by J. B. Havens
Shit, I forgot my gloves…
“Another?” I asked him. He was panting now, completely gone with the pain and shock. I glanced at my bloody hands, noticing that the fine lines within my palms were filled with his blood; the creases were stained brown and red. The sight bothered me, but I pushed it aside. Now was not the time.
“Si…estoy loco…,” he gasped out, turning his head and spitting again.
“I’m not much on Spanish, but I think he just said yes,” Flynn said.
“I have to agree with you there.” I sloshed the bottle a bit; there was just enough left for another dose.
The lower wound was ragged and torn, not a neat hole like the other one. Using two fingers to spread it open further, I looked up and saw Jordon staring at me. The look on his face was not in my favor. I didn’t have the time or energy to deal with his moral compass.
Not hesitating, I poured the last of the acetone into the wound. Armando’s body tensed like a live current was running through it. He screamed and thrashed like a fish on a hook. His head was thrown back and his entire body was quivering and shaking with the shock of it. He was completely washed out, even his lips were white. I saw his expression change and quickly got out of the way.
“Watch it!” I shouted to the others, as Armando leaned to the side and vomited bile. Gagging and choking, he kept at it, until gratefully, he passed out.
“Give him a few minutes; if he doesn’t talk when he comes to, someone will need to help me take his teeth.” Anger brought on by regret tightened my voice.
I left the room; Armando wasn’t the only one who needed a minute. No matter how warranted I felt my action were, I was still torturing someone. I paced back and forth in the empty hallway, forcing myself to focus on the old man who was executed, seeing Aunt Beatrice in his place. Or Jordon. Or any of the men. Myself. I would do whatever it took to save Aunt Beatrice. I would gladly throw my soul down upon the pyre of evil if it meant that she lived.
The door opened and Flynn waved me back inside.
Armando was mostly awake, his chin resting on his chest. Spit and drool hung out of his mouth, leaving a slimy trail down his chest. His leg muscles were twitching with painful spasms of palsy, blood freely flowing from the wounds.
I tapped Rook on the shoulder. “Hold his head back.” I selected a hammer and small chisel from the tools on the table. I had seen this done, but had never actually had to do it myself. Often the threat of having your teeth knocked out with a hammer and chisel would get more results than actually doing it. I was afraid this man was finally going to make me do it.
“Ready, Senor Fuentes?” I showed him what I was holding: a small sharp chisel for woodworking and a five pound ball-peen hammer.
“Wait,” he begged.
Internally, I sagged with relief. “I’m waiting. But my patience is wearing thin.” I forced annoyance to sharpen my tone.
“My name... is not Vega.” He licked his cracked lips, pausing between words.
“Come again?” Flynn said, disbelieving.
“My name is…Armando Villalobos. I am an... informant.” My fingers loosened their grip and I nearly dropped the hammer in my shock. Of all the things I expected to come out of his mouth, this was not it.
“Explain. Fucking right now!” I stopped myself from smashing his face with the hammer, sure that he was lying to me. There was no way this motherfucker was the plant. If he was, it meant I just tortured and abused a protected individual of the United States and Mexican governments.
Fuck me. I wonder if they will execute me or just ship me off to rot in prison?
“When I was a young man, I joined the Vega cartel; the money was good. I had a wife and a child. A year ago, I saw a man from a rival cartel get his legs hacked off with a dull ax. After that, I couldn’t live with my choices anymore. God would damn me to burn in hell for what I had done.” He stopped and took a few deep breaths. It was a good story; if he was just delaying, he was doing a damn fine job. The silence in the room was absolute.
“I turned myself into the police. I prayed that my family would survive. I knew I would be killed in prison. Before I could be sent to my death, an American man came to see me in my cell. He explained how I could help the Americans and the Mexican police. I would stay in the cartel and report back to you Americans.” Turning my back to him, I dropped the hammer and chisel onto the table. I felt like being sick myself.
What have I done? What if he’s lying?
“Stop there. I’m going to verify your story. Pray to God I don’t find out you’re lying to me. If you are, I’ll use this chisel and hammer on your fucking toes one at a time and work my way up from there. Got me?” I said, leaning close to his face, making sure he saw the truth of my threat in my eyes. I didn’t think it was possible for his skin to bleach of the tiny bit of color he had remaining; I was wrong.
“All of you, out.” Once in the hallway, I jerked my hood down off my face. I felt as if I was suffocating under it; my breath was coming fast and loud. I turned to Jones. “I need you to do whatever magic you do; verify his story. Page Jackson, I need him down here.” He rushed off.
“Wait!” I shouted. “Put Doctor Hamilton on stand-by. If this guy is telling the truth, I need the doc to un-do the damage I just did.” Jones nodded his understanding and hit the button on the elevator.
“Mic, there is no way you could have known,” Pierce said, clasping my shoulder. He had a way of seeing to the root of a person.
“I’m aware of that.” I shook his hand off. I stood with my back to the wall, thunking my helmet off the cement. Beating my head against the wall wasn’t going to really help; I would just get a headache and be more pissed off.
Pierce leaned closer to my face. He grabbed my helmet with his hands “Mic, stop. Don’t do this to yourself. We were in there with you; we’re just as responsible for this as you are.”
When I shook him off and went back to pacing, he stepped back to stand with Jordon and the others. Giving me space, they talked amongst themselves. My world narrowed down to the heavy sound of my boots on the floor and the ratcheting guilt of my thoughts.
“There will be no repercussions for your actions today, Staff Sergeant,” Jackson said, startling me out of my pity party. “It didn’t take Jones long; one call over the secure line to the DoD. Everything Señor Villalobos said is true.”
“Fuck!” I shouted. My stomach turned; I had just tortured one of our own. I felt horrible, deep rooted anger. Why couldn’t those DoD bastards just fucking help us for once? Jones called them before we starting working Armando over, but no, they wouldn’t give us the time of day. Now, I’d tortured this man... for no reason.
“Calm your shit, Mic,” Jackson ordered as he walked back toward the elevator. “Go in there and cut him loose. Doc Hamilton is on his way.”
I met Jordon’s eyes. What I saw there reflected what I felt inside, anger and confusion, misplaced blame and regret. It appeared we were on the same page. This is one of the things I liked best about Jordon, his face was an open book for me. He was closed off and stoic with the others, but when he looked at me, everything that was Jordon shined through.
As I pulled my hood back up over my face, I shoved the whispered thoughts of suffocation aside. I led my men back into the room and prepared to do what I had to.
****
Beatrice turned the TV on low, the talking heads on the news breaking the unending silence. It had been well over an hour, with no sound from anyone. The place felt like a tomb. When the others were around, the noise and constant bickering alleviated the suffocating closeness. Left alone in her room, she was at odds. One part of her wanted nothing to do with whatever was happening, but another part of her was innately curious.
A firm knock on her door broke her from her circling thoughts.
“Who is it?” Why she worried about who was at the door, she wasn’t sure. There wasn’t a safer place in the world.
“It’s me.” The deep voice had her
blushing like a schoolgirl and fumbling at the door knob.
Opening the door, she was greeted by an impressive sight. Jackson in street clothes was intimidating; Jackson in his uniform had her breath catching and her heart racing. The camo pants and shirt clung to his large frame, highlighting just how massive and strong he was. You knew he was in command without even needing to see his displayed rank. His bearing screamed authority.
“So it is.” Her heart might be racing, but her head was still in the game.
“May I come in?” He took his hat off and held it in front of him.
“Would I be a lady if I let a man into my room?” She asked cheekily.
“Are you a lady?” He asked softly.
“Not today.” Opening the door wide, she stepped aside. Jackson brushed her arm as he walked past, making her skin break out in goosebumps.
Chapter 11
Armando sat and waited for her return, not that he had any other choice. His arms were numb; no doubt when they untied him he would be helpless for a while. He prayed they brought a doctor who had powerful pain killers. The pain in his leg was finally calming; he was bleeding the rest of the acetone out of his wounds. His chest was tight and sore. Assessing the rest of his body, he could not find one place that didn’t scream or wither in agony.
The door opened and she stood in the open doorway, staring at him. He could only see her eyes, a damn shame such beautiful eyes were wasted on this vicious woman. He almost pitied Adolfo Vega. When this woman came for him, she would make him beg for death.
“Would you care to meet me, Señor Fuentes?” she asked, staring him directly in the eyes. Her voice was soft and even.
Not waiting for his reply, she released the strap on her helmet and dropped it at his feet with a heavy thud. One of the men near the door hit the light switch, flooding the room with near-blinding florescent light. He blinked against the glare, trying to clear the spots from his vision.
Her hair was blonde and still curly, even smashed flat and stuck to her head with sweat. There was a red mark across her forehead from her helmet. The rest of her face was still covered by the black half mask.
With bloodstained hands, she pulled the hood down, letting it hang limply around her neck. Fear knotted his stomach and turned his bowels to water. She had showed him her face and she had still called him Vega. His blood coated her skin and her eyes burned and flashed with anger. He had faced the cartel and seen some of the most fearsome men in the world, but this small female scared him more than all of them combined.
“You don’t believe me. Just get on with it.” Armando resigned himself to the inevitable: his teeth knocked out and his feet dismembered. Where she would go from there was no mystery. The tools on that table of death told their own story.
“Cut him loose, Corporal Jordon,” she ordered. The big man with green eyes approached him with a knife. Armando tried not to quiver in fear or shame himself further. If he must die, he would attempt to do it with dignity. Confusion racked him as first his hands, then his legs, were freed.
“Que?” He gasped as feeling began to come back to his arms and hands. Stabbing pains marched up and down his limbs. He did not attempt to stand; he knew doing so was pointless.
“Your story checked out. A doctor is on his way. We’re taking you to medical. Help him up, boys.” She snapped her fingers and left the room. Two giants took each of his arms and stood him up. Immediately his legs crumpled under him. With a grunt, they hefted him higher and carried him from the room.
****
Jordon helped carry Armando to the elevator. Rook was on the other side, both of them getting soaked with water and blood. The man was shivering uncontrollably and slipping deeper into shock.
“Mic. How long until Doc Hamilton gets here?” Jordon asked, as they approached her waiting outside the medical center doors.
“Jackson called over to the compound. We have the jet, so he can’t fly in. He’s got a driver. Should be here in around two hours.” She led the way into the center, slapping switches and blinding them all with the fluorescents. “Put him here.” She walked around to the machines next to the gurney. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, she got out an IV kit. “We’ll stabilize him and get him prepped for the doc.”
He and Rook lifted him and gently laid him on the gurney. Jordon stepped back out of the way. Mic and Rook seemed to have it well in hand.
“Let me do this, Mic,” Rook said as he donned his own gloves. “I’ve got more advanced medical training than you. It’s why I’m here, remember?”
“By all means.” Mic stepped back to give the big man space. Rook rifled through one of those carts all hospitals seemed to have and selected a few vials. Rook was as competent as he was silent, filling syringes as Mic looked on.
Rook spoke softly to Armando. “Hold still, this might hurt. You’re very dehydrated, which makes finding a vein harder.” He held the man’s arm against his body as he wrapped a tourniquet around his bicep. Feeling around the crook of his elbow, Rook found a vein, and got the IV started.
“You’re good at that,” Mic replied, as she handed him things as he asked for them. He pushed syringes into the IV port, one after the other. Armando’s eyes flickered and he fell asleep.
Working together efficiently, they bandaged Armando’s wounds and gave him a good wash down. Rook and Mic didn’t seem to need to talk or the help of anyone else in the room.
“You two have this in hand. I’m out.” Flynn backed out the door. Pierce saluted and followed. Jones had disappeared at some point while no one was paying attention.
Jordon was frustrated and pissed off. Rook had been here only two days and was already working closely with Mic as if they had been doing it for years. It had taken him months to get to that level of comfort with her. Jealousy twisted in his gut and he left without a word. If he had dared to open his mouth, whatever came out would have gotten him knocked flat, he was sure.
He allowed himself the small childish pleasure of slamming the door behind him. The metal clang echoed up and down the concrete hallway. The sound formless and untouchable; like his desire for Mic, loud and fierce, but unattainable.
****
“What was that about?” Rook didn’t bother to look up from Armando’s leg. He skillfully wrapped gauze around the wounds. He would leave the stitching for the doctor.
“Nothing I’m going to discuss. He seems stable. Stay here until Doc Hamilton arrives; then you’re relieved. The doc will treat him and transfer him back to the compound. Then one of Jackson’s flunkies in the NSA can pick him up and take him to a safe house until they can get his family out of Mexico. He was tortured, so he’ll get a new life and new identity in America out of the experience.”
I had to stop myself from screaming at Rook; he was not responsible for my mood. Fact is, I was. I surveyed the damage on Armando. For the most part, it was nothing that wouldn’t heal; the wounds would close and scar. The cuts from the zip ties would scab over and grow shiny, new pink skin.
The damage this man suffered mentally at my hands would not, however, heal so easily. Would he have nightmares? Would he ever sleep again? The Vega family was responsible for a great portion of this man’s suffering, but I had my own burden of the weight to carry.
“Copy that.” Rook finished with the dressings, stripped off his gloves, and washed his hands in the nearby sink.
Ready to leave, I paused for a moment. We were alone and it gave me an opportunity.
“You’ve participated in torture before, haven’t you?”
Waiting for his reaction, I was mildly surprised when I didn’t get one. He looked at me; his face showed nothing, gave me nothing to go on, as he walked closer to me. “Do you mean, have I seen a man get his teeth knocked out? Or have sparking jumper cables applied to his testicles? Or heard a man pray for death to find him? Or better yet, been the one to hold the hammer or cables? Yes. I have.”
I used my silence to hide my shock. His file showed nothing remotely
close to any of those things.
Was the file even real?
“Get some rest, Staff Sergeant” He opened the door and pointedly waited for me to leave. “You look tired.”
“This conversation isn’t over, Rook,” I barked over my shoulder as I strode out the door.
He smiled for the first time, showing two missing teeth. The empty gap was just about the size of the chisel I had nearly used on Armando. I opened my mouth to speak, but he shut the door in my face before I managed to form a sentence.
What the fuck?
Chapter 12
Jordon fell into bed, flopping backwards with his arms spread out. He had stripped to just his boxers. The cold air felt good on his overly-hot skin. He didn’t know which way was up anymore. Mic had an aunt; they go save her, and she turns out to be as big of an ass-kicker as Mic. If that wasn’t drama enough, he then willingly participated in the torture of another human being.
Phillips’s death had fucked with them all. They were off their game, cut adrift. The guilt was eating them alive. He knew from talking to Flynn and Pierce that they blamed themselves for not getting to that field faster. He blamed himself for not aiming better. If he’d shot that bastard in the face instead of the arm, Phillips would still be alive.
Switching gears, he flashed back to last night when he’d had Mic under him, his hands on her silky skin, and her hot, wet lips pressed against his own. Just the memory had the power to get him hard all over again.
Grabbing his head, he groaned at the images his mind was replaying: her soft hair curled around his fingers, and her body arched up into his; pressed tight against him. She’d clung and grasped him, pulling him closer.
