The giant grinned.
“Shang is quite an expert at torture himself, Mr. Locke. In fact, he quite enjoys it. But sensible men like ourselves are too civilized for such base undertakings, aren’t we? Simple answers to simple questions and Shang will stay just as he is.” Mandala settled himself in the chair across from Locke. “Now let us begin. You visited the Dwarf in Florence. Where is he hiding?”
Locke swallowed hard, said nothing.
“Where is he hiding, Mr. Locke?”
Still no reply.
Mandala shook his head as if disappointed. “We know you met with the Dwarf, Mr. Locke. Where can we find him?”
Locke bit his lip to stop it from trembling.”
“Shang!”
In an instant the giant had leaned over Locke’s shoulder and grabbed his left hand, still bandaged from the wounds inflicted by the hag’s teeth in Schaan. Shang ripped the dressing off and grabbed the left pinky in one massive hand, clamping the other over the back of Locke’s hand.
“Pain, Mr. Locke, is a great persuader,” the dark man said softly. “It is most effective when the level starts relatively low and is then increased gradually. I believe you must be given a sample.” He nodded.
Shang bent the pinky finger back viciously until it snapped at the joint. Agony exploded through Locke’s hand and his teeth sliced through a section of his tongue. He had started to scream when the giant’s hand covered his mouth and forced back his breath. Blood bubbled in his ears. His left hand was trembling horribly. His pinky was bent at a sickening angle. The pain remained intense. Locke steeled himself against it as best he could.
“As I said, Mr. Locke, just a sample,” the dark man explained. “It gets much worse from here.” He grabbed Locke’s battered hand almost tenderly and lowered it into the bucket of ice, covering the mangled pinky with cubes. The numbing started almost immediately, the pain retreating. “Relief is that simple. The comfort can continue in place of the pain. Just answer the question. Where is the Dwarf?”
Inside Locke wanted to answer but he couldn’t let himself weaken. He focused on Greg and what they had done to him to maintain his rage, and thus his strength.
“Very well, Mr. Locke, I will give you the benefit of the doubt on that one,” Mandala said patiently. “We will turn our attention to more important matters. Where is Grendel?”
Locke stayed silent.
“Where is the man you know as Ross Dogan?”
Chris wet his trembling lips.
“He is meeting you here soon, isn’t he? All we have to do is wait and he will come walking in.”
Locke looked away.
I‘ll kill you for what you did to Greg. Somehow, someway …
“No,” the dark man continued, “he has gone somewhere, hasn’t he? He is looking for evidence to tell him what is going on. Tell us where he has gone, Mr. Locke, tell us where.”
Chris just stared vacantly ahead.
Mandala nodded quickly.
Shang snatched Locke’s hand brutally from the ice and slammed it down on the table, clamping it there. The pain returned with a rush, exploding through the swelling portion of his hand. The giant was grasping his ring finger now.
“Where can we find Grendel?”
When Locke stayed silent, the dark man nodded again.
Chris closed his eyes, feeling Shang’s hand tighten and lift. The snap sounded like glass breaking. The pain exploded everywhere and a kaleidoscope of colors burst before his closed eyes. He opened them to the sight of crackling silver lights. A scream rose within him, which the giant promptly choked off.
Breathing hard, Locke glanced down at his two ruined fingers, twin distortions cracked clean at the joint. The pain was battering his head. He had never experienced anything like it.
Mandala seemed to read his mind. “Yes, it hurts quite horribly, doesn’t it, Mr. Locke? Yet we are at the early stages of our evening. Would you like to hear what follows if you continue to be stubborn? We will repeat this process with two fingers on your right hand, and if you still persist we will be forced to become more … persuasive.” Suddenly Shang was flashing a knife in his hand. “You have undoubtedly heard of the Chinese torture in which the fingers are severed one knuckle at a time. Shang prefers a cruder version of this. The knife he is holding is a more elaborate version of a kitchen paring knife. He is a specialist in cutting the flesh away layer by layer until he reaches bone. One finger at a time. And you will not pass out, Mr. Locke. He will see to that.”
Locke shuddered again, seized by a fear greater than any he thought could exist. These men were animals, brutal killers of woman and children, torturers. Dogan had described the Committee as being civilized, organized toward accomplishing their ends economically instead of with violence. Well, perhaps the architects of the Committee held to that credo, but the men they retained as soldiers simply ignored it. Locke knew he had to act while he still retained a measure of his senses. Any further agony might ruin his response and thought processes. He couldn’t afford that.
The dark man was lifting his mangled hand back into the ice. It stung his flesh at first but relief came quickly again after his skin grew accustomed to being pricked at by the sharp edges of the ice.
Sharp edges … Yes, it might work! But there were two men to consider. If only one of them would leave the room or at least back off. If only …
“Where is Grendel, Mr. Locke?” the dark man asked him. “Come now, my patience is wearing thin and so, I trust, is your tolerance of pain. Let us end this stupidity. We will find him whether you help us or not. How can you possibly think you can stay clear of us? We are everywhere.”
Mandala paused to let his words sink in.
We are everywhere….
Charney had said that too, and suddenly Locke saw the reality of his situation with stunning clarity. Nothing he could say here could save Greg’s life. If the boy was still alive. If he escaped, though, they might need to keep the boy alive to use as leverage against him later. It was time to move. Now!
“Where is Grendel, Mr. Locke? I will ask you one—”
Locke acted. Grasping the rim of the ice bucket as best he could with his twisted hand, he brought it up and over his shoulder, smashing it hard into the giant’s face in the hope that an edge might find Shang’s eyes. The giant reeled backward.
As the dark man rose and went for his gun, Chris snapped to his feet, left side angling toward him. His next move astounded himself even more than it did Mandala. He used his ruined hand for the assault, not for surprise but simply because it was the closest, chopping hard into the bridge of the dark man’s nose. It was hard to tell at impact whose pain was greater. Locke screamed in terrible agony but still managed to tear the pistol from Mandala’s hand before the dark man pitched backward. Chris turned it on Shang, who was charging back toward him.
Locke fired into his midsection, emptying the clip, the roar of the bullets sandblasting his ears. The giant slammed into the dresser and knocked it over with him to the carpet.
The dark man was lunging for him. Locke twisted around the table and kicked him first in the stomach and then under the chin as he keeled over, slamming him against the wall. Wasting no time, Chris dropped the gun and scampered toward the narrow opening in the glass doors, ducked behind the curtains, and slid the doors open enough to pass through.
The fresh air sharpened his senses. He had to get off the balcony. The question was how. A leap to one of the neighboring structures was fifteen feet at least; out of the question. A drop to the floor below was at least that much and at a difficult angle to boot. But he could manage it if he could swing himself beneath this balcony properly and work up enough momentum.