Page 19 of Born of Vengeance

Three men. One carried a metal toolbox. The other two wore tactical gear and held batons.

The one in front—bald, pale, sweating—stepped closer.

“You’ve been busy,” he said in Spanish. “Valderrama sends his regards.”

Rafael didn’t respond.

The man opened the toolbox.

Inside: knives, a car battery, wires, clamps, a hammer.

“You know how this works,” he said. “We ask, you answer. Or we ask again with help.”

Rafael looked up. Smiled. Just a little.

“You’re going to have to try really hard.”

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The first blow was to the stomach—measured, hard.

Then the electricity came.

Wires clipped to his chest. Voltage shot through him like fire through bone. His jaw clenched so tight he thought his molars would crack. They asked questions—names, safehouses, contacts.

He said nothing.

A fist to the ribs. A boot to the thigh. More voltage.

Then the knife—short, serrated. Dragged along the side of his back. Not deep. But enough.

Still, he didn’t speak.

He counted seconds in his head. Focused on breathing. Slow. Controlled.

After an hour, they left him alone.

But they didn’t realize they’d made a mistake.

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They’d used wire. Not cuffs.

Wire bends with pressure.

His wrists bled from the friction, but Rafael rotated them, slowly, again and again—weakening the tension. He adjusted the angle of his knee. Dug the zip-tie into the edge of a metal bolt on the floor.

It took time. And pain.

But eventually, the tie snapped.

He freed one ankle.

Then the wrists.

And waited.

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