Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
BONES
This wasn’t my first time facing torture.
Hell, it wasn’t even my first time waking up strung up by the wrists, arms stretched high and shoulders screaming from the weight of my own body.
Gravity did most of the damage—slow, relentless, unforgiving.
My toes could almost reach the floor. Balance took effort. Bracing was nearly impossible.
But at least my legs were free.
Not that it mattered. They weren’t letting me use them. Instead, they kept their distance, letting the water do the work—soaking me through, letting every drop turn my body into a live wire.
Then came the shock sticks.
They didn’t get close. Just jabbed at me from arm’s length like cowards, letting the current rip through the water, through me.
Each strike lit up my nerves like a live circuit, my jaw snapping shut hard enough to rattle my teeth.
I focused on that—just keeping my tongue clear. A small win. A fragile bit of control.
And sometimes, that’s all you’ve got.
The shocks stopped, but the water didn’t.
It kept pouring steadily soaking into my clothes, my skin, the rope biting into my wrists. Cold and constant. Like a reminder: this is just the beginning.
They weren’t in a hurry.
One of the suits stepped into my line of sight, just far enough back that I couldn’t reach him even if I got stupid and tried to swing.
He looked like the others—square jaw, cropped hair, mirrored sunglasses even in this dim, cement-walled hellhole.
They all looked the same. Like they’d been printed from a template. Corporate-branded cruelty.
No one said a word.
Not a single question. No threats. No posturing.
Just the occasional click of the shock stick. Just enough to warn me of the next hit.
Not their first rodeo, I thought, dragging in a slow breath through my nose. And not amateurs. That should’ve worried me more than it did.
But I wasn’t dead, which meant they still wanted something. Based on what the so-called Vega said, they wanted information and leverage. Maybe not much. But enough.
The silence pressed in harder than the pain.
If they’d shouted, raged, barked orders, I could’ve played off that. Tuned them out. Picked a weak spot. But this? This sterile, clockwork efficiency? It was harder to fight.
I could feel my mind start to drift—just a little—toward that place where you stop caring.
Where the pain becomes background noise and the body starts whispering just let go.
My jaw clenched, and I forced myself back.
No good came from checking out. That’s how you missed details. Patterns. Openings.
And I needed one. Bad.
“Not gonna talk?” I rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Didn’t think this was just a spa day.”
No answer. Not even a flicker of amusement. One of the suits adjusted his cuffs. That was it.
Still nothing.
My ribs ached from the tension. My arms had long since gone numb. The muscles in my legs were starting to tremble with the effort of keeping me upright. I shifted my weight slightly, just enough to ease the pull on one shoulder.
Another jolt hit the water.
My back arched on instinct, a full-body spasm I couldn't control, and I let out a short, involuntary grunt. It wasn’t a scream, but it wasn’t nothing either.
The suit closest to me cocked his head, studying me like I was a specimen under glass. Still no questions. Still no demands. Just observation.
They’re measuring me.
Not for weakness. Not for pain tolerance. For something else. Response time. Reactions. Behavior under stress.
They weren’t trying to break me.
They were profiling me.
That realization landed harder than the last jolt. They weren’t sadists. This wasn’t about pleasure. They didn’t enjoy it.
That made them dangerous in a whole different way.
I swallowed hard, working moisture back into my mouth. “Y’know,” I said, breath shallow, “most people at least pretend to get off on this part. You guys really need to work on your bedside manner.”
No response.
Of course not.
But one of them—taller than the rest—finally stepped forward, something in his hand. A towel. He draped it over the spigot above me, cutting off the water.
The silence grew heavier.
I could hear my own breathing now, uneven and tight. My heartbeat in my ears. Somewhere above, maybe through a vent or behind a door, a distant hum—machinery? Air system? It barely mattered.
They were going to start talking soon.
I wasn’t sure if I was more worried of what they wanted to know—or how much they already did.
Yet, despite all of that, they still didn’t ask anything. In fact, they left. No announcement. No closing remarks. No whispered threats or final looks. Just a slow retreat of footsteps. The sound of the door hissing shut.
Then the lights went out.
Total black.
Like the kind of black that isn't just absence of light, but a presence all its own. Thick. Suffocating. Heavy on the chest. I blinked reflexively, but it made no difference. I might as well have been blindfolded. Buried alive.
And the silence—
The silence was worse.
No water dripping. No buzz of overhead lights. Not even the hum of cameras. Even the earlier sounds of machinery were gone. Leaving nothing.
A perfect, engineered nothing leaving me alone with only the sound of my harsh breathing.
My arms burned, ropes biting into skin gone raw. My shoulders trembled with fatigue. Every nerve in my body twitched like it hadn’t gotten the message that the shocks had stopped. Ghost currents. Phantom pain. I could still feel that last jolt sparking in my molars.
The silence continued to creep in through the cracks.
It got in my head.
Tick, tick, tick.
Shock, breath, twitch.
Weight, rope, sway.
Where are they?
Time slipped. Minutes? Hours? A day? Could’ve been five. My brain was no longer on the clock. It had flipped to survival mode.
Focus. Focus.
Tracker.
Right thigh. Subdermal. Deep enough to survive some serious shit. I hoped. Maybe the shocks didn’t fry it. Maybe the signal was still clean. Maybe someone was already on their way.
Maybe.
Or maybe it was scrambled with the rest of me. Cooked from the inside out. Like my spine still felt half-lit, flickering like a busted streetlamp.
Don't think like that. Stay sharp.
I started counting. Prime numbers, backwards. Then forwards. Then in French. Anything to keep the brain from unraveling.
And then—Grace.
God, Grace.
I could almost see her: arms crossed, that look on her face like she was this close to calling me Boney Boy. That perfect, wicked sass.
“How is this a better plan than mine?”
Yeah. That tracked. She had a fantastic sense of humor, but even when she gave me shit, she didn’t lose that gleam of worry in her eyes.
Fuck. The delicate fragility of hers masked that very core of steel I’d grown to respect and adore, even when I wanted to spank her ass for risking herself.
She was probably giving the guys hell about what was the plan to get to me. But only when she wasn’t keeping her head down and focused. When we’d had to cut out on the guys, she’d been more than just someone for me to protect. She’d tried and often succeeded in being a partner.
I could see her, hair pulled back to tame the dark curls while her blue eyes burned with her temper, and her lip gloss served as her war paint. She’d be pushing them, even as she worked to support their choices.
But she’d be counting it down, and terrified or not, she’d follow us right into hell.
We so fucking did not deserve her.
I smiled—barely—but it hurt. Everything did.
Still. Worth it.
I clung to the idea of her like a tether. Her voice. That snap in her tone when she was scared but pretending not to be. The way she said my name when she was pissed—and when she wasn’t. The shock and passion burning through her expression when I sank into her and the way she exhaled my name.
From the beginning, I got it. One taste of her would never be enough. She was an addiction before I ever touched her. The memories played out like a reel of actual film, flickering as the frames traveled by just a little too slowly.
Pain raked through my insides, slicing into me.
Tracker. Focus. Grace. Light. Breathe.
Repeat.
My legs were shaking now. Cramping. I shifted, trying to keep blood moving. The rope creaked softly in the dark, but the sound was swallowed up immediately. The sound proofing was impressive. Nothing bounced. Nothing echoed.
Designed to erase a person, to strip them down until all that was left was the silence and potentially the screaming inside your skull.
Fine.
Let them wait.
Let them think they were winning.
I could hold the line.
Because somewhere out there, my team was coming. Grace was probably going to be with them and she would be pissed. It would be worth it.
I don’t know when I slipped.
One second, I was gripping onto Grace’s voice like a lifeline—counting, visualizing, grounding myself in memories—and the next, I was somewhere else entirely.
Not unconscious. Not exactly dreaming either.
Just… floating. Detached. Like my brain had quietly decided to step out of the room and let my body rot in peace.
It wasn’t peace, though. Not even close.
Because when they came back, they tore me out of that void.
The lights snapped on so bright and fast it felt like a punch to the skull.
A flood of sterile white burned through my eyes, blinding, searing.
My head jerked back, instinctive, involuntary.
A sound tore from my throat—half-snarl, half-gasp—as my vision exploded into a storm of afterimages and migraine sparks.
Then came the water.
Sudden.
Cold.
Relentless.
Like an executioner's switch had been thrown. It cascaded from above, reactivating every nerve ending. Every inch of me was drenched in seconds. My breath stuttered in my chest. The water slid down my spine, across raw skin, into open scrapes. It didn’t just soak. It penetrated.
And just like that, the click came.
Electric warning. Familiar. Immediate.
I barely had time to brace.
CRACK.
The shock hit with precision. Like a conductor wielding a baton of lightning, the nameless man played me like a violent instrument. My limbs spasmed, my back bowed, and I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep the scream inside. Metal on nerve. My thoughts scattered like shrapnel.
This time, however, the assholes said something.
“Where is the drive?”
No buildup. No soft threats. No misdirection.
Just straight to it.
“Where did Voodoo take it?”
I coughed, spit mixing with blood. “Fuck if I know,” I rasped, jaw barely working.
CRACK.
A second shock. Right thigh. Too close to the tracker.
I snarled through clenched teeth, the fire racing from hip to heel, nerves lighting up in defiance.
“You were his commanding officer,” the voice said—neutral, precise, clinical. “You knew the mission profile. You knew his extraction points. Where did he take it?”
CRACK.
Another jolt. This one hit the water near my feet, coursing up through both legs and into my spine. My vision whited out. For a second, I saw stars. Maybe galaxies.
“Where is the drive?” they asked again. Calm. Measured. Like this was a goddamn debriefing and not their version of enhanced interrogation in a cement crypt.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He ran dark.”
CRACK.
This one stole my breath. My lungs locked up. My body bucked.
“You were responsible for the asset. The data was onboard. Prototype intelligence mapping. Your team stole it. And you let him vanish.”
“He wasn’t supposed to come back,” I gritted out. “He volunteered for the ghost run. He knew what that meant.”
CRACK.
I screamed this time. Couldn’t help it. My body betrayed me, torn between agony and defiance.
Silence again.
Water kept pouring.
“You knew the contingency plan,” the voice went on, stepping closer. I could almost make out the outline now—broad-shouldered, authoritative. Not one of the suits. Someone higher. Commanding. “You had eyes on Voodoo’s fallback. We know he communicated with you post-mission.”
“I burned the comms,” I said, panting. “No signal. No trace. That was the plan. We covered our tracks.”
“And yet,” the voice said coolly, “you were the last person to speak with him. You knew. So where is the drive?”
CRACK.
Left arm. Right through the shoulder. Fire exploded up my neck, and my jaw snapped shut so fast I bit my tongue.
“I don’t know,” I growled through blood. “Even if I did… I wouldn’t give it to you.”
Silence again.
The man stepped closer. I felt his presence now. A pressure in the air. This wasn’t one of the suits. He didn’t move like them. Didn't feel like them. This one was military.
It was about fucking time.
He leaned close.
“You’re not dying here, Bones. You’ll wish you did, but you won’t. Not until we have what we came for. And we will get it.”
CRACK.
My legs gave out. Only the ropes kept me dangling.
“You should start thinking about how much pain it’s worth.”
My breath was ragged. Broken. But I still smiled.
Then I spit the blood into his face.
Another CRACK.
The world shattered into white noise again.