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The woman pulled a small rectangular can out of her back pocket, opened the lid, and then sprayed the bound man in the face with some sort of liquid. Contreras tasted it; it stung his tongue and made him gag, and when she kept dousing his hair, chest, and arms with it, he realized it was lighter fluid.
FIFTY-FOUR
“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?”
She said nothing, just emptied the small can by directing the last of the stream on the crotch of his boxers.
Then she pulled a lighter out of a front pocket.
Contreras spit lighter fluid out of his mouth, tried to blink the sting from his eyes.
“No!”
The woman bobbed her head towards the stack of towels.
“I’m going to torch you now, but I promise you this. If you start talking, I will put out the fire. If you give us everything we need, we’ll let whatever remains of you leave here.”
These gringos were fucking crazy.
Gentry said, “The pain will be excruciating, obviously, so you’ll go into shock and be unable to speak, probably in about five seconds.” He shrugged. “Either this works, and you talk, or it doesn’t work, and we don’t have to deal with you anymore and”—he winked at the Mexican—“this is a plus, we get rid of the body, all at once.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Zakharova added. “Whatever happens, it’ll be all over in just a couple of minutes.”
Looking into the strange American man’s eyes, then shifting and looking into the Russian woman’s, Contreras saw that they absolutely would go through with this.
Suddenly, he was fucking terrified.
“Look,” Contreras said now to Gentry, “I don’t have any information about—”
“Save it. Nobody’s asking you anything. You’re a tough guy, especially for a fucking drone tech. It would be insulting to you for us to expect you to talk now. We need to turn the heat up, so to speak, then we’ll try to have a conversation.”
“That’s right! I’m just a drone pilot. Why would anyone tell me anything?”
Gentry just looked to Zakharova. “You ready?”
She handed Gentry the lighter. “You fire up the barbecue, and I’ll stand by to stop it if birthday boy feels like a chat.”
Court sparked the lighter and began walking towards the prisoner.
•••
Court fought a smile as he advanced, but not because of what he was doing. No, because of Zoya. He loved it when she was in character, even when the character was scary as hell. He prided himself on being a good actor; his life had depended on lying for so long that he had to be. But Zoya was the superior thespian, and he enjoyed watching her work.
He closed to within two feet of the Mexican, and then the seated man began shouting.
“I’ll tell you what I know!”
“Already?” Zoya said, standing a few feet behind Court. “C’mon, Carlos. You’re better than that.”
“But I don’t know very much.”
Zoya stepped forward and put her hand on Court’s, pushing the lighter away. “Okay, here’s your chance. You’ve killed a lot of people in the past week. Tell us about that.”
Contreras shook his head. “I’ve killed no one.”
Suddenly the lighter reappeared and refired, a foot from the Mexican’s face.
Court said, “Bullshit! Guatemala, Mexico. Boston, was that you, too?”
