Putting people in uncomfortable positions places strain on their bodies. Griff’s favorite is a hogtie. He used that on the men in Cancun when we were looking for Zoe, tying arms and legs behind their backs. About an hour of that makes shoulders, knees, thighs, and hips burn. I feel some of that in my shoulders right now, and I only have my hands tied behind my back.
“You ready to start?” Marco’s grin is a gruesome thing contorting what would otherwise be a handsome face.
“Fuck off.” I decide to limit my answers and like how that sounds.
Marco looks to his men. They grab my legs and secure my ankles to the chair legs. Because they’re pricks, they slam me against the back of the chair, but I expect the dick move and brace.
That brings a grin to my face, and I flash that smugness right back at Marco.
Poor choice.
Marco leaps into action, surprising me with a roundhouse kick. He plants his foot firmly against my chest with enough force to send the chair skittering along the concrete floor. I fly back and suck wind. The bastard knocks the breath out of me.
The chair wobbles, then cants back. Knowing what’s coming, I tuck my chin to my chest as the chair crashes backward. Staring up at the stains in the ceiling, I’m not happy.
Where is my team?
How much of this shit do I have to endure?
Marco crosses the distance. The heels of his shoes sound loudly in the bare room, echoing in my ear. He stands over me, lips twisted into a rictus of revulsion.
That’s okay, buddy. I hate you too.
My position sucks. I’m too vulnerable. I stare up into the visage of a monster and return his angry scowl. More interested in my pain than any information he might extract, he’s determined to make me suffer. I’ll use that to my advantage.
Walking around the chair, his next move lacks creativity. He kicks me in the ribs, making me huff against the pain. Five seems to be the magic number because he waves his men over to set the chair back on its legs after kicking me five times.
The moment I’m upright, one of them punches me in the gut. It hurts, but I tense. Not happy about my midsection being as exposed as it is, there’s nothing to do about it. At least, Marco decides to leave his kicking for my chest and ribs instead of my head.
Marco expects me to lash out. He’s a cocky fucker, leaning in close. My body’s not tied to the chair. Only my feet. I could lunge forward and cause serious damage.
I think that’s what he wants.
I’ve discovered over the years, little is accidental when it comes to torture.
My breath returns after the sucker punch. Marco is good, but he’s got nothing on Griff. That man is brutally beautiful when it comes to getting his victims to sing. All Marco accomplishes is making me mad.
My anger makes me clam up. Not that I’ll ever break. Not for a man like Marco. When it comes to a battle of wills, I’ve got him beat, hands down.
I lean on my SERE training, resisting interrogation.
My training was … thorough.
What Marco does is child’s play compared with what I endured during SERE. While nothing can really prepare a person for the real thing, I’m confident in what I can endure and know my strengths.
I also know where the chinks in my armor make me vulnerable. Marco is yet to discover my weakness.
When he does, I’m toast.
Which is why I make zero eye contact with Maria.
She stands alone and forgotten, huddled against the far wall. Her mother stormed off to the other side of the room, angry eyes shooting daggers at Marco.
She’s really pissed about Sybil. It’s as if Marco stole her favorite toy. There’s definitely more to that story, but first …
Marco slams his fist into my jaw, jerking my head to the side. He plows into my midsection with well-timed punches that leave me sweating and huffing for breath.
I’m okay with getting the shit kicked out of me. Marco lets his fists fly, tenderizing my face with brutal punches that make my head spin and have my eyes seeing stars. The acrid tang of blood fills my mouth after a particularly well-placed punch that cuts the inside of my cheek.
I spit out clots of blood and glare defiantly at Marco. He continues with the punches, asking a question, punching me, asking again. We go ‘round and ‘round like this for what seems like forever but can only be a few minutes.
That’s the thing with torture.
It feels like forever.
“I assume Liam Cartwright is not your real name?” Marco cracks his knuckles.
“Don’t you know better than to assume? It makes an ass out of you and me.”
“You think you’re smart?” Marco kicks my shins like a grade school bully in the schoolyard.
I shrug. It’s the only answer he’ll get from me.
“I assume you’re not a venture capitalist either?”
Instead of a shrug, I reward him with a glare.
He’s not a stupid man. Mitzy built an awesome cover, but it’s not perfect.
It was never meant to be perfect.
“Which means those bodyguards you left behind are not bodyguards. They’re on your team.”
I go back to the shrug.
Interrogation is an art form. There are several distinct phases, each one directed at wearing down the victim. Each successive phase builds on that momentum until victims are suggestive, malleable, and loquacious.
Loquacious.
That’s a big word for saying they overshare.
Fortunately for me, I know how this is going to go down. Not that Marco read the playbook on interrogation techniques, but people tend to develop their own unique style, building upon what worked for them in the past.
Right now, we’re in the getting to know you stage. Meaning, he’s not asking anything he doesn’t already know. This is merely his way of establishing that he is, indeed, the questioner, and I’m his prisoner.
It’s a bit overkill, if you ask me. We sorted that shit out when he marched me down here at gunpoint, but it’s part of the game. Things are going to get bad before they get worse.
Judging by the bloodstains on the ceiling, walls, and floor, this isn’t Marco’s first rodeo, but he’s not a pro.
He’s not a perfectionist like Griff.
Things may look bad for me right now, but I have a leg up. I’ve read this playbook hundreds of times, and I’ve watched Griff. He’s Alpha team’s go-to torture guy, uniquely suited to getting people to tell him shit they don’t want him to know.
All I have to do is hang on, and while I’m getting the shit kicked out of me, I have a few questions of my own.
“Do you enjoy ruining lives? Selling women to the highest bidder? Is that what gets you hard?” My questions are answered by a flurry of his fists. Blackness crowds my vision after a particularly nasty uppercut to my jaw. My ears ring as I try to shake it off.
“It makes me rich.” Marco preens, overly pleased with himself. “Low overhead. High return on investment.”
“Is that for the ones you pluck off the streets in Cancun? The special orders? Or the snuff you sell to the highest bidder?”
Marco’s eyes flicker. He covers up the tell, but not before I see it.
It’s the confirmation we need. There’s more we need to know; things I won’t get out of him, but I’m confident this whole situation will turn itself around soon enough.
“You got greedy, and that greed made you sloppy.” I can’t help but egg him on. The more I can stoke his anger, the more likely he’ll slip up and tell me something important.