the rock wall from which he hung to land on the back of the rearmost, his KA-BAR pistoning in and out of both lungs so hard he heard the crunching of ribs. The racket of snapping bone carried even if the man’s death cry didn’t. The final man turned and fired, but Rink had already moved. The bullets tore the knifed man to shreds before he could die from the blood flooding his lungs. While the final gunman stared in incredulity at his slaughtered friend, Rink knelt calmly in the shadows of the cliffs, and picked his shots that took a chunk of the man’s skull and holed his chest cavity.
