“¿Cómo se dice ‘fuck you’?”
The wallet was returned to Gentry’s mouth, and he bit down. Electricity pulsed through his body again. His head slammed backwards uncontrollably, slamming his skull into the iron grate behind him.
The torture was stopped. The wallet removed. The question repeated.
“Where is Elena Gamboa?”
“Kiss my—”
The wallet was put back in place. The shocks grew stronger, the pain more intense; the muscle spasms wrenched his body in all directions.
The Black Suit and the two federales looked on.
Jerry Pfleger looked away.
Minutes later a technical glitch in the machinery allowed Court a respite from the agony. The Little Butcher worked on his electroconvulsive device, and the protégé returned down the stairs with a bag of groceries.
Gentry’s blurred vision followed the young man’s movements as he stepped to the table and pulled items from the bag.
An empty plastic pitcher, a large bag of salt, a bottle of rotgut tequila, and a large bag of limes.
Court groaned and let the now shredded leather wallet fall from his mouth to the floor. Immediately, he regretted his show of dread. It would only bolster the fat man. The Little Butcher turned his attention from the machine, and he began slicing the limes in half. The protégé sliced as well; together they looked like a couple of bartenders in a beachside cabana bar. Helped by his assistant, together the two men squeezed the juice into the pitcher and then tossed the peels in behind the juice.
The assistant poured the alcohol on top, and el Carnicerito opened the bag of salt.
Court even managed a quip. “I’ll take mine with no salt.”
The three other Mexicans in the room watched with curiosity. They laughed and joked amongst themselves, but Court wasn’t in the mood to concentrate on translating their fun so that he could understand it.
When the pitcher was full of tequila, salt, and lime juice, the torturer hefted it and walked forward to the naked prisoner. He held it up in front of Court’s face, slapped him a few times to make sure he had Court’s attention, and then the butcher fiddled with a tiny piece of broken glass stuck just below the American’s right nipple.
“Can you imagine how this will feel inside your swollen open wounds?” The man smiled as he spoke.
Gentry said nothing.
“I will ask you where Señora Gamboa is hiding. But please . . . please, I beg you, do not tell me. I want to do this to you!”
The narcos back by the elevator just laughed. Jerry looked away.
Court nodded, took in a long breath, and then spit in the face of the cruel little Mexican. The Little Butcher’s assistant ran forward and punched Court in the nose.
The fat man did not wipe the spit away. Instead he smiled and said, “You only make my job more enjoyable. In a couple of hours when I saw your head off of your living, breathing, flailing body, I will feel pity. A pity that the day is done.”
And with that he lifted the pitcher, slowly poured the pungent mixture down the American’s nude and abraded body, rubbed the liquid with his hands into the open cuts, smeared it in, and cackled almost as loud as the prisoner’s screams.
A minute later the elevator was called up to the surface. The two federale gunmen in the room put their hands to their earpieces, and the Black Suit looked down at his phone and saw that he’d missed a call, unable to hear the ring over the wails of agony in the small chamber.
Before he could identify the call, one of the cops stiffened slightly, looked to el Carnicerito, and said, “DLR is here.”
Court continued to moan in agony.
Seconds later the elevator started back down; it took thirty seconds for the car to arrive with a thud. The wooden door rose. Three men in black suits emerged, appearing dim in the light.
Court writhed in pain, forgotten by the others in the room. It was several seconds before he could recover from the residual twitching in his muscles enough to recognize Daniel de la Rocha at the center of the three new arrivals.
THIRTY-EIGHT
DLR looked the gringo up and down. Jerry, el Carnicerito, his young protégé, Spider’s number-two man Carlos, the two police who had brought Court down from the car, stood to the side in the dark cold room. Daniel, Emilio, and Spider stepped up closer to the prisoner.
Daniel stopped three feet from the tip of the American’s nose.
“You? You?”
The American stared back.
In Spanish the impeccably dressed man said, “I was expecting . . . I don’t know. Rambo, maybe?” The room erupted in laughter. And then in English. “You’ve caused me some problems, amigo. I’m just curious . . . Why?”
The Gray Man did not respond. He wasn’t sure if he could speak; he felt his teeth chattering.