Cruz
My shoulders burned from where my body pulled against the sockets, my knees buckling underneath me. I scrambled to put my feet underneath me and take the burden off my shoulders, but I slipped in something slick on the floor. I glanced down and saw it was blood.
My blood.
Damn, my body hurt. My shirt had been torn off my body as Juan Carlos had flailed my back with his whip. A hundred lashes later and my skin was ripped and torn, the blood trickling down my back. It was as if my flesh was on fire, burning and stretching as I struggled to get to my feet.
Finally, I gained purchase and tried to stand, but nausea roiled in my belly. I breathed deeply, reining in my desperation and pain.
Chavez had asked me repeatedly who I really worked for, and each time I gave an answer he hadn’t liked, Juan Carlos had given me ten lashes with his infamous whip. When that hadn’t worked, Santiago had let into me with his fists donned with brass knuckles. I was certain a few ribs were cracked or broken, and I knew the bruising would be pretty impressive.
That was if I made it out of this thing alive.
And I had to, because once they finished with me, they’d go after Lydia. Interrogating her first and then selling her off to Salvador who’d give her to the highest bidder he could find. Everything he’d said at the table was true, and I had to make sure I lived so I could get us out of there.
The basement door creaked open, and I cringed, not quite ready to face my opponents again. There was no telling what they had in store for me next.
Chavez stood in front of me, his face plastered into a grim smile.
“Well, Mr. Ortiz, are you ready to tell us what we want to know?”
“What’s that?”
“Who do you work for?”
“I already told you that. Ortiz Bodyguard Services. For two years now. Why won’t you believe me?” I tried the desperation angle, hoping for a little mercy and hopefully believability. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. Chavez crooked two fingers, calling Juan Carlos over.
I groaned inwardly, knowing my body could handle the torture, but struggling to keep my mind in the present. This time, instead of his whip, he’d donned the brass knuckles and stood before me with a sick grin on his face. He was enjoying this.
I would enjoy ending his life one day if I made it out of there alive.
His fist struck my face, and I heard the brass hit the bone. My vision swam, the past mingling with the future. Juan Carlos’s fist connected with my abdomen, the breath whooshing out, mixed with blood and spit. A man stood in front of me, a hood over his head. He struck my body—ribs, kidneys, stomach—and the smell of death hung in the air. My death would come before my team could find me. I tried to breathe in, but my lungs constricted, and I gasped violently.
Then the suffocating blackness fell.
With a gasp, I came awake, cold water rushing over my skin. When my eyes opened, Juan Carlos held a bucket in his hands.
“You left us much too quickly that time, Cruz. I’m so disappointed in you.”
I didn’t comment.
“Now, tell us about your connection with Rubio. Are you a part of Los Caballeros Del Camino?”
The Knights of the Way? I had no idea what he was talking about, but the name sounded familiar somehow. I battled to stay coherent, trying to rack my brain for where I’d heard those names. Wait. Rubio. Angel Rubio. And Los Caballeros, the name he’d mentioned when he’d been there at the Chavez compound.
“Ah, I see it rings a bell. Why don’t you tell me about them?”
“I don’t know anything. I’m not a part of Los Caballeros. I’ve heard of Angel Rubio. Drugs. Guns. He’s got his hands in a lot of pies. Up and coming is what they say about him on the streets.”
“Who leads Los Caballeros?”
“I have no idea. I’ve only heard their name being mentioned once before. Rubio mentioned it. I know nothing else.”
Chavez sighed heavily as if completely put out by the whole thing.
“I was afraid of that.”
The last thing I remembered before the world tilted on its axis and the lights went out was Juan Carlos’s fist, headed right for my face.