Thankfully, the guy’s an idiot. He chooses to run at me screaming, his arms raised above him like something out of a bad horror movie. I meet him with a swift, accurate right foot to his stomach, which stops him in his tracks. He doubles over for a moment, then stands and resumes screaming. I step into him, pushing my left foot down and through his right kneecap, breaking his leg. As he crumples to the floor, he rolls on his side, holding the gaping wound caused by the snapped bone protruding through the skin. I look down quickly at his exposed head and neck, and bring my right foot down hard on the side of his throat, crushing his windpipe and killing him instantly.
I crouch down, resting on my haunches and catching my breath. The pain currently pulsing through my torso starts to subside as my heart rate returns to normal. The bitterness in my mouth from the adrenaline makes me cough.
I walk over to the knife, pick it up, and use it to cut through my restraints. With my hands free, I search the garage for anything useful, but other than the blade I’m holding, and the various tools and equipment lying around the place, there’s nothing practical.
I head over to the door, pushing it open just as Carlos Vega is pulling it from the other side. We bang into each other and freeze momentarily in surprise. He wasn’t expecting me to not be swinging from the roof with my guts hanging out, and I honestly wasn’t expecting to see him come and do his own dirty work.
We’re standing inches apart — him in his nice silk shirt and white pants, and me with no top on, covered in dirt and bruises. Acting on instinct, I drop my shoulders and let my neck take the dead weight of my head, whipping it forward and slamming my forehead squarely onto the point of his nose. He grunts as blood explodes across his face, his nose shattered. He stumbles backward and falls over. Straight away, I move toward him, bending down, and grab him by his collar, dragging him to his feet and ushering him inside the garage. I quickly look around to make sure no one’s seen us, and then close the door behind us.
I throw him to the floor, stamping down on the side of his right leg, hard enough to cause him pain and stop him from running away, but not hard enough to break anything.
“Okay, Carlos, me and you are gonna have a little talk.”
Blood runs from his nose to his mouth, and he spits it to the floor. “Fuck you!” he snarls. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with!”
“Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot in the last week or so, and it’s starting to piss me off.”
I lean over him and jab him in the face with my left hand, connecting with his busted nose. He lets out a cry of pain and holds his face in his hands.
“Now, you can start by explaining what your problem is with me,” I say to him. “I’ve given you no reason to consider me a threat, so why knock me out and tie me up?”
“I’m not… telling you nothin’!” he yells, struggling to breathe properly.
“Uh-huh… let me see if I can’t persuade you.”
Knowing he can’t exactly go anywhere, I walk over to the right hand wall and have a look through the various tools lying around haphazardly on the side. I rummage through and find a pair of pliers, discolored from, I suspect, years of neglect.
These will do nicely…
I walk back over to Vega, who hasn’t moved anyway. I put my left hand on his forehead, holding his head still and wave the pliers in front of his mouth. His eyes go wide and he clamps his lips together, clearly sensing what’s coming.
“Ah-ah, don’t go getting all shy on me now,” I say, before jabbing him hard in the ribs with the pliers.
He lets out a sharp yell of pain and as he does, I quickly grab one of his front teeth in between the head of the pliers and squeeze them tight. He’s making all sorts of funny noises as he panics, but he can’t do anything.
“Carlos… be quiet and try to retain at least an ounce of dignity,” I say. “Now, are you going to tell me why you tried to torture me, or am I going to have to cause you severe pain?”
His eyes are still wide, and he just manages to shake his head from side to side.
“Fine, have it your way.”
I’m more than adept at the fine art of torturing people for information, but to be honest, I’ve never taken any pleasure in it — bar the odd exception throughout the years. I find it more of a hindrance, if anything. It’s much better if people just tell me things I want to know in the first place. Plus, I’ve been out of the game quite a while, and like these pliers, I’m a little rusty. So I try not to drag it out too much.
I yank my right arm up and over his head, snapping his front tooth and ripping it from his mouth. Blood spurts all down his chin and onto his shirt, and he screams with genuine agony.
I throw the pliers down next to me and rest my right hand firmly on his throat.
“Why torture me?” I ask again.
He struggles to talk, but this time he’s more than happy to reply.
“I wa’ tol’ to,” he says.
It takes me a moment to work out what he said.
“You were told to? By who?”
“P’ease… ’ey’ll ’ill ’e…”
His accent isn’t helping the situation…
“They’ll kill you? Who will?”
He waves his hands at me, silently asking me to give him a minute.
“I’ll ’ell ’oo, jus’ gi’ ’e a ’ec…”
I think that was, ‘I’ll tell you, just give me a sec…’
I stand and gesture to him to talk when he’s ready. He sits up, using his shirttails to wipe the blood from his mouth. Tears are streaming down his face from the pain in his nose and mouth. He spits blood out on the floor next to him, looking up at me with hatred and defeat in his eyes. He composes himself and starts talking.
“I was ’old ’o expec’ you,” he says, speaking a little better now he’s calmed down.
“By who?”
“By my con’ac’ in ’he U.S.”
“Give me specifics, Carlos. Who’s your contact?”
“I don’ know, hones’ly. He uses a codename, and I’ve never me’ him in person.”
“Okay, so what does he do? What do you even have a contact for?”
Vega hesitates. I kick him hard on his leg again.
“Tell me!” I yell at him, losing what little patience I had to begin with.
“Go ’o hell!” he yells back. “Do wha’ you wan’ ’o me, no’hin will change.”
I walk off, massaging my temples and feeling frustrated. I don’t think he’s going to say anything more to me. Why would he have a contact in the States? What does he even do here? There’s no way he’s funding his cartel from drugs, because that’s a legal business nowadays. Even if he’s still farming it, distribution companies in the U.S.’ll essentially pay him a salary. There’s no way he’ll be able to charge the kind of prices he used to, because he’s far from the only game in town…
No, the only way he’s funding this operation is by doing something he shouldn’t. But what? And he said he’d been told to expect me… but who knew I’d be in Colombia? I didn’t even know! The only people who did were the special ops unit…
Holy shit…
Wait a goddamn minute…
What if Vega’s contact has access to the special ops team? That would mean they’d have to be senior government or military… perhaps a four-star general? They re-direct me here, knowing I’m likely to try to find my way home, thinking the cartel would be an ally…
I look back at Vega, who’s sitting on the floor, mopping blood from his mouth and looking really pissed off.
My mind’s racing, trying to fit together all the information I have like a jigsaw puzzle, but the pieces aren’t shaped right. Not yet, anyway.
I storm back over to him, grabbing his collar and yanking him up, pushing him against one of the sides.