Chapter 28 #2
“It will be,” a booming voice confirmed from the now open doorway.
Their uncle stood there, looking like the picture-perfect villain.
He’d dressed to put on a show, wearing a sharply tailored dark suit, crisp white shirt, and perfectly knotted silk tie.
He could go from here straight to his own wedding, and no one would bat an eye.
Beckett noticed Matthew’s shoulders start to stiffen but, before he could tap his shoulder, he settled back into character.
“Did you buy that property off Notre Dame?” Matthew asked, the excitement genuine.
Mario was noticeably displeased that he hadn’t gotten the shock-and-awe response he’d anticipated. He turned to his nephew, minor twitches of his surgically-altered forehead and eyebrows at least partially conveying his irritation.
“What?” he barked, but before Matthew could explain, he ordered, “Come in, we have a lot to get through.”
Beckett shot Hayes a quick glance to make sure they were following the plan.
He started to reach for him, wanting a moment—one more just in case—but he subdued the urge and offered a faint nod instead.
They’d shared a quick, private moment earlier before they came in.
Besides, they walked into danger every day, and tonight was no different.
Beckett watched as the four siblings, along with their bodyguards, followed Mario.
Matthew and his sister, chatting amicably, entered last, trailed by Hayes.
So far, Matthew had succeeded in selling the act.
That was encouraging, at least. As they disappeared behind the large oak door, Beckett felt a prickle of worry settle at the back of his neck.
The bodyguard situation had not changed since the first meeting.
As he turned away from the closed door, Beckett found himself again surrounded by meatheads.
They looked like the same ones he’d met at the first Rosario meeting, though this time they looked decidedly more eager?
Was that the right word? Like lions licking their chops as they watched a nearby herd of gazelle settle down to graze on a plain of long grass.
Fuck.
“Ya’ll getting paid by the hour or the job?” he asked, after a few seconds of being eyed by the massive, steroid-infused dumbasses.
Beckett was in an odd position. His back was to the door, with a meathead on each side. Directly in front of him, across the hall, was Scarface. All three of them were turned towards him, as though boxing him in.
The prickle of worry he’d felt while watching Hayes disappear into that room suddenly turned into a five-alarm fire. A familiar burn in his gut burst into flames. Maybe he was getting old, or stupid, but he hadn’t seen this ambush coming at all.
As though sensing Beckett was getting nervous, Scarface pulled a black bag from his back pocket. Beckett swore under his breath and quickly raised his hands, brushing his fingers against his comms device in his ear as he did so.
“No offense boys, I’m sure bald heads and ham-sized biceps do it for someone, but I’m not really into the whole gangbang scene.
And I definitely don’t like to be blindfolded and tied up,” Beckett said, keeping his voice calm and steady, knowing he had to inform Hayes before they discovered and destroyed his comms device.
“Aye,” Hayes responded barely above a whisper.
There was a thread of tension in Hayes’ voice. Beckett couldn’t determine whether it was from his own precarious situation in the meeting room, or because he was worried about Beckett.
Scarface gave him a predatory smile, the kind that made your blood curdle and your lungs seize, as he approached him. Thankfully, Beckett had cultivated a fondness for being difficult, and he refused to be intimidated.
“Really? Do we have to? How about a nice dinner, a good bottle of red, and we talk this out?” he joked, just as the two next to him moved in, seizing his hands.
Beckett forced himself not to fight back. It would be pointless. He was good—but he was no Jackie Chan. Best to let this shit play out and wing it. That kind of non-plan approach always worked for him.
Okay, usually.
They spun him around and shoved him against the wall.
They bound his wrists with multiple zip ties because they weren’t quite as stupid as they appeared.
Then, they spun him around again and yanked out his earpiece, throwing it to the floor and stomping on it dramatically.
It did very little except force the battery out of the pack.
A rather comical show of force, really. He looked up, preparing to ridicule their pathetic attempts at intimidation, but before he could say anything, a rag was pressed to his mouth, the distinctively sweet smell of chloroform overwhelming him as they shoved the black bag over his head.
Fuck.
As he struggled to regain consciousness, Beckett’s first thought was that his plan had gone tits up. Goddammit. This was, unfortunately, a recurring theme in his life, and he wasn’t even sure why he bothered making them anymore.
His second thought was that he had a massive fucking headache.
Was it the chloroform? Or had they dragged him ass-over-teakettle down a flight of stairs and his head had gotten whacked on every step?
He groaned as a wave of nausea hit him, and he swallowed heavily to hold it back.
Beckett had been in similar situations before—although reminding himself of that fact was not helping him at the moment.
Still, he knew better than to let his captors know he was awake until he could determine his location and get a fix on what was going on.
Breathing shallowly, he kept his eyes closed and began gathering every bit of data he could before they came for him.
The air was extremely humid and reeked of sweat and musk.
Not his though. It smelled like cumin left too long in the sun and unwashed bodies.
God—someone needed to switch to a better brand of deodorant.
Well, he clearly wasn’t alone in the room.
Chances were, there were multiple people here.
Trickier to deal with, but not impossible to overcome.
His hands were stretched over his head, tied to the ceiling via a chain of sorts.
He wasn’t sure of the set up, but he was definitely strung up like a side of beef, the pain in his wrists made that much obvious.
Even though he was sweating from the humidity, fabric wasn’t sticking to his torso.
So, they’d removed his shirt before stringing him up.
Not a great sign, but at least he still had pants on. That had to count for something.
He couldn’t fake sleep for much longer. The pain in his wrists was too sharp, and the moment he attempted to stand, they’d know he was awake.
With a sigh, he pushed off and stood up, easing the pull on his bruised wrists.
He blinked himself awake, though the canvas bag was still over his head—blocking his view.
The material was too thick to see anything through it.
The only light he could detect was a faint sliver along the bottom edge of the bag.
“Look boys, he’s——won’t we?” Beckett only caught a few of the words, the rest muffled by the bag over his head.
A moment later, someone ripped it off, giving him his first look at the room he was in.
He was in an unfinished basement with low ceilings, just barely high enough for him to stretch his arms over his head. The dim light reflected off the damp surface beneath his feet. Was there water infiltration? Or were they on unfinished ground?
“Look up, princess,” a voice called to Beckett. Probably one of the meatheads who’d tied him up. Beckett looked up with a sunny smile.
“You guys are into seriously kinky shit,” he said, as he looked around trying to spot the others. He could see another shape—too bulky to be anything but another meathead, standing in a dark corner to his right.
“Laugh while you still can, funny guy,” the man said, stepping closer to Beckett and sneering with contempt.
“Should I call you daddy?” Beckett asked, pushing his luck.
The first punch was a direct hit to his ribs. It didn’t crack anything, but it sure as hell landed with some serious power behind it. Beckett winced, huffing out a breath of surprise as his abs automatically contracted.
“Okay, okay—I won’t. No worries. I’m not in the market anyway. Be your own daddy, make your own sugar, that’s my motto.”
No one laughed. Tough crowd.
“The boss wants you to answer some questions,” Meathead informed him, as he began to slowly circle Beckett.
It was a tactic straight out of the movies, intended to rattle the victim.
The unpredictability of where he’d be hit next was supposed to make it worse somehow.
But it was only ever used by clueless assholes who’d never actually been tortured.
Those who’d had the privilege of being subjected to enhanced interrogation techniques knew it was actually far worse when you knew exactly what was coming and when.
He didn’t volunteer that information. He just let the shark-wannabe circle him. Maybe he’d tire himself out faster, like a chihuahua chasing its tail.
“I don’t play hard to get. He could have just sent me an email, hell—a text would have sufficed,” Beckett played along.
Meathead ignored him.
“See, it looks like we’ve got a bit of a mole problem, and when we made the first guy squeal, he let it slip that he wasn’t the only one.”
Beckett did his best not to react. For one terrifying second, he thought of Franklin.
Perhaps they’d caught him, and his brother was lying somewhere in a room similar to this one, bleeding out all alone.
Except, no. A mole meant someone on the inside, which could only mean one thing—the FBI’s special agent had been tortured and then probably tossed into the St. Lawrence. That fucking sucked.