Chapter 28 #2
Harley smirked, but I could see the frustration in the hard line of his jaw. He wanted this over with. I wanted it over with, too, but I wasn’t going to let Hillabrand die without giving me the information I needed. The agent had already ruined too fucking much for me to take half measures now.
“You’re going to run out of bottles before I run out of stubborn,” Hillabrand muttered. It came out choked and nasal, but that cocky grin was back. “Maybe try something a little less bland?”
I crouched down until my face was level with his, elbows on my knees, bottle dangling from my fingertips. “You want spice, Agent? Fine. Harley, the jumper cables.”
There was a little pause. I could almost feel the air turn electric with anticipation.
Harley set down the bag, zipped it open, and pulled out the cables, heavy-duty clamps at each end.
The rubber grips had been peeled back on purpose, so all that was left was cold, hungry metal.
Hillabrand’s eyes flicked to the bag, and for the first time, I noticed a little crack in his performance. His bravado dropped an inch. Maybe two.
I leaned in, voice low. “You know, I always wondered if you FBI types got to see real action, or if you just sat behind a desk and played with your own dicks. Guess we’re about to find out.”
“Shove it, Azzaro,” he mumbled. He was blinking a lot now. Sweat had started above his brows.
Harley switched on the self contained unit, as I opened and closed the clamps. I took my sweet time rolling up Hillabrand’s sleeves. “Left or right, Agent?”
He didn’t answer, so I shrugged and picked left. “Harley, hold steady.”
Harley gripped Hillabrand’s shoulder. I clamped the alligator’s teeth to the tender inside of his wrist, right over the veins. He jerked, jaw clenched, but didn’t make a sound. The next clamp went to the opposite wrist, just as pretty.
“Ready?” I murmured.
He glared at me. “Fuck you.”
“Good enough.”
I gestured. Harley flipped the breaker.
At first? Nothing. Hillabrand’s eyes just went wide, and his body tensed, but the current was running, I could see it in the way his hair stood up, the way his teeth gritted so hard his jaw could have snapped.
Then his throat worked up a groan. Muscles all down his arms and chest twitched and jumped like a puppet with tangled strings.
I counted off the seconds, slow enough for him to know I was counting.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Hillabrand started to shake, sweat pouring down now, his head lolling back. I let it go to nine before cutting it.
He sagged, breathing ragged, arms trembling like Jell-O.
Harley laughed. “You want to try that again, Boss?”
I grinned. “You have a favorite number, Hillabrand?”
He spat to the side, voice hoarse. “You want my bank account? Last four digits are eight, six, six, two.”
I clucked my tongue. “Still not the answer I wanted.”
I hit him again.
This time, he screamed.
It wasn’t even the loud kind of scream, more like a guttural growl that he tried to hold in, but it tore out of him anyway. The pain had to be excruciating. I’d seen it before, and I never got used to it. But I watched and waited.
When I cut the current, his head lolled back, mouth open, eyes fluttering.
Harley whistled. “Damn, he’s tougher than you’d think.”
I leaned in, brushed the hair from Hillabrand’s forehead, and slapped his cheek—not hard. Just enough to bring him back.
“Who’s your rat, Hillabrand?”
He coughed. “I’m not giving you shit.”
I shrugged. “We’ve got time.”
I gestured to Harley, who moved to the machine, ready to flip it again.
But then I paused.
I didn’t want to fry the bastard’s brain. Not yet. Not unless I had to. There were other ways.
I stood and paced in front of him, shaking out the tension in my hands. My heart was racing, but my head was fucking clear. I could see it all: Hillabrand’s sweat-soaked shirt, the way his knuckles had gone white around the chair arms, Harley’s eyes watching me, waiting for the next move.
Electricity was one thing. Old school, reliable. But Hillabrand was right—I needed variety.
“Alright, let’s try something new,” I said, turning back to my bag of toys. I dug through it, rattling metal, searching for the next tool. There—a thin metal spike, and a blowtorch. Classic, but effective.
Harley watched. He knew this drill.
I flicked the torch on, the flame bright and hungry. I held the metal until it glowed orange at the tip, then turned and crouched in front of Hillabrand again.
He stared at me, sweat running down his cheeks. “That’s all you got, Gavriel? I expected more from the Owl’s Talon.”
I grinned, teeth bared, and pressed the hot metal against the side of his neck.
He didn’t scream, not at first. He just grunted, straining against the ropes, the smell of burnt flesh filling the little basement room. It was sharp, chemical, unforgettable.
When I pulled it away, a perfect round welt sizzled on his skin.
“You want another one?” I asked.
He spat blood. “Your mother fucks dead and in the ground better than you torture.”
I shook my head, almost laughing. “You’re a mouthy son of a bitch. You think you’re going to make it out of here? You think your rat is going to save you?”
He looked me dead in the eyes, challenge flashing. “I think you’re going to run out of tricks before I run out of loyalty.”
Fine.
I reached down, yanked his left shoe off. He tried to kick, but Harley pinned both his legs. I pulled off the sock, baring his foot, then pressed the glowing-hot metal spike against the tender arch.
This time he made a noise. Not a scream. A hiss, a wet curse, and a muffled groan.
I let it linger, just until the skin started to blister, then moved to the other foot.
“You want me to stop?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I want you to fucking die.”
I smiled. “You’re not going to get that wish today, Agent. But you might get a few new scars.”
I pressed the spike down, just below his ankle.
He panted and stared down at his feet, like he was determined to watch every second of it. Like the pain made him more alive.
I respected the hell out of that.
Still, I was going to break him.
I tossed the spike back toward the bag and stood up, letting Harley re-tie his feet, this time tighter.
“Harley, get the bucket.”
Hillabrand’s eyes widened just a little, and he glanced at me. “You going to waterboard me again with sparkling water now?”
I smirked. “Not exactly.”
Harley pulled the plastic bucket from under the table and set it in front of the agent. Then he left, clomping up the stairs, and returned with two bags— a bag of dry ice, and a bag of regular ice.
I dumped the ice into the bucket and filled it halfway with water from a jug. The cubes clattered, some splashing out.
“You ever have frostbite, Hillabrand?” I asked, rolling up my own sleeves as Harley moved dry ice into both buckets. “Hurts like hell. Nerve endings just go haywire. I think you’re going to like this one.”
He shook his head, but Harley forced his left hand into the freezing bucket and held it there.
I watched the clock.
Hillabrand gritted his teeth, tried to hold it in, but after two minutes, his whole body was shaking. He tried to pull free, but Harley was a rock.
Three minutes, and his lips went blue.
Four minutes, and his eyes rolled up in his head for a second like he was going to pass out.
I pulled his hand out and held it up for him to see. The skin was red, fingers curled in, trembling. I pressed my thumb into his palm, slow and steady, until he winced and tried to jerk away.
“You want to talk, or you want to go again?” I asked.
He gasped for air, a little spit running down his chin. “Go fuck yourself, Azzaro.”
I grabbed his right hand and shoved it into the ice water. This time, I poured more cubes in on top, then held his head down so his cheek was right above the bucket, close enough he could see his own pain.
Harley counted off. “One minute.”
Hillabrand’s jaw was clenched so tight I thought he’d crack a tooth.
“Two.”
He was breathing hard, sweat mixing with the chill.
“Three minutes.”
His whole arm was shaking now, and the skin had gone blotchy and there were parts that were starting to turn white.
I pulled him out and dumped the bucket out on the floor, ice skittering everywhere. Then immediately brought his hands down onto the dry ice. Within seconds, his fingers turned black, as he screamed, his fingers twitching before they stopped moving at all.
“You know what’s next?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, just glared at me with pure hatred in his eyes.
I took out the next bottle of carbonated water, shook it, and sprayed it into his ruined hands. The bubbles hissed and popped, fizzing against the raw, frozen skin.
For a second, I thought he was going to puke. He howled, tried to jerk away, but Harley held him solid.
It was a beautiful fucking sound and a chuckle of happiness bubble up my throat. I crouched in front of him, eye to eye. “You ready to talk yet, Agent?”
He coughed, shook his head. “I told you. No one’s feeding me anything anymore. You’re chasing a ghost.”
I believed him. But I needed the name.
I gestured to Harley. “Go get the toolbox. We’ll try the nails.”
Hillabrand’s face went blank. He’d heard of this one.
Harley set the heavy toolbox down on the table with a thud, then popped it open. Inside, everything was laid out: hammers, pliers, a bag of six-inch nails. Harley handed me one.
Hillabrand’s hands were so swollen and red, he could barely make fists.
I lined the nail up with his right palm, just below the base of his thumb.
“You want to make this easy, you tell me now,” I said, holding the nail and the hammer. “Otherwise, this is going all the way through.”
He closed his eyes. “Fuck you.”
I did it in one hit.
The sound was unreal—a wet smack, metal against bone and flesh. The nail sunk deep, and Hillabrand screamed, this time high and wild. His whole body arched against the chair, ropes straining.