39. Gabriel
The stench of burnt flesh chokes the air.
No matter how many times I've done this, it still overwhelms my senses.
It lingers in the air, the cement, the flooring.
The thought that it will cling to my suit and I'll have to toss it doesn't improve my mood.
Not that anything would. My mind is on Catarina, and with that, barely contained fury burns underneath my skin just as hot as the open furnace.
The Oven door is already open, and heat fills the room.
Hungry flames reach for Skinny strapped to the gurney.
His eyes dart around, taking in everything at once, and understanding just enough to know he's fucked.
Royally fucked. He's strapped tight. There is no room to move.
No room to fight. Underneath him is the body that was scheduled to burn. Covered and waiting, but not for long.
"You smell that?" I ask calmly, stepping closer.
He shakes his head too fast. "Man—man, I don't know what this is, I swear, I didn't?—"
"Don't lie," I snap. He chokes on whatever excuse he was about to give.
I take my time. No rush. There's never a rush with things like this. That's the whole point. Mauro leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Clark has wisely made himself scarce. We've done this often enough to know how to work it just right.
My gaze drops to Skinny. To the way his chest is rising too fast, to the fresh piss between his legs, and the damp stain spreading beneath him.
"Tell me about Manuel."
His head jerks. Too quick. Too obvious.
"I—I can't, man. I can't?—"
I sigh as if I'm disappointed in him. I don't let my anger out, not yet.
But I'm getting really tired of this game.
We all know Skinny is going to talk; I just wish we could fast-forward to that moment.
Because frankly? I've seen enough men pissing themselves as they start to burn from the feet up.
I'm not like Damiano, who gets off on watching that kind of shit.
I'm more of a one bullet through the head kind of guy.
I step closer, placing a hand on the edge of the gurney. Leaning in just enough that he can see me clearly. "Listen carefully. Because I'm only going to explain this once."
His eyes lock onto mine. Wide. Desperate.
"You got a call." His eyes dart toward the Oven. I tap the metal frame once to keep his attention on me. "From Manuel."
His breath hitches. "I—I just answer phones, man, I swear, I don't know who?—"
I sigh and tsk, slapping his cheek a few times lightly, "Skinny, Skinny, Skinny. Let me explain how this works. You don't need to be smart for this. I'm sure you've already figured out that you and your host," I pad the shrouded corpse underneath him, "are going to burn here pretty quickly."
He lets out a strangled cry. I give him a moment to come to terms with that revelation.
"The only question is, will I be nice and shoot you first, or let you burn alive?
" Another sob. "Because once this little train leaves the station," this time I kick the metal track the gurney is sitting on, "it'll be a slow ride.
First, the soles of your shoes will melt.
" I look down at his feet, shake my head, and tsk again.
"Tennis shoes. Bad choice. Those things will melt your feet in minutes. "
He sobs.
"Do you know what it feels like to have the skin on your feet melt?"
On cue, Mauro pushes the button, and the gurney glides down the track, close enough to the oven so Skinny can feel the heat through his shoes, close enough that the soles start to heat, close enough that they will begin to melt in the span of a few minutes.
Skinny starts struggling harder, then he wails, "WAIT—WAIT—MAN, PLEASE?—"
The gurney stops. I let the heat build. Let his imagination do half the work for me. It always does.
"I don't need your life story," I inform him over the noise, calm as ever.
I step closer again, just back inside his line of sight. "I only need to know one thing."
I crouch slightly, bringing us eye level. "Where do I find Manuel?"
He's crying now. Full panic. No control left. "They'll kill me?—"
I smile. Not nicely. "They won't get the chance."
A beat. The heat intensifies; the flames lick hungrily toward Skinny's feet. The first smell of burned rubber hits the air. Tickles my nose. I hate it.
"I don't know where he is!" he sobs. "I swear, I don't know, he moves, he—he calls from different phones, I just—I pass messages, I watch the girl, that's it!"
My entire body goes completely still. Something inside me turns on warning signals. The noise. The heat. The smell. All of it fades into the background.
"The girl?" I repeat quietly. Skinny freezes. "What girl?"
My voice doesn't rise. Doesn't sharpen. It drops. Which makes him panic even more.
"I—I didn't mean?—"
I straighten slowly, turning my head slightly toward Mauro. The gurney moves, and this time, when Skinny wails, it's from pain. My mind is moving through the coffee shop. There was a woman. With a kid, young. Maybe just out of the toddler stages. Three to four is my guess.
"Why were you watching her?"
Mauro stops the gurney. Skinny howls in pain. The melting plastic of his shoes is blistering the soles of his feet. The pads of his toes. He nods frantically. "I just—I watch, I report, that's all, man, I don't?—"
"Who is she?"
"I don't know!" he cries. "I swear, I don't know, they don't tell me that kind of shit, I just get paid to track her, that's it!"
Interesting. Very interesting. I glance at Mauro again, who is already on the phone, probably texting Kale to see if he can get any info on the woman and the kid.
Both of us realize that if she's being watched, she matters.
To Manuel. Or to whoever Manuel answers to. Which means, she's a lead. A real one.
I turn back to Skinny, crouching in front of him again. His face is distorted in agony. "Where else does she go?"
"She lives right by the coffee shop," he chokes. "Same building—she goes there, man, regularly, with the kid, I swear, that's all I know?—"
The kid. The words tighten my chest. Unwelcome. Irrelevant. I push it aside.
"Times," I press. "When does she show up?"
"Morning. Every morning. Like she's waiting for something."
We'll find her. In the meantime. I slowly rise, pet his cheeks for good measure. "Good, now tell me about Manuel. Who does he work for?"
Skinny freezes. Not the panicked kind. The other kind. The kind where the body knows it's about to die, no matter what is said next. His eyes dart to the door. To Mauro. To the Oven.
Nowhere to go.
"No…" he whispers, shaking his head. "No, man, I can't?—"
I tilt my head slightly. "Can't?"
The word is soft. Curious, with a smidge of fake disappointment. "You've been doing so well."
I straighten, nod once. The machine hums again. Louder this time. Closer. The heat rises, swallowing the soles of his shoes. He screams. It's a high, broken, animal sound.
"I'll tell you!" he chokes. "I'll tell you, just—just stop?—"
I lift a hand. The machine stops, reverses. Silence drops heavy into the room, broken only by his ragged sobbing.
"Go on," I say.
He sucks in a shuddering breath. "…Manuel works for him."
The last word is but a whisper.
"For whom?"
His lips tremble. Like even saying the name might summon him. "El… El Recaudador."
The name settles into the room like a curse. I've already suspected as much. I just don't know if El Recaudador had anything to do with my sister's death or is just using it to get to me.
Skinny trembles all over, not just from pain. There is fear. Fear greater than that of the Oven. Of burning alive. And that… that gets my attention. Because what kind of man can instill that kind of fear?
Skinny's lips part, but nothing comes out at first. Nothing but a broken, wheezing breath. His eyes dart around like he expects the man himself to step out of the shadows.
"I—I can't?—"
"You can."
He lets out another strangled sob. "He doesn't just—he doesn't just kill people, man," he chokes. "He—he plays with them. With their heads. With their families?—"
His voice breaks completely. I give him time, wait. Mauro moves closer, his arms crossed over his chest.
"He took this guy—this guy I knew—he didn't like how he handled a shipment or some shit—" Skinny's breath stutters. "Didn't kill him. Didn't touch him." The wet laugh that escapes him borders on hysterical. "Nah… he took his daughter."
The room stills.
"Sent her to one of those houses in Mexico…" His voice drops to a whisper. "Sent the man videos. Every day. Made him watch."
The similarity to my receiving the emailed video of Catarina is not lost on me. I stiffen. Unfortunately, it's also not something new. It's a strategy used by most cartels and gangs.
Skinny shakes his head violently, tears streaming down his face.
"The guy—he snapped, man. Lost it. Killed his own brother, thought he was the one who set it up—" A choking sound tears out of him.
"And then—then the girl just… showed up again.
Like nothing happened. Totally unharmed.
She told him thank you, Daddy, for the Disneyland surprise.
" Skinny shakes his head wildly, "The man he…
never recovered. I mean, he killed his brother.
He thought his daughter was… two years later, the daughter vanished again.
But this time when she came back, she was…
broken, man." His eyes are nearly bulging out of his head.
"I mean, the guy who started it, he was already dead.
But El Recaudador, he doesn't stop. He never stops. "
A heavy silence presses in.
I have to hand it to the Collector. That's taking revenge to a whole new level. Skinny's chest heaves, but he's not done.
"Another guy," he whispers, because his voice is cracking. "A different guy. He took that guy's wife's mother… tied her to a cactus out in the desert."
I clench my jaws, in anticipation of where this is going.
"A camera," Skinny sobs. "Left a camera. Made him watch her die. Slow. Sun, thirst… days…" His whole body shakes now. "And when she was gone—" He sucks in a broken breath. "He took the wife next." He pauses. "And then him."
The words barely make it out. Like saying them might bring it all back. Skinny looks at me not as his captor, but as someone who might understand what's coming.
"That's who he is," he whispers hoarsely. "You don't cross him… You don't even look at him wrong… because he won't just kill you—" His voice breaks again. "He'll make you wish he did."
El Recaudador most certainly is a different kind of predator.
Not brute force. Not chaos. He's a controlled strategist. The stories Skinny spilled take terror to a whole new level, and I'm starting to understand why people are so scared of him.
This man doesn't just kill. He dismantles.
Piece by piece. Until there's nothing left but what he wants you to feel.
I crouch down one last time. "And Manuel?" I ask quietly. "What is he to him?"
"A runner," Skinny whispers. "A messenger. He sets things up, passes orders, watches people—like the girl, like—like?—"
His voice cracks. I study him for a long second.
Sure, Skinny gave me all the useful information he could.
That doesn't erase his debt. He knows the guy who sent me the email, that makes him…
what's the legal term the cops love to use?
Guilty by association. But for right now, my mind drifts for a second.
If Manuel is the link, and he's watching the girl, then she's part of the game. Whether she knows it or not.
I look back at Skinny. "You've been very helpful."
His face crumples. He knows what that means. I straighten, adjusting my cuffs like this is just another meeting.
"Mauro." That's all I need to say.
Slowly, the gurney moves towards the ever-hungry Oven's maw.
"No, no, you said…" That's all Skinny gets out before he screams in earnest. The metal door closes, drowning all sounds.
"Let's go find us the girl."