The rain-fragmented neon above the roadside bar danced like wildfire over the shingles. It was an artistic image, and one Mitch Delaney felt sure would be wasted on the patrons inside. They were outlaw bikers and beyond the fading tattoos on their bodies didn’t give a damn for imagery or art, the wonders of nature, or anything much else for that matter, apart from how full their shot glasses were and how quickly they could empty them again. They were ignorant scum. Violent criminals. The antithesis of what Mitch actually stood for.
Despite the rain, and the buffeting wind blowing off the Harraseeket River, Mitch had stepped outside for a smoke, standing away from the parked motorcycles, under a tree that offered meagre protection from the elements. He’d no patience for bullshit and those inside were full of it: he had to get outside for a calming smoke or his frustration might explode, and with it his cover. Was that such a bad thing? If the game was up, he could go back to his real life, and associate with decent human beings for a change. Hell, instead of the snatched phone calls he did these days, he could spend physical quality time with his wife and son, without the ever-present fear of discovery bringing danger to their door. Why was he even still here, he’d wondered, when his conduit to Sower had already booked? He knew why. He had to maintain his cover in case Crawford Wynne decided to get in touch with the gang. It was imperative that Wynne was traced: if Mitch’s real identity came out, no way would Wynne contact him. Except to tell him to go to hell. The long months he’d spent winning Wynne’s trust would’ve been wasted, and he shouldn’t swill all his hard work down the drain because he couldn’t abide the company he must keep. Enduring his enforced separation from Jenny and his five-year-old son, Jacob, was difficult without him failing in his duty too. The sacrifice they’d all made had to be valued. It would be worthless if he walked away now. Do your duty, Mitch, he berated himself. To your family and your goddamn badge. Have a smoke, chill out, then get your ass back inside where it serves a purpose.
His lighter took half a dozen attempts to set a spark to his cigarette, and he inhaled deeply of it while staring at the bar, the collar of his leather jacket up, his back to the inclement weather. Between the heavier squalls and droplets as thick as his finger the rain came as a turgid mist, and it was through those shifting curtains that he watched the writhing neon and his imagination painted pictures of hellish flame.
He was trapped by the portent of the scene, and the crunch of boots on the crushed-seashell parking lot didn’t register in his mind.
He was yanked backwards, and a gloved hand clamped down on his mouth, sealing in his shout of surprise. He was spun, a gloved fist crashing against his jaw. He couldn’t tell how many assailants he was up against, but there was more than one. An arm looped round his throat, squeezing the breath from him, even as another man drove a punch into his gut. When he was violently forced down, he was so stunned he’d no fight left in him. Lucidity disintegrated in a series of strobing flashes and pain. He felt his back impact with the ground, boots beating a tattoo against the side of his skull and neck. A coppery wash flooded his mouth, and splinters of enamel from his broken teeth were gritty on his lips. A dull impact sent a scarlet flash exploding across his brain.
Again a boot found the side of his head, and all Mitch could hope for was blessed incomprehension.
His prayer must have been answered, because when he snapped to he was no longer on his back, being beaten mercilessly. Within him he had a deep sense of passing time, and a long uncomfortable journey, perhaps in the rear of a van where his abductors had space to beat him unconscious again each time he’d began surfacing from oblivion.
He was upright, supported, his body numb.
His eyelids were gummy, and it was a huge effort to prise them apart.
His tongue worked in his mouth, a fat slug probing the edges of his broken teeth. He pushed fragments from between his mashed lips, felt the warm dribble of saliva splash on the chilled flesh of his chest.
Why was he naked?
Where am I?
He forced his eyes to focus.
Brushed steel. Cold light.
Hospital?
No, he’d heard rumours of this place.
Was this the Greek’s boat?
Panic swelled his lungs, and he reared back, hoping with every ounce of his being that he was wrong about his location.
He saw a long steel table laden with tools, brushed steel cladding on the walls, and a tiled floor with a central gutter. He moaned. He was not wrong.
Why had he been brought to the boat? Had Sower discovered his true identity?
Get away from here, his mind screamed, get away now!
He tried. He bucked and flailed, but he was going nowhere.
Glancing down, he found his bared chest with its bluing tattoos, the pale white skin of his thighs, his hairy shins and bare feet. His skin was marbled with blood. His toes had clawed streaks through the dark blood pooling on the tiles, and in the gutter he stood astride. His arms were stretched cross-wise, thick straps of Velcro holding him to a metal pole as tightly as any forged chain. The pole was suspended on a pulley system overhead.
A curse broke from his lips in a spatter of blood-flecked spit.
‘You are awake. Good, I’d hate for you to miss the best part, Delaney.’ The voice came from behind him. Mitch didn’t need to see the speaker to guess to whom it belonged. He recognized the accented sibilance of it, and the ice that it thrust through his heart.
‘Why are you doing this to me, Hector?’ Mitch struggled at his bonds.
A rubbery squeak assailed his ears.
Dirty yellow filled his vision.
A face leaned in close to his, ugly, twisted in a grin. The cheeks and forehead were knotty with old scar tissue, as if the face had gone through a windshield, or been too close to a detonating grenade. Hector’s eyes were still and depthless.
‘Before we proceed,’ said his tormentor, ‘I’ll give you one chance to make things easier on yourself. This I promise. You will die, Delaney, but it’s up to you in how much pain. Comprende? Where is Crawford Wynne?’
What? This wasn’t about his true identity; it was about Wynne? Mitch didn’t know if he should be relieved, because the shift in focus didn’t change his predicament.
‘Wynne?’ he said, playing up his confusion. ‘I … I haven’t seen Wynne for weeks.’
‘But you do know where he is.’
‘I haven’t talked with him in—’
A gloved hand slashed across Mitch’s face, the dimpled rubber almost tearing off his left eyelid. He held his head aside, shuddering, fighting the pain while also expecting another blow. Tears blinded him.
Hector tilted his head to meet Mitch’s eyes anyway. ‘Do not lie to me. I understand that lying comes as second nature to your kind, but do not do it to me!’
‘I’m not lying!’
‘And neither have you spoken to Wynne.’ Hector grunted and walked away, his thick rubberized coat creaking. He leaned over the steel table, deliberating over the tools arranged on it. He picked up a saw and ran his gaze along the serrated edge.
Mitch fought his bonds, in as pointless a battle as before.
When he returned Hector was holding a knife, testing its balance point on his gloved palm. Folding his hand around the grip, he pointed the tip past Mitch. ‘Come, my friends. Don’t be so squeamish. Hold Delaney for me. This is such a delicate task I’d hate to slip and miss his tiny pene.’
The scuff of feet on the tiles spoke of others in the room, most definitely those that had snatched Mitch and delivered him here. But none came forward. One of the nervous watchers wheezed out a mirthless laugh at Hector’s disparaging remark.
Mitch craned to see who bore witness to his torture. Indistinct forms gathered at the end of the room, but his watering vision couldn’t make out detail. He didn’t need to see clearly to suspect who was there. ‘For God’s sake! How can you watch him do this to me? We’re supposed to be fucking friends!’
‘Forget about them. You need only pay attention to me,’ said Hector. ‘Besides, you have no hope of finding friends here. Only pain.’
The knife slid an inch into Mitch’s side. He cried out, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy Hector. His torturer twisted the blade, cutting down in a sawing motion to a point above his hip, and now Mitch shrieked.
The blade was withdrawn and blood flooded down Mitch’s thigh. He gagged, barely able to catch his breath.
‘I will ask again, Delaney. Where is Crawford Wynne?’
His mind had almost closed down, but words jumped from Mitch’s throat. ‘I don’t know where he is! Why won’t you believe me?’
‘I do not trust your word. You swore loyalty to Alberto, but you were quick to betray him when bargaining with the DA. How can I believe anything from a dog willing to bite the hand of its master?’
Hector had failed to make him as a cop, but in his eyes it made him an informant. In the twisted mind of the criminal the latter was probably worse. ‘I didn’t betray Mr Sower,’ Mitch croaked. ‘Please … don’t do this … I swear to you.’
Hector shook his head. ‘Something troubles me about you, Delaney. You and Wynne were taken in for questioning. You were both potential material witnesses, and yet you were both freed. Alberto is locked in a cell, while his dogs walk around off their leashes. If you didn’t bargain for your freedom then there was another reason you were released. Is there something you’d like to come clean about?’
Should he admit to being an undercover detective? That he’d infiltrated Sower’s group via a side-door route through Crawford Wynne? He could lie and claim he was only concerned with bringing Wynne to trial for his crimes, that he had no interest in Sower’s activities. Was Sower’s torturer really prepared to kill a cop? To do so would ignite a shitstorm of retribution. The entire law-enforcement community wouldn’t rest until they brought down Sower’s empire, and was harming him worth that? Except somehow he felt that Albert Sower was the type who’d relish the fight, even if it were vicariously through this knife-wielding monster. And he feared that such an admission would only incite the sadist to immediate action. No. He had to try another way, divert attention from him. It hurt his cop’s moral sense of duty to point Hector at another victim, but he was also a family man, and wanted to see his loved ones again. To do so he’d give them Wynne. But he had to make it sound convincing.
‘It wasn’t me who made a bargain,’ he said. ‘But you’re right about us being freed. It bothered me too when we were cut loose, it felt too easy, too convenient. Now that you mention it … well, it had to be Wynne who made a deal. Right? They must’ve released me so it didn’t look suspicious when he walked. It’s probably why he disappeared. But not me, Hector. I stayed. I’ve nothing to hide because I didn’t betray anyone.’
Hector placed a gloved fingertip to Mitch’s lips, halting his breathless rush of words. ‘So as well as betraying Alberto, Wynne also betrayed you? If that’s true then you should help me find him. Tell me where to find Wynne.’
‘That’s the thing. I don’t know where he is.’
‘But you have your suspicions.’
Mitch thought hard, and his mind swept the length of a continent away. Jesus, why hadn’t he thought about it sooner? If he had then he wouldn’t have had to remain undercover, and he wouldn’t be here now. ‘Louisiana! You should try looking for him in New Orleans. That’s where Wynne comes from. Maybe he has run home.’
‘Maybe?’ The knife dug into Mitch’s sternum, steel grating against bone, drilling a way through his chest.
Mitch screeched. He jerked frantically at his bonds and the knife tip withdrew.
Fighting for breath, Mitch shuddered. ‘You said … if I told you the truth … you’d make it easier on me …’
‘You should have told the truth sooner. You suspected Wynne was in Louisiana, yet you chose to stall. I don’t need to honour a promise made to a dishonourable dog like you. Come,’ Hector snapped at the onlookers, and all pretence at humour had disappeared. ‘Keep this whining dog still.’
This time he was obeyed. Hands gripped Mitch’s shoulders, fingers digging into his skin to hold him in place. The man in the yellow coat grasped Mitch’s genitals, squeezing them mercilessly. His other hand guided the blade between Mitch’s thighs.
‘Oh, God! Don’t … don’t do this, Hector!’
Unmoved by the plea, Hector gazed steadily into Mitch’s face. ‘Do you know where Alberto and I come from?’
‘Ye … yes.’
‘In Bolivia there is a punishment for dogs that bite their masters. Their sex organs are removed and fed back to them. Then their heads are cut off and displayed so the pack understands what will happen if they also choose to turn on their masters.’ The warning was meant for everyone in the room, but the next was directed solely at Mitch. ‘Crawford Wynne must learn this lesson, and you must serve as my messenger.’
He knew what was coming, and the inevitability of it clenched Mitch’s insides as tightly as the fist constricting his genitals. Eyes screwed tight, Mitch made one last desperate attempt at escape, twisting manically in the grip of his captors, and he was almost thankful when he pulled free of the grasping hand. His relief was short-lived.
White fire shot through his core.
He heard the torrent of blood splashing on the floor, and pouring into the gutter and his eyes started open, dreading the truth but desperate to see.
Hector opened his hand, displaying what he held.
Mitch’s mouth opened to scream.
Hector’s hand slapped over it, and the proof of his emasculation was forced between Mitch’s teeth.
Gagging, trying to spit out the choking flesh, Mitch grew frantic. He flopped and twisted and kicked and more blood gouted over the yellow slicker. His mutilator stared, while forcing his gloved hand harder against Mitch’s mouth and nostrils. Hector wouldn’t relinquish his hold until Mitch swallowed. He aimed an order at the men holding Mitch. ‘One of you bring me that upholsterer’s gun from the table.’