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“I’m not sure of shit.” Pol gives me a pointed look. “That’s your job.”
I grunt. “Put him in the chair.”
The guy struggles, but Pol shoves him into the chair in the center of the room, and Marques straps him in.
I walk over and lean down until I’m all up in his space. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay then. It’s going to be like that.” I turn around and walk to the counter along the wall, knowing full well the guy’s watching me like a hawk. They always do.
This is the part where they’re sizing me up, trying to gauge what sort of methods I intend to use.
I let them think it’s the vanilla sort of torture. Five thousand years to hone my craft has taught me that, when it comes to breaking down one’s enemy, mind games work better than pain ever could.
Behind me, Marques and Pol stand off to the side, chatting as if the prisoner isn’t even here anymore.
“Twenty gold coins says he breaks him in thirty minutes or less,” Marques says.
Pol scoffs. “No way. This dude just blew off his own hand. If that wasn’t enough to get him talking, it’ll take at least an hour.”
We’ve done this routine enough times for me to know half of their banter is foreplay for what I’m about to put this asshole through. The rest is genuine—or it is for these sick fucks.
The soldiers apparently like to bet on my record for breaking a prisoner. I pretend not to notice. That’s a mind game too.
“Look,” Marques says, drawing attention to the saw I’ve just added to my pile of toys. “He chose the saw. He only chooses the saw when he’s feeling creative.”
“Dammit,” Pol mutters.
I glance over and see the prisoner watching me. I note a flicker of fear.
Good.
Time to let that build.
I go back to gathering my tools, making sure to draw out the process of holding each one up and then placing it on the wheeled cart. When I’m ready, I roll the cart over to where the prisoner waits, watching.
I grab the hammer and raise it high.
“What’s your name?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer.
With my free hand, I reach down and peel back the gauze on his hand. The flesh is mangled and coated in bloody tissue. From the looks of it, he’s lost all but his thumb, and even that is hanging on by a thread.
He needs a healer.
But he won’t get one.
At my touch, he strains against the irons. “Don’t?—”
“Four fingers gone,” I say. “One for each of the women and children you killed today.”
He glares up at me, his defiance never wavering. Not a single shred of regret clouds his expression. It’s that lack of repentance that seals his fate.
I smash the hammer against his hand, and he screams. The irons strain as he tries and fails to withdraw his arm. Blood runs from his hand like a wet sponge.
His scream turns to a wail of pain.
