Chapter 10 #2
“You’re bargaining?” Voodoo asked, voice low, almost amused. “Right now?”
Ignacio swallowed hard. “I—I know things—real things—containers, manifests, routes. I can give you those. I swear, I swear—”
He jerked violently as the collar rubbed against his throat, whether from fear or instinct, I didn’t care.
“Tell Alphabet everything,” I said. “Every container number. Every ship name. Every route designation you ever handled.”
Ignacio gasped. “I—I don’t remember all of them—”
Voodoo clicked the remote. A sharp pop of electricity.
Ignacio screamed.
“Try again,” I said, perfectly calm.
He rattled off a dozen numbers so fast Alphabet had to snap his fingers for him to slow down. Once we had the first list logged, we swung our attention to Sinclair.
“Your turn,” I said, tone deceptively polite. “Cartel contacts. Direct ones.”
Sinclair’s eyes rolled up for a second, then he shook his head violently. “I only—I only spoke to one—no, two—two from the Sarmiento line—one from La Madrina—one—fuck, fuck—one from the Castillo syndicate—”
“Names,” Lunchbox demanded.
Sinclair’s chest hitched. “I didn’t—I didn’t keep track—I told you—I told you—I didn’t want to know—didn’t want to remember—that way I couldn’t give anything up—”
“That was stupid,” I said. “You should’ve kept track.”
“I didn’t!” he cried. “I didn’t—I swear—some were faceless—I only saw a few—”
Lunchbox swung the rope lightly against his palm in a reminder.
Sinclair crumpled. Again.
“Five!” he blurted. “Five—I can give you five—I remember five—just five—please—please—don’t—don’t—”
“Names,” Alphabet repeated, fingers poised over the keyboard.
Sinclair spat them out like rotten teeth he couldn’t swallow fast enough.
“Marcos Sarmiento or de Sarjiento—maybe La De Sargento. I just called him Marcos.”
He tried to wet his lips and his throat bobbed almost painfully.
“Phillip Rojas—de Roja—red. It was like red hat or red fish. I didn’t—maybe Felipe—no, Phillip. He had a very strong British accent. Spanish last name, British accent.”
Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut, it was like he was willing himself to remember.
“San—Zan—Xander—something. He sounds German—no more South African than German. Maybe. Zander Visser.” He gasped out the last two syllables like he’d run a marathon to get to them.
The next two names came out even more garbled, but it was a starting point.
“Mykel—Michael—Mikael—something like that—I don’t—God, I don’t remember—just Mykal, okay?”
“Jochem—Jorchan—Jon—something Russian, definitely Eastern European.”
“That’s four and a half,” Lunchbox said. “And Russian is not the same as Eastern European.”
Sinclair sobbed. “I don’t—I can’t—most of the time I only ever had a first name. You have to understand, I didn’t want to know their names. I didn’t want to know too much.”
“Just enough to make money,” I said, not an ounce of sympathy within me. I glanced at Alphabet and he gave a mild shrug. We could work with it.
I turned toward Ignacio. His breathing had gone ragged, panic rising like steam off his skin.
“You,” I said, stepping closer. “What do you know about these five?”
“I—I only—only heard of two,” he gasped. “Marcos and Joaquin. They—they were the ones who handled the shipments—they were—”
Joaquin or Jochem? Was it the pain that was shredding the names or did they really not pay that much attention?
Voodoo stepped closer, remote angled lazily in his fingers.
“Don’t lie,” he warned softly. “I’ll know.”
Ignacio whimpered. “I’m not—I swear—I’m not—I only dealt with the handlers—ground-level—never the bosses—I swear—I swear—”
The collar around his throat beeped a warning tone as Voodoo adjusted the contact sensitivity.
Ignacio froze like an animal smelling the knife.
“Then tell me something useful,” I said. “Something real.”
“I—I can give you the containers they used for special cargo,” Ignacio blurted out. “The ones with double-backs, false floors, temperature control—ones that don’t get random inspections—I can—I can—there were three main ones they trusted—”
He rattled them off. Named ports. Named longshoremen who were on the take. Alphabet typed.
Lunchbox stalked a slow circle behind him, rope tapping rhythmically against his palm.
Sinclair stared at Ignacio with pure terror—because Ignacio was too willing to talk now. Too desperate. Too loud.
Apparently, the attorney was figuring out that if Ignacio talked, Sinclair’s value dropped.
Good.
I leaned forward, bracing my hands on my knees so I could meet Sinclair’s eyes directly. He flinched back like I’d swung the rope myself.
“Now,” I said quietly. “Tell me how you contacted these people. Every method. Every drop point. Every burner. Every code. Every middleman. All of it.”
He shook his head frantically. “I can’t—it was always different—always—different cars—different phones—different buildings—they—they’d tell me to show up somewhere and—and a phone would be there or—or a person already waiting—or a voice through a grate—I don’t know—I don’t—”
“You can remember,” I said.
“I can’t!”
“You can.” I straightened, looking at both of them. “And you will.”
Sinclair screamed—not from pain yet, but from the panic spiraling out of him like his ribs couldn’t contain it.
“Remember every single one,” I said.
He opened his mouth to argue, but from the corner of my eye, I saw Voodoo press the button.
Ignacio’s scream tore through the basement. Full-body convulsion. Chair legs skidding. Foam flecking the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t move,” Voodoo told him calmly. “It would be better for you not to draw our attention.”
Sinclair’s sweat doubled instantly. He shook so hard the chair rocked under him. He didn’t even try to hide the panic now.
“Keep talking, Sinclair,” Alphabet said as he approached him with the laptop, voice cool and clipped. “Because we’re about to audit every part of your life. Let’s start with the last time you heard from them.”
He answered. Rapid-fire. Half-useful, half garbage.
Lunchbox slammed him with follow-up questions. We measured their answers against each other’s reaction. Cross-checked the lies and tore apart the details. The location of his safe upstairs and what might be in it. The combination was the easiest bit.
Ignacio named everyone from his grade school instructors to his other bosses. Unsurprisingly, he was a handler for more than one supplier and that was news to Sinclair. It might almost be funny if we were talking about anything else.
That said, none of this was funny. It was horrific, disgusting, and tragic. I’d fought real wars with real consequences and these two had taken to commodifying people as products. The utter dehumanization of it all left me cold.
Two hours of hammering later, we had everything we were going to get out of them. There was no more blood to squeeze from this set of stones. I swept my glance around to each of the guys, eyebrows raised.
Lunchbox nodded once, never taking his gaze off Sinclair.
Voodoo twirled the remote around one finger as he nodded as well.
Alphabet gave me a swift bob of his head, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he continued to work on the details.
We were done.
“Unhook him,” I told Voodoo as I motioned to Ignacio. He let out a sobbing gasp of relief, that choked just moments later as I headed for him with a knife.
I ignored his screams and his pleas just as he had ignored them in every person he’d transported. I removed the dick he’d been so proud of and shoved it down his throat before I strangled him.
Sinclair I left for Voodoo and Lunchbox. They carved out two pounds of flesh from him before they ended it.
Two pounds, one for each of the twins.
In the aftermath, Alphabet leaned back and met my gaze. “We might not have enough.” Too many holes. Too many open questions.
“I know.” But I refused to disappoint her again. “We make it work.”
Grace needed to know. If it took the rest of our lives, we would get her what she needed to know.