Page 65 of Hearts Of Darkness

My left shoulder is screaming like a motherfucker, but otherwise I’m unhurt. Somehow, I manage to unclip my seatbelt to go and check on the others. Tomas is out cold, asinister trail of blood oozing from the back of his skull. Joseph looks dazed, but okay.

Fuck—what a ride.

“Help me with the door,” I hiss. It’s all about survival now. I need to get back to Eve. I’ll deal with the perpetrators of this shit storm later, and I’ll relish every minute of it.

Joseph nods wearily and leans over to my side, but it’s too late. We hear their footsteps before we see their flashlights.

“Santiago, you still alive in there?” A mocking voice pierces the darkness, followed by the accompanying laughter from a dozen or so other men. “It’s good to see you back in the jungle where you belong.”

Rodrigo.

That ugly son of a bitch.

So, my brother betrayed me after all.

“Lower your weapons. You’re completely surrounded. There are twenty men out here with itchy trigger fingers.”

I glance at Joseph. We’ve beaten those odd before, but back then I only had myself to keep alive.

“Hold your fire,” I roar. “We’re coming out.”

“Throw your guns out first.”

On my command, Joseph does as he says. I follow after. We keep hold of our knives, though. They’re still concealed beneath our clothes.

I ram my heel against the panel of twisted metal that used to be a door, and it crumples outwards. The next thing I know, the black muzzle of an AK 47 is caressing my forehead.

“I’m taking no chances, asshole.”

Rodrigo’s shattered socket looks even more repulsive today. I’m going to enjoy relieving him of his second eyebefore this night is through.

“Take me to my brother,” I tell him coldly.

Rodrigo smirks. “I’m afraid Señor Emilio is indisposed right now.”

“Why? Where the hell is he?”

“He had a yen for American bitches. Looks like I’ll be getting a turn, after all.”

“Youmotherfucker!”

Lurching forward, I grab his weapon, but he smashes his elbow into the side of my head before I have a chance to do any real damage. My world teeters on the edge of blinding pain, and then it’s hurtling into blackness.

Drip.Drip. Drip.

I regain consciousness to that noise. It’s a sound synonymous with prison cells and places of torture the whole world over. That, and the screams and futile pleading from its occupants. Seldom do the bravest souls outlive it.

This room is no different. It’s dark and foul smelling, andstillthis mysterious dripping continues—as constant as it is pervasive. Enough to drive a weak mind crazy, and a strong one, weak.

I’ve frequented my fair share of these shit holes over the last two decades. I’ve played the roles of both the tormentor and the tortured. Today, it seems my fortunes have fallen on the latter. I’m held in solitude, bound and gagged, my arms suspended from the ceiling. My broken shoulder, limp and useless, gluts my mind with agony. Every movement makesme want to retch. The worst of the pain lies elsewhere, though. It’s there in my thoughts, in the deepest, darkest corners of my imagination.

I can’t let them put their hands on Eve. I’ve seen what men like us do to the women of our enemies. It’s a predilection I’ve never acquired the taste for. Emilio’s the worst. Torture is too kind a word for what he makes them endure. I used to lie awake in my bed as a young boy listening to the screams of women through the wall. He learned from the best. By the time my mother killed herself, she was a broken woman. My father’s knife at her wrist was the kindest touch she’d known in twenty years.

How long has he been plotting this coup d’état? Is this the fancy finale of an elaborate long game, or is Eve the catalyst that threw fuel at his disillusions of fucking grandeur? He’s a bigger fool than I thought if he reckons he can run this business without me. He’s too weak. His own men are lacking in skill. Rodrigo couldn’t command a battalion of fucking monkeys.

How blind I’ve been to think he’d never betray me.

How duped I’ve been by his obsession with loyalty.

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