Page 17 of All The Way Under
“If what you mean by bad vibes is ambivalence, then yes. I don’t care about you or anything except getting the fuck out of here. So, no. Hurting you isn’t something worth my time or energy.”
He raises one infuriating brow as he surveys my absolute rage. Why are men patronizing, witless monsters?
“What? Not used to men not caring about you?” Another smirk. “So…back to the importantfacts. Does scream baiting work to get their attention? What do you know about them and their schedules?”
I lick my lips. They’re chapped and just as angry as I am.
“No. Screaming doesn’t do anything but make me feel better about making them uncomfortable.”
Pulling my knees up to my chest, I watch Brody carefully as he sits up, brushes off his pants, checks his pockets, and seems to miss something that was there before.
“They take everything while you’re out,” I explain. “Even though you present as an absolute jerk, I’ll answer your questions because I think if we work together, we’ll have a better chance of getting things done.”
He looks at me, and I can tell he’s nervous. His breathing is still slowing, and there’s a quiet unease in his blue gaze.
“Ravelo and the blow dart dick, Nery, were the men who brought you in here. The status of their hierarchy is questionable, but Raza, another one, is somewhere above them. They bring food in the morning, and that’s it. I’m almost fluent in their language, so I understand things they say to each other.”
I’m proud of that. I bet this moron can’t translate.
“What do they say to each other?” Brody asks in Portuguese.
I roll my eyes.
“Of course you speak it too. Do I have any advantages here?”
All of this is overwhelming, confusing, and downright disgusting. I spent the morning trying to wash myself with the bucket and sponge they brought with my food, and I was humbled down to my very soul.
“You have muscles, a bad attitude, and you speak their native language.” I throw up my arms.
He looks me dead in the eyes. “Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. You can scream.”
“You have something worse than a bad attitude. You have an awful personality. Is this due to the bad night, or do you radiate negative energy like it’s your job twenty-four hours a day?”
Brody wipes his hands on the sides of his jeans.
“What do they say to each other?” he asks again.
When he asks it in English, it doesn’t sound like an optional question. He ignores every mean thing I just said, almost as if he didn’t hear me.
“They talk about everything, even though they know I can understand. My ransom, my mom when she’s being belligerent in negotiations. They talk about their food, my ass, the new house-type thing they’re building. It’s made from bamboo and has a thatched roof. It’s on stilts to avoid the flooding, unlike the shelters here, which flood constantly.” I pause. “We aren’t in the highlands despite this mountain cage,” I say, sniffling as I readjust my legs. “And by my calculations, I’d say we’re close to the beach where they store their boats.”
Brody listens intently, shaking his head, like what I’m saying matters, and for a moment or two, I feel validated. Like something I know matters.
“If they’re already talking to your family about ransom, did they say how long this process will take?”
Closing my eyes, I try to ward off the wave of exhaustion.
“It’s political, so it’s not as cut and dry as they give them money, and they give them me. What’s a kidnapping for ransom without a little suffering?”
I tuck my face down into my arms and try my best not to fall asleep.
“The criminal groups who are taking a cut of the ransom have to align, and evidently that’s something that doesn’t happen with any regularity.”
“How long have you been here?” he asks.
I raise my head, setting my chin on my knees.
“A week, but it feels like a month.”
