CHAPTER 13 #2
They transferred the shooter from the trunk to a concrete-and-brick basement room.
The Guest Room. It wasn’t fancy: a rough-hewn wooden table along one wall, arrayed with tools of torture; a couple of metal chairs set to the side; shackles hanging from the low ceiling; a metal bedspring attached to the opposite wall; and a barrel drum of coals placed beneath a vent.
Odds and ends of other “accessories” were sprinkled throughout the room.
In the center of the concrete floor was a drain, making cleanup easier.
Work smart, not hard.
Cochise dragged one of the metal chairs into the center of the room.
The seat blackened—the result of another guest who had been put in the “hot seat.” They removed the shooter’s cuffs, stripped him naked, and seated him in the chair, then strapped his wrists and ankles.
His skin pebbled beneath the bitter chill of the torture room—and plain fear.
Good; Clint wanted the fucker scared.
The shooter’s eyes bulged in his head, darting frantically between the men. “It-It wasn’t my idea!” he blurted out in panic. “I was just following orders! Lazarus’s orders—” His mouth snapped shut when the Egyptian drew a huge knife.
“What was that?” the cowboy drawled, stepping forward.
The captive ducked his head, turning his face away.
“Did you think I was bluffing?” Clint asked in a cool, casual voice, heavily laced with a southern drawl.
The shooter shook his head, trembling, his watery eyes fixed on the floor as tears rolled down his bruised face.
“Apparently, you did,” Clint countered. “Or you wouldn’t have tried lying again.
Something you should know about me…” He leaned in and gripped the man’s wrists, his face close, jade-green eyes boring into the shooter’s.
“… I pride myself on being a man of my word.” He straightened slowly and snapped his fingers at Cochise.
The Egyptian grabbed a pair of ear-clamp pliers from the wooden table and handed them to the cowboy, who opened and closed the tool a couple of times, then ordered the shooter, “Open your mouth… and stick out your tongue.”
Chaz was physically unable to obey. His jaw instinctively clamped shut. The look on the cowboy’s face warned that he would take his whole tongue if he didn’t comply. Even knowing it was true, Chaz still couldn’t open his mouth.
The cowboy tapped the steel pinchers against Chaz’s bruised chin. “You don’t want me to go in after it.”
Chaz swallowed hard, his body pressing against the back of the chair.
He felt extra vulnerable, strapped naked to the freezing metal chair, his dick limp and shriveled between his thighs—a result of the cold and the terror.
His heart hammered in his throat, knowing there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do if the cowboy decided to pry his fucking jaw open and yank out his tongue.
Dragging the pliers down the center of Chaz’s throat, his chest, his stomach, the cowboy’s mouth jerked into a fleeting smile that never reached his dead eyes.
“You don’t want to give me your tongue?” he drawled quietly.
“Then maybe I’ll take something else.” The cold pliers scraped over his belly button, and Chaz’s stomach spasmed as the metal tool slid lower.
His head began to shake violently. “No… no…” He clutched the armrests, his arms straining against the leather restraints. His hips shifted, trying to pull back from the pliers as his cock flopped against his inner thighs. “No-no-no… don’t… please…”
His eyes narrowed to frigid slits, and the cowboy growled, “Then open your fucking mouth.”
The shooter responded as expected to Clint’s threats. His jaw quivered, then inched open in a jerky motion, his knuckles whitening as his fingers curled tightly around the armrests. His lips parted, his mouth opening barely.
“Wider,” the cowboy demanded, pliers ready.
Swallowing a few times, the shooter’s mouth creaked open a fraction more, his jaw trembling.
“Stick out your tongue.”
The man’s appendage quivered inside his mouth like a live eel, twitching and flexing, but it didn’t emerge.
Clint’s hand snapped out suddenly and grabbed the man’s jaw, pinching the crook and forcing his mouth open wide.
The shooter whimpered and gagged as the metal pinchers jammed into his mouth and clamped onto the tip of his tongue, yanking it out.
The Egyptian stepped closer, knife in hand.
The shooter tried to jerk back, whimpering and whining, shaking his head.
Clint tilted his head at the shooter, his eyes steely, and released his tongue. The man hastily sucked the appendage back into his mouth and gulped a couple of times, breathing fast and uneven.
“To be continued.” Clint tapped the pliers hard on the man’s chin.
“Don’t get too excited. I let you keep your tongue so you can scream louder.
” He leaned in. “The screams are my favorite part.” Clint studied the man in the chair.
He thought about the boy that this fucker shot, and how it could have been Luke, the twins, or one of Cochise’s kids.
For a split second, he imagined himself standing over Luke’s grave—imagined the boy’s brother and mom standing over his grave.
Then the second passed, and he punched the shooter in the face.
The man’s head snapped back, and the chair tipped over, cracking his skull against the concrete floor.
Cochise immediately set him upright. The man’s head dropped forward jarringly, then slowly lifted. Blood drained from his freshly smashed nose. His eyes watered, and tears leaked.
Clint slid a stainless-steel butterfly switchblade from his pocket and skillfully flipped it, then snapped the handle into place and jabbed the tip of the blade into the shooter’s throat. A droplet of blood trickled down the man’s neck where it pierced his skin.
“Let’s chat about the shooting,” Clint said, his voice low and dangerously calm as he twisted the blade’s tip against the man’s throat, digging deeper into the fleshy spot beneath his jaw.
The shooter sat stiffly, his head craned away.
“And I'd better get some satisfying conversation.” He glanced casually at Cochise. “Or my friend and I will finish what we started. Your tongue is no use to me if it won’t talk.”