Page 101 of Stricken

I nod, turning my attention back to the prisoner.

Ivan steps forward, his presence, as always, a solid reassurance. He's ready to do my dirty deeds, but today I feel like sullying my hands. The trail has gotten hot again and I will be the one to get this mute asshole talking.

I shrug off my jacket, handing it to Ivan without looking, my focus entirely on the man before me.

As I roll up my sleeves I feel a sense of calm settle over me. This is familiar territory—this the dance of pain and persuasion.

I crouch down, bringing myself to eye level with the prisoner. Up close, the damage is even more apparent, his skin a mottled canvas of purple and red.

"Let's start with a name," I say softly, my voice a velvet threat in the stillness of the room. "Yours, and then the other party. The one that you obtained that information from."

Next to me, Esteban translates.

The man's breath hitches, a small, piteous sound that echoes in the silence. He lifts his head slowly, his gaze meeting mine, and in that moment, I see the flicker of recognition and that undeniable spark of defiance. If he hasn't spoken under the torture of the cartel people, then getting him to talk to me won't be easy.

But then again, nothing worth doing ever is. Shtyk is out there, and one way or another, I will find him.

I steel myself, pushing aside the memories of my mother, the ache of loss that never quite fades. This is for her, for the justice she deserves.

"Let's begin," I whisper, extending a hand over to Ivan. "And I mean talking." A knife is placed into my palm.

The man's jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing in a wordless challenge. Esteban steps forward, his voice low and controlled as he translates my words.

"Comencemos a hablar."

The informant remains quiet, his gaze still locked on mine as I press the sharp edge of the blade to his neck right above his collarbone.

"You have something I want," I murmur. I lean in closer, the blade pressing harder now, a thin line of red blooming across his skin. "Information. About a certain man in Guanajuato."

Esteban's voice follows, a smooth echo of my own. "Tienes información que él necesita. Sobre un ruso en particular."

The man's breath comes faster, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. But still, he says nothing.

"Fine, be it your way." I remove the knife from his neck, flicking it in front of his face. "This, here—" clink, clink "—was nothing. For the purpose of comparison."

Esteban translates.

Meanwhile, I straighten, my attention shifting to the fire pit in the back of the room. "There are other ways to loosen a tongue," I muse. "Ways to make even the most loyal man sing like a bird."

Esteban translates, his words a low, ominous rumble. "Hay formas de hacerte hablar. Formas de hacer que hasta el hombre más leal cante como un pájaro."

I move to the fire, selecting a long, thin metal rod. The tip starts glowing red-hot as I hold it over the flames, the heat palpable even from a distance.

"I will ask you one more time." I turn back to the prisoner. "How did you obtain the info you supposedly possess?"

The man's fixated on the glowing metal. I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow, the tremble in his limbs.

Slowly, deliberately, I stride over to stand in front of him and lower the rod to his thigh. With a tip of my chin and two words only, I order Ivan to remove his pants. He tears a hole in them immediately with both hands, leaving the man completely exposed. The only reason his balls aren't on display is thanks to his underwear.

I bring the searing heat closer and closer to his skin.

The acrid scent of singed hair fills the air as I get it within half an inch of his limb. The prisoner lets out a choked, desperate sound.

"You're on the verge of losing the most valuable possession you have."

"No, no, por favor—"

I pause, the metal a hairsbreadth from the middle of his thigh. "I need information," I repeat, my voice a cold, unyielding demand. "Tell me where you heard what you heard." Then I move my hand higher and press up the rod to his balls.

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