“We don’t know yet,” he answers, still a little breathless.
Sombra throws me a murderous look, then turns to the man gripping his AR15 like it’s his only reason to live.
“Interrogate him,” he snaps. “Find out if Santiago betrayed us.” Then he points at me. “He gets ten minutes. If he doesn’t talk, kill him.”
I almost burst out laughing.
He strides toward the exit, then pauses at the doorway and looks back at me.
“Have a nice trip to hell,hijo de puta.”
Then he’s gone, the stocky man following behind him.
You’ll see hell long before me, fucker.
When the door closes, I prepare myself. I need to do this fast if I want any chance of catching up with that bastard. I want to be the one who finishes him. No one else.
The cuffs groan every time I shift my weight, metal screaming just enough to remind me they’re my ally. That all I need to do to get out of them is press one of the bolts the right way.
The AR15 guy steps closer and starts circling me slowly, a smug smirk carving across his face like he’s savoring the moment.
“You know,” he drawls, “I never met one of you Vultures. But I heard the stories.” He huffs, disappointed. “Have to say,pendejo, I expected more. Starting to think those stories were bullshit.”
He stops in front of me and, before I can act, slams the butt of his gun into my face.
Motherfucker.
Pain explodes through my skull and ripples all the way down to my toes. Fresh blood floods my mouth. I let my head drop and suck in a few rough, ragged breaths. My fingers flex in preparation, slow and deliberate.
“That was just a taste,” he continues. “So you know what happens if you don’t answer my questions. Your choice. Slow death or a quick one.”
I close my eyes.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I let the noise fall away. Let the silence take over.
Then I move.
In one swift motion, I grab the hook I’m dangling from. The chain between the cuffs is short enough — something I planned for, after Santiago told me how Sombra likes to run his interrogations.
I haul myself up, muscles screaming in protest.
My legs shoot out and coil around the fucker’s neck before he even has time to widen his eyes.
The momentum slams him backward with a startled grunt. His gun clatters uselessly to the floor. His hands claw at my thighs, frantic, panicked, but I lock my grip tighter. Squeeze harder.
His gasps turn wet. Desperate. His knees buckle as his strength bleeds out of him.
I hold on until he goes completely limp.
Then I press the bolt on the left cuff and let go of the hook, dropping into a crouch beside his unconscious body.
My hand flashes out, gripping the knife at his belt. One clean slash and his throat opens. Blood pours out fast, pooling beneath him in seconds.
“The stories were right,pendejo,” I murmur, rising to my feet as I shake the last cuff loose from my right wrist.
My pulse is steady now. Controlled.
