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Even though the car was high-end and was it traveling at low speed, Jonás had an unbearable journey. He felt a burning pain in his stomach that rose in electrical lashes until they stopped at the base of his skull. The air conditioner buzzed through the slots, maintaining a pleasant temperature, and yet he felt his back soaked with sweat. He turned his neck to the right-in a slow movement that cost him the unspeakable—, to meet Chacon's messianic smile. He imitated the same movement to the left, but this time it was Gutiérrez who watched him with interest. Suddenly he felt a huge pressure in his chest, and although the back seat where the three were installed was quite large, it was difficult for him to breathe. He was drowning, he needed to get out of that vehicle as soon as possible. He checked that in every second that passed, the cabin narrowed, tightening more and more the three occupants and absorbing the air. He began to pull on his shirt and to gasp like a fish to collect the last few drops of ventilation from that rolling tomb. He was about to scream when Chacon grabbed him by the neck and hit him on the head with the butt of the gun. Then he fell into a blessed darkness.
****
When he woke up he tried to move, but something held his wrists. He tried his legs, but the same thing happened. He blinked several times to get some clarity, and the fuzzy edges began to become clear. Suddenly everything acquired the monstrous reality that unconsciousness had hidden for a few minutes. He was sitting and gagged. The room was still untidy, only now the two windows were completely closed, and a moldy gloom reigned in the room. A single light flickered from a pyrrhic bulb, which had been ripped from one of the shattered lamps. He shifted his eyes and his heart skipped a beat. Rachel was on the sofa, sitting but not taking her eyes off him. She seemed calm, but even in that gloom Juandi could read the restlessness in her features.
—It seems that our sleeping beauty has finally awakened— a voice chanted behind him—. You made us impatient!
Juandi tried to move, but a whip ran through his right arm from elbow to shoulder.
—Oh, don’t move too much— he recommended cheerfully—. Your shoulder is dislocated, and every minute that passes without being put back in its place will get worse.
The woman gave a muffled moan from her place at the other end of the room.
—Raquel and I, we have been... chatting a little— he stood in front, and Juandi noted that he was carrying something steely hidden by the sleeve of the suit—. And the truth, it has been quite pleasant.
—You're a fucking psychopath— Juandi spat.
Fumo's smiling face turned into a mask of consternation. Hate flashed in his clear eyes.
—I've promised myself to take this easy, enjoy, so don’t spoil it.
He stepped closer, invading the vital space of the man, and as if he was a magician who performs a peculiar trick of magic exposed the stiletto that he kept behind the sleeve.
—When I was little, one of the few memories I have of my father was to go with him to an exhibition of oriental art— he explained, stroking the leaf that shone with the dim light of the bulb—. I was so terrified with a series of slides that hung from some passe-partout panels, that I spent a week without sleeping at night. My father went into one of those vigils to my room and hit me until I almost lost consciousness. When he left, he told me that a man overcomes his fears by understanding them, and that I’ll must stop whining or he’ll give me another beating.
—Wise man— Juandi interjected.
—And that's what I did— Tony continued, as if he had not heard him—. I found out that those photos belonged to the Ling Chi rite, or death by a thousand cuts, as it is known in Europe. Did you know that it was employed in China for almost a thousand years? Wow, I was so fascinated by Oriental culture that from that moment I plunged in almost entirely into all its rites and ceremonies. I learned martial arts, their language, I converted to Taoism and embraced their customs as if they were mine, I even have a Chinese name! —he exclaimed jubilantly.
—What you have is a mental illness, and I'm checking that it is since you were very little.
Fumo was paralyzed, with an inexpressive rictus and the body bent. There seemed to be a battle going on inside his mind. At last, he moved again and let out a laugh that echoed in the small room.
—Well, the Ling Chi consists in making thousands of tiny cuts in the non-vital parts of the body, until it is considered that the victim has already suffered what is necessary, and then ends his suffering by cutting off his head or removing an organ— he sheltered on the thighs of the man. But I don’t know if you will support so much.
He immobilized him by sitting on his knees and made a clean cut on the man's cheek.
****
He must have spent a lot of time unconscious, because he was in a bed when he woke up. He did not remember leaving the car, so they must have dragged him there. He tried to move, but something in his left arm would not let him. He noticed a bitter aftertaste in his mouth and had a thirst of a wolf.
As if they had been watching, the tall guy and a woman in a horrible blue dress entered the room.
—Good morning sleepyhead! —he greeted—. We thought you were leaving us.
—Where am I? —it was difficult for him to articulate the words, and with each syllable he seemed to be swallowing broken glass.
—A little twist in the argument. We had to bring you to see a friend.
He made a gesture and the woman approached the bed without saying a word. He checked the levels of several bags and searched for something under the sheets. As silent as she had come in, she left.
—You had a hypovolemic shock— he explained—. We need to administer your dopamine so that the heart didn’t stop pumping.
—I don’t understand— he babbled—. Why so much trouble?
—How? —the man took a seat next to him on the little bunk—. You need to understand that you still breathe because we need quick answers —he spoke condescendingly, but his face was hard—. We have not healed you because we like you, but because you still must answer some questions before you die.
—Anyway, I'm already dead, I don’t understand all this paraphernalia —his throat was burning—. You should have let me die.
—You're right in saying that you’re dead. I don’t know what you’ve done to Paco, but he has a lot of desire for you.
—It's my charm, that dazzles.
Gutierrez got up from the bed and gave a hollow, thunderous laugh. It seemed incredible that something so heartbreaking could come out of such a thin body.
—I love you, Jonás, you don’t lose your good humor, even by having wasted half of your blood —he walked to a closet and took out a huge bottle of water from a small refrigerator—. I suppose you will be thirsty? These operations and the drugs dry your throat a lot.
Jonás observed the bottle as a sailor contemplates the mainland.
—Yes, I suppose that you will want to drink —he opened the stopper and emptied a little in a glass—. What I want to tell you is that you can help me and in return I will help you.
He handed him the glass and Jonás drank it in one gulp. Gutiérrez filled it out again. The operation was repeated until Jonás felt spasms in his stomach.
—Help me, and I promise you that nothing bad will happen to your friends— he removed the bottle and headed for the door—. Deny yourself, and you will not be the only one to suffer my bad temper
****
The blow sent her back to the couch. He had slapped her with the back to hurt her less, but even so, he broke her lip.
—I’ve told you not to move— he threatened.
—This wasn’t the deal— she said sobbing. Her cheek had swollen and was turning into a deep red—. Please Tony, why don’t we follow the plan?
The man turned around and approached so close that Raquel thought he was going to kiss her.
—Quiet baby, I see the desire in your eyes, and I promise you that you will get what you want, but you must wait for my work to finish.
—We don’t need him; let's go now, alone, far away— she asked pleadingly—. We can rent a little house in the north and cook until we're full.
—No... —Juandi stammered from behind—. I will not let...
Tony turned with an astonishing speed, and with a surgical precision opened a new cut on the inner side of his right thigh. Juandi hissed but did not scream. His face was covered with a layer of blood that had already begun to dry, and on his thighs could be counted at least twelve or thirteen small but deep cuts.
—Leave it! —the woman howled—. Leave him animal!
Tony turned to her and sighed, tired. He took one step, and then another very slowly.
—It is clear that honey was not made for the ass's mouth— he replied with repulsion—. Maybe I have not been very sharp, and you have managed to deceive me with your troublemakers’ arts. Maybe I have fallen into the insinuations’ trap, the desire’s looks, the panties of a bitch...
—Tony
—Shut up! —he bellowed—. You know what? I'll go back to the original plan. I'm going to possess you right here, in front of that ragged man you keep defending, I don’t know why, and after violating you as you deserve it, I'll finish with you and with that residue.
Fumo grabbed Raquel by the shoulders and slapped her several times while she struggled. Small saliva froths dropped from the corners of his fleshy lips, and he smiled like a madman every time she screamed. At that moment, something changed, a voice that he did not expect to hear sobbed behind him. He released the woman and turned around. There, next to the convalescent man in the chair was a kid who seconds before was not there. Fumo squinted, trying to understand how surreal was the image that he was contemplating. A young man with pink hair pointed at him with his Beretta, half cowering in fear. Tears ran down his face.
—Who the fuck is you? —his mind refused to accept that this was happening—. Where did you come from?
—Let her go— the boy asked in a pitiful voice. His hands were shaking, and it seemed that the huge gun was going to slip at any moment—. Release her or I’ll shoot.
Fumo took a step away from Raquel and flashed a captivating smile, like a movie actor. He raised both arms in a sign of surrender.
—Calm down kid, that the matter is not with you. You can leave.
—I want you to leave her— he asked, with something more like a plea than an order.
Fumo took another step closer, still composing his best expression as a good boy.
—All right— he conceded—. You have caught me, you win; I'll let you go but lower the weapon, we don’t want anyone to get hurt, right?
—Shoot— Juandi moaned from his side.
—Don't listen to him.
—Proxy, shoot him— supported Raquel from behind.
—Proxy? —another step—. Is that your name?
—Shoot! —Juandi repeated.
The boy was shaking so badly he looked like he was having an epileptic attack. Thick rivulets rolled down his cheeks, and the gun barrel swung up and down.
—Come on Proxy, you're not a killer— Tony was already less than a meter away—. You are not going to shoot me.
—Shoot! —Rachel shouted.
—Shoot him! —Juandi said.
He raised his arms in the boy's direction, showing that he was not carrying weapons. Proxy's chest rose and fell spasmodically —like a turbine— and his face was now flooded with tears.
—Now you're going to return me the gun and we'll all leave from here without consequences that we must regret.
Fumo spoke calmly, peacefully, and his calm, peaceful face accompanied those reassuring words. Tony brushed the barrel of the gun with the tips of his fingers and saw in the boy's eyes a desire, a longing greater than the desperation that seemed to curdle his entire face. At that moment he knew that he would be victorious from that situation. That boy wished that Fumo would snatch the gun from him and avoid him in having to make the tragic decision.
—Proxy, listen to me— Raquel asked—. He's going to kill us, I know it's difficult, but you must pull the trigger.
Proxy gasped again. His eyes were exorbitant. Tony took another very short step and was already in the position just to snatch the Beretta from that pink-haired brat. He did not want to rush, because the trigger of the gun was too sensitive —he had prepared it that way himself— and he could shoot himself if he made too hasty a gesture. What was clear was that he would slit the fagot as soon as he had it at the right distance. He disliked his hair as much as a toothache, those horrible cheap leather pants, and above all, his fearful and cowardly attitude.
All the slowness with which it had seemed to have developed the last minute suddenly fell, and it was almost over before those in the room realized what had happened. Fumo made a swift movement, and Proxy saw the steel flash that appeared in his right hand. He knew that he could not pull the trigger, he knew it in the same way that he had the certainty that he was not going to get out of this situation alive. Without knowing exactly why, he reached out to the right and handed the gun to Juandi, who caught it with difficulty. That minimal change of position caused the blade of the stiletto to open a deep cut in the shoulder and not in the neck, where the thrust was aimed. In the same second that Proxy felt the blade tear his flesh he heard the thunderous roar of the shot, which reverberated between those four walls much longer than you would expect it to. Fumo moaned, not much, just an exhale, but his eyes were instantly glassy like those of a rag doll. He put one leg back and stared at the boy who was bleeding on the floor, to immediately observe the guy who was still gagged in the chair.
Juandi had only managed to hold the gun for a second because he did not have enough strength in his swollen hands, and the recoil ended up rushing off with a dry crunch of his wrist. Due to the position, the projectile had impacted point-blank between Fumo’s groin and the crotch, leaving that area reduced to a shapeless, bloody mass of tissue and torn skin. Tony looked at the wound with a gesture of incomprehension, and as if his body had finally accepted what had happened collapsed floppy on the threadbare carpet of the house.