CHAPTER 5
He came back to consciousness in pieces, the cold arriving first—the bite of it at his fingertips, the ache of it deep in his jaw—then sound, a low, distant ringing, and then the hard surface beneath his feet. Last of all, the pain, which had been waiting patiently for him to wake up.
His eyes gradually opened as a thin sliver of light seeped between his eyelids, piercing straight to the back of his skull.
The realization of his nakedness arrived slowly, like cold—a reality his body had long since accepted before his mind could even register it.
The air moved freely over him, and he sensed a coldness of exposure around his groin.
Usually, he wouldn’t pay much attention to it.
Now, it seemed the most exposed and fragile part of him.
He shivered intensely, waves overtaking him, gripping and relaxing his muscles in a strange, uncontrollable rhythm. His stomach churned at the back of his throat, lurching involuntarily, as if attempting to rid itself of the cold completely.
What’s happening? Where am I?
His memories arrived in fragments and faded before he could piece them together.
Instead of recollections, sensations filled the void: a deep burn in his shoulders, tense joints indicating he had been there for a while.
His wrists, stretched above him, transitioned from pain to a sharp, pinpoint sting—possibly from rope, cable, or wire; he was unsure.
His weight shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, and the concrete floor pressed back with its indifferent hardness—gritty and unyielding, working itself into the soft skin between his toes.
Dan. The name first appeared as a fleeting thought, then as a measured intention, yet his body resisted speaking it.
His throat tightened, and his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.
With effort, he parted his lips—producing a faint, sticky sound—and attempted to force the name out.
What emerged was almost unrecognizable. “Dan—” The sound faded into a cough that shook his shoulders and strained his wrists.
He paused, then tried again. “Dan…” The intended cry escaped as a faint whisper, already worn out, swallowed by the surrounding silence.
Brad opened his eyes wider and immediately regretted it.
The light settled on the exact center of his skull and stayed there, a fixed point of white pressure that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
He turned his head—a small thing, almost nothing—and felt the pain shift entirely, a sudden, nauseating change that wrenched a sound from somewhere below his chest. He went still. Waited for it to recede.
The cold had become a kind of physics, a law that governed him. It numbed the surface and burned beneath, creating a paradox of sensations he hadn’t known possible.
The world swam, a smear of shadow and substance, before it resolved into a low, oppressive ceiling of rough-hewn stone.
A rust-streaked 55-gallon drum stood sentinel beside a dark, grated opening in the wall—a ventilation shaft, perhaps.
From the drum’s base, a faint cherry glow pulsed, and a thin, acrid smoke twisted upward, carrying the scent of scorched metal and old ash.
To its right sat a heavy wooden table, its surface a grim display: pliers with dark, grooved jaws; a coiled length of braided wire; a propane torch lying on its side; pruning shears bearing a dark, disturbing stain along the blades.
Brad’s gaze flinched from it, skittering across the room until it snagged on something worse.
Mounted against the far wall was a large, skeletal bedspring, its coils rusted and straining under the weight of the man bound to it.
Dan was splayed out naked against the metal grid, his limbs pulled taut like a specimen.
Thin wire bit deep into the swollen flesh of his wrists and ankles, the skin around each ligature purpled and split.
A metal bar was forced between his teeth, secured by a cracked leather strap that dug into the corners of his mouth.
His head lolled to one side at a sharp, unnatural angle, his face pale and slack beneath a film of sweat, and turned toward the ceiling. His eyes were half-closed and glazed.
“Dan—” The name died in Brad’s throat. His eyes moved where he did not want them to move, tracking down the length of his friend’s body to his cock where the skin had been separated from the flesh in a neat, deliberate margin, like the peeled-back cover of something that was never meant to be opened.
What lay beneath was dark and intricate and wrong—a wet latticework of tissue that glistened faintly in the pale light.
The blood had found the bedspring’s lowest rail and followed it down in a slow, methodical procession, dropping from coil to coil, accumulating into the pool below—wide and still, its perimeter already dried to a dark rind against the concrete.
Brad’s rapid heartbeat spiraled out of control as another level of panic took over. “Dan!” The cry burst out, coarse and ragged, shredding his throat. “Jesus Christ! Dan—wake up! Fucking wake up!”
Dan didn’t respond, his glazed eyes staring at nothing. Foamy drool trickled out around the bar gag and oozed onto his bare chest.
He’s dead! Oh fuck—he’s dead!
Brad thrashed at his restraints in a frenzy, the thin wire gouging deeper into his wrists until blood ran down his arms. He abruptly stopped fighting and looked down. His soft belly prevented him from seeing his own dick. If they’d cut him, too, he would feel it—he would fucking feel it!
He lifted his lower half enough to glimpse his cock—it was all still there.
But something was different. Someone had drawn on his member with a black marker.
Dotted lines around the root—and straight down the topline of his shaft.
No-no-NOO!! Brad began thrashing wildly again. Oh my god-oh my god-OH MY GAWD!!
“Dan!!” Brad screamed, choking on his own panic. “Wake up—”
Dan’s head twitched. His eyelids fluttered. A gurgle in his throat.
“Dan…?” An irrational relief spilled through Brad, and he almost cried and pissed himself at the same time. Dan was in no condition to save them. Still, the relief remained; Brad didn’t want to be here alone… wherever here was.
It’s hell… You’re in hell.
The Egyptian sat at the minibar in the mansion’s lounge.
Tension spread through his thick, muscled shoulders as he held one of the agents’ phones, watching the recording of them scoping out Tae at the park.
He listened to the racist, predatory remarks about his son—the laughing and joking about what they wanted to do to him.
The cowboy sat on the stool beside him, holding the other phone, watching other videos of brutality and sexual abuse inflicted on other detainees. The men were threatening, but always laughing, making sport of the frightened, innocent lives at their mercy—as if it were somehow a fucking game.
They want to play games? We’ll play games.
Right about now, he didn’t think they were laughing or having a good time. Especially not the fucker who’d had his dick flayed. Maybe it was even worse for his buddy, who was surely awake by now, witnessing his own imminent fate.
No one suggested hurrying to deal with the men. They waited—for Cochise. This was his show. Cochise glanced at Clint as the cowboy turned off the phone and set it on the bar. Clint met his gaze. This was his show, too. The men in the guest room had struck the cowboy’s kid; he had a stake in this.
“Ready to play?” Clint asked.
“Soon.” Cochise grabbed the bottle of whiskey and filled his shot glass. “I don’t have to be home until dinner.” He threw back the drink, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat and settled warmly in his gut. “We got time.”
The cowboy nodded, set himself up with another shot, and offered the bottle to Cruz and his men.
The only one refusing shots was Rodriguez.
According to Cruz, the young man had shied away from hard liquor since the loss of Greco.
He had too much anger and grief churning inside, and feared what would become of him if liquor tore down his inhibitions.
Rodriguez’s concerns were less about himself than about the child now in his care.
The little boy Greco had given his life to save.
Cruz believed the boy was Rodriguez’s only anchor to this life right now.
Losing Greco—witnessing him being shot and holding his dying boyfriend in his arms as life drained out of him—had destroyed something vital in the young man.
Caring for a fragile, innocent life gave him purpose, a reason to stay in this life.
At the moment, it seemed to be his only reason.
Cochise understood the necessity of anchors.
Tae was one of those anchors for the Egyptian.
The men in the guest room had tried to take that from him—just as Quint and his prick son, Julian, had attempted to take away John and Donald on the island.
Cochise was sick to fuck of these motherfuckers who thought they could just walk into his private domain and take whatever the fuck they wanted.
They couldn’t.
And it was time to teach their new guests the same lesson that Quint and his son had learned on that godforsaken island.
Dan’s head flopped to the other side, and his watery eyes widened, tears spilling. He made a muffled, garbled sound as his lips quivered around the bar gag and he tried to speak. Long strings of drool hung from his chin to his upper chest, unbroken.
Brad watched, eyes bulging, as Dan came back to his senses, registering his situation in tiny, terrifying increments. His throat bobbed wildly, his eyes growing wider. His frantic words devolved into blubbering whimpers that forced more slobber to spray around the gag.
His body jerked in spasms, arms and legs yanking against their restraints, causing the wire to cut deeper into his bruised and swollen flesh, drawing fresh blood.
His wild, bleary eyes locked on Brad. He screamed behind the gag, the sound blowing out of his nostrils along with globs of snot.
Dan seemed to be demanding Brad do something—get him loose.
“I can’t…” Brad pushed up on the balls of his feet against the cold concrete floor, trying to ease the pressure on his mangled wrists. “I’m stuck, too.”
Dan’s face, blotchy with flush, twisted with fear and anger. He gritted his teeth around the bar gag and screamed at Brad again, his words incoherent, little more than a shriek. But Brad understood: Dan was furious with him, as if this were somehow Brad’s fault.
It was just him! I wasn’t going to touch him—I swear to God!
Back on the highway, Dan had tried to throw Brad under the bus just to save his own ass. He would have tucked tail and run while the men beat Brad to death.
“Don’t scream at me,” Brad snapped, spittle spraying from his lips. “This is your fault, too. I wasn’t the only one who was gonna rape the gook.” His face twitched. “You tried to fucking sell me out, you fucking prick!”
Rather than retaliating, Dan sagged against the metal springs, his chest hitching and his face pinching in excruciating pain. He squeezed his eyes shut as tears leaked out.
Brad’s anger subsided, and pity for the man returned.
It was a shitty thing he’d done to Brad, but he didn’t deserve this.
“Just hang on, man,” Brad rasped, looking up at his bound wrists.
“Maybe we can… get out of this…” But the more he twisted his hands, the deeper the wire sank into his flesh, already grinding against bone.
Fuck. Tears blurred his vision as he tried to make sense of how the wire was woven together.
Maybe he could somehow unravel it with his fingers…
His eyes followed the intricate weave of the wire as it wrapped around the chain hanging from the low ceiling. It would take wire cutters to get free.
“God dammit,” he choked, looking at Dan.
The man stared back, eyes red and bloodshot, tears leaking in a steady stream.
“They’re going to pay for this.” His voice wheezed through his parched throat.
“We’re federal agents. We’re protected by the fucking government.
” His chest heaved as his breathing quickened. “We were just doing our damn job!”
“Just following orders.”
“Huh!” Brad’s head jerked toward the heavy metal door. The gook’s dad stood in the doorway, his height and bulk filling nearly the entire space. Behind him stood the cowboy.
“That excuse didn’t save the nazis…” the big man growled. “… and it won’t save you.”