Chapter Eight
“I swear I don’t—”
Garcia’s sentence was cut off by a bellow of pain as I drove another splinter of metal beneath one of his fingernails. This was the fourth and he hadn’t yet spilled anything of any interest to me, but the night was young. I still had one more finger, a whole second hand and two feet left to go.
“The name Ian Keller means nothing to you?” I asked, my voice eerily steady.
When had torture sessions become so… inconsequential?
There had once been a time that this stuff affected me so badly that I would have to excuse myself to vomit into a bucket outside the room.
I used to wake up in a bath of sweat for weeks after, horrifying flashes of the things I had done to my prisoners burning my retinas.
Now? Now I was almost bored. I should probably have been concerned by that.
“No!” Garcia roared. “I don’t know who he is!”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
I snatched up another splinter and my trusty tack hammer.
Anything heavier was too cumbersome for a task like this.
I didn’t want to risk pulverising any of Garcia’s fingers.
Not yet anyway. He thrashed against his restraints, attempting to recoil from me, but it was no use.
I lined the metal up, resting the head of the hammer against it as I met Garcia’s eye.
“Last chance. Tell me about Ian Keller,” I said.
“I told you, I don’t—”
I pulled the hammer back, slamming it into the end of the metal splinter. It sliced through Garcia’s flesh like butter, blood welling and pooling around the wound in an instant. He cried out, his tears mixing with his sweat.
“Ian Keller?”
“No, I—”
Another tap. Another howl of pain.
“Lying to me will just drag this out longer, Garcia. Do us both a favour and start talking.”
When he didn’t respond, I hammered the splinter in further still. Garcia’s head flopped forward and he groaned weakly. That wouldn’t do. I jumped up and strode around behind him, snatching a handful of his hair and yanking his head back.
“Don’t go passing out on me yet. We’re just getting started,” I muttered, my eyes roving over his face. “Say, you’re looking a little thirsty. Would you like a drink?”
Garcia didn’t reply, but that didn’t matter.
I rolled up my sleeves, preparing everything I was going to need ahead of my next extraction attempt.
A large, stainless-steel sink sat in a far corner, and I turned on the tap, knowing Garcia would be able to hear the water running but wouldn’t know what I was planning to do with it just yet.
Folded up on the draining board was a square of material and I held it under the stream of water, waiting patiently for it to grow sodden.
“Tell me, do you know much about zodiac signs, Garcia?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?!” he spat.
I rung out the cloth, placing it back on the side of the sink before grabbing two metal jugs off a nearby shelf. I lowered them into the sink and began to fill them up.
“Aquarius is an air sign, and yet it’s synonymous with water.
The name Aquarius literally means ‘water bearer’ and it’s often depicted by two wavy lines that look like the sea…
Or a water jug.” I turned the tap off, the faucet squeaking, picking up one of the heavy jugs and returning to Garcia with it.
I placed it down on the metal table beside my torture tools.
“I can see why it causes confusion,” I continued, heading back over to the sink to get the second jug and the cloth. “An air sign, named after and symbolised by water. They often say that the water jug represents ‘waters of knowledge’, and I find that so interesting.”
I stood before Garcia, staring at him as he squirmed and fought against his restraints. I crossed my arms beneath my bust and tilted my head.
“What is your star sign, Garcia?”
“How the fuck would I know?!” he snarled. “You crazy fucking bitch, I swear—”
“It doesn’t matter.” I shrugged, turning back to the water jugs. “You won’t tell me about Ian Keller, you won’t share your star sign… I’m starting to think you’re not enjoying our little chat.”
Garcia laughed bitterly, spittle flying from his lips, swollen and split beneath a bruise. He glared up at me. “I’ll never talk. Never!”
“That’s a shame,” I sighed, striding to the chair he was strapped to. At the side, there was a handle and I yanked it, pleased when the backrest fell backwards a few inches until Garcia was being blinded by the light over our heads.
He winced, screwing his eyes shut.
“Now, how about that drink, hm?” I smiled, holding up the jug.
My heart began to thunder as a flicker of realisation crossed Garcia’s face.
I snatched up the wet cloth, and ignoring his screaming, draped it over his face.
The headrest of the chair prevented him from being able to turn his head away, and taking a deep breath to steady myself, I slowly began to pour the contents of the jug over the cloth.
I watched as Garcia struggled to catch his breath, the wet material pulling taut over his features.
The water did exactly what I expected, blocking any attempt he made to get air, and it took only a few moments before an innate, primal panic took over his senses.
It was ingrained in all of us, that will to survive, but there was no time it was more apparent than when a person’s oxygen was slowly cut off. Drowning.
Garcia spluttered and thrashed around, but I kept my pouring slow and steady. I counted down in my mind. I had done this so many times, just like Garcia had an innate sense for his own survival, I too knew innately how far I could push him before I risked his death.
“Time’s up,” I muttered, placing the jug back down before yanking the wet cloth from his face.
He gasped, his lungs making a gruesome rattling sound.
“Feeling any chattier yet?” I smiled down at him.
He couldn’t catch his breath to speak, spluttering and coughing. I observed him with cool indifference, waiting for him to come back to his senses.
“I told you I don’t know an Ian Keller!”
“Wrong answer.”
This time, Garcia knew exactly what was coming for him and he howled, attempting to arch up off the chair as I slapped the wet material back over his face. I got right back to it, pouring water over him and counting down silently.
Soon enough, I was removing the cloth once again. Garcia looked even redder, his eyes bloodshot and mouth foaming. I dropped the cloth down on the table with a slap.
“I can do this all night, Garcia. Start talking. Tell me what you know about the kingpin.”
This time there was a flicker of recognition on his face, his dark brows pulling down into a frown as he gasped and panted to catch his breath.
“?El cabecilla?”
His voice was so rough, so distorted, my earpiece had failed to translate that. I tapped it gently until it bleeped, the computer running the translation software a second time.
“El cabecilla,” a cool, robotic voice said in my ear. “Translates to ‘the ringleader’ or ‘the leader,’ often with a connotation of being the head of a criminal group, gang or rebellion.”
Perhaps Garcia wasn’t being closed-mouthed on purpose. Maybe he really didn’t know Ian Keller, not by his real name at least.
I leant in over him, resting my weight into the arms of the chair. “The British man you have been dealing with.”
“Sí, sí…” Garcia’s body trembled. “He never told me his name, I swear. He and I met at a club when I was last in London on…” He trailed off, looking shifty. “Business.”
“Which club?”
“I can’t— I don’t remember the name of the place! It doesn’t matter. You won’t find him there. H-he told me he was laying low. That’s why he couldn’t give me his name.”
I frowned. “You’re no rookie, Alroy Garcia. Why would you agree to work with a man like that? Not knowing a thing about him is risky, hm? He could have been anyone.”
“He paid half upfront for my silence. I couldn’t say no. It was an easy arrangement for me,” he spluttered. “Then he started asking for more.”
“More what?”
“More product! Cocaine,” he spat. “I was barely keeping up with the crazy bastard.”
I stood upright, moving away to pace back and forth, my mind whirring. I could feel Garcia’s eyes on me, watching me. He was afraid of me, so perhaps now was a good time for an olive branch.
“I’ll level with you, Garcia. We’re not interested in you.” I sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a piece of shit the world would be better off without, but you’re not who I want.”
He stared at me, dark eyes tense and fearful, but he remained silent.
“It sounds as if you are regretting entering into this with Ian Keller.” I paused. “How does a deal sound?”
“I’m listening,” he grunted.
“You get to keep the money he’s paid you. Tell me where I can find him and I’ll make him disappear. Forever. You can walk away without fear of any backlash.”
Garcia shuddered. “Who are you?”
“I already told you. I am Aquarius.” I held eye contact, steady and unwavering.
“R-right…”
“Do we have a deal, Garcia? Surely, you must know something about where I can find Ian Keller?”
This time, the Colombian’s eyes darted away, and I saw it clear as day. Guilt. He knew where Ian Keller was, or at least an idea. I waited, still and silent and Garcia wrestled with himself.
“Venezuela. I don’t have the exact details, but I heard him speak of a safe house—”
“South America again? We literally just came from there,” I grumbled. “What a waste…”
“I… Excuse me?” Garcia blinked, frowning with confusion.
“Don’t worry.” I flapped my hand. “I was thinking aloud. I want to get this guy, Garcia. Is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all that would help me find him? Even the smallest detail could be helpful.”
“I don’t— I can’t think of any— Wait!” he gasped. “H-he mentioned an address. It’s not where he’s staying, but it’s where he wanted some of the product sent. It’s a clubhouse on the beach. Wh-what was the fucking name of the place?”
I waited patiently, resting my hands on my hips as I watched the Colombian frantically trying to recall information for me.
“El club del coco!”
I didn’t need my translator for that one. “The… Coconut Club?”
“Y-yes! That was it. I remember laughing with my men about the name suiting such a nutcase of a man.”
“Alright, we’ll start our search there.” I smiled. “Unless there’s anything else?”
“N-no, I don’t think— I have your word on this?”
“Of course,” I purred, gathering together all of my waterboarding supplies and dropping them back into the sink, pouring out the unused water. Garcia had broken much quicker than I had been anticipating. What a shame.
“Th-thank you,” he sighed, relaxing back in the chair.
Out of his line of sight, I removed the pistol from my holster where I had hung it up on a set of three metal hooks on the wall. The noise of me cocking it had Garcia leaping out of his skin.
“W-wait! No! You said— You gave me your word!” he yelled, eyes nearly popping from his skull as I walked around to stand in front of him.
“I have a confession of my own to make,” I said, raising the pistol. “My word doesn’t mean shit.”
Bang, bang, bang! Two to the chest, one to the head – as always. I released the breath I had been holding and rolled my shoulders, stretching out my neck. I threw my pistol down on the table with a loud clang and tapped my earpiece.
“Relay?”
“Ah, done already?” Freddie’s voice rumbled in my ear, immediately putting me at ease. “That was fast, even for you. Did you get everything you needed?”
There weren’t many situations that I requested to be completely cut off from Freddie, but during a torture session was one of them. There were no CCTV cameras here, no correspondence over the radio – I never wanted him to see this side of me.
“Venezuela. The Coconut Club. It’s owned by Keller. That’s where Garcia was sending the cocaine. Find out all you can about it,” I said, my voice weary.
“South America again, huh? Makes sense. Keller wouldn’t want to be too far from Garcia after striking such an important deal. It’s no good being on the other side of the world if someone decides to double-cross you, I guess. I’ll do some digging and see what I can find out.”
“Great. Thanks, baby,” I sighed. “Then can we finally go home? I know it’s only a matter of time before another card shows up at the door calling us back here, but I could murder a glass of wine and a foot rub.”
I heard Freddie chuckle softly. “It would be my pleasure.”