Page 11 of Wild Thing

“To loosen him up,” Marlow says as we sit in the safety of the Center and watch it on the monitor. O’Shea’s in a holding cell. No Cunningham in sight, but they got him, too.

There are three guys in the cell with O’Shea.

It’s some guard who does the job, meticulously and catching O’Shea by surprise now and then.

“That’s the trick,” Marlow comments as if he’s done it before. “It’s a preparatory job.”

“Aren’t there more sophisticated ways these days?” I ask.

“Just watch.”

Another guy in the cell is Chase Bishop, a legend, an expat, and a loner who lives in a bungalow up at the Divide. I’ve heard about him. He’s lived in Port Mrei for years and moved to the middle of nowhere after the Change. He’s tall and muscled, with long wavy hair hanging down to his shoulders. I’d say a biker, but supposedly, former undercover, though seemingly in his early thirties and a bit too young for such an intense background.

Bishop leans against the wall with his arms crossed at his chest, looking bored.

Raven sits on his haunches, with his back against the wall, peacefully smoking.

It’s the first time I see Ayana’s holding cells, converted from former storage units, a gloomy sight compared to the slick interior of the Center.

I saw plenty of brutality on the streets of Bangkok. Let’s just say that a thug making a guy bite the curb and smashing his foot on his head, breaking half of his teeth was something I can’t unsee for the rest of my life.

“There’s gotta be a different way,” I say, annoyed.

“There is,” Marlow says. I’m wondering why he’s so calm. “This is just a usual routine Bishop wants to try.”

Everyone in the holding cell is silent. I guess it’ll be Cunningham’s turn at some point.

“Psychological impact,” Marlow explains. “That’s what Archer says.”

Archer’s instructions?

“You start by giving him an idea of what’s to come. And when he’s getting the clue, you switch.”

“To what?” I ask, cringing at the thought that Archer has some twisted tactics planned out, but Marlow only nods toward the screen.

Bishop stirs. “Do you know what the Pear of Anguish is?” he asks, casually rubbing the floor with the tip of his boot. “We can go old-fashioned tonight.”

Even I know the nasty torture device, shaped like a pear with metal petals hinged at the top and a crank on the other side. It’s inserted into orifices. Turning the crank opens the petals that cut like blades into flesh. Bishop is definitely not a biker.

O’Shea doesn’t answer. He knows.

“Your mouth, O’Shea,” Bishop says indifferently, “looks like a good choice.”

O’Shea spits blood on the ground and tries to shift, his body tied to a chair slumping. “You do that, I won’t be able to tell you what you want to hear.”

“True.” Bishop only nods, hands in his pockets now. “There are other cavities. More sensitive.”

“Cut the bullshit. I know I don’t have a chance.”

Bishop pulls out a phone from his pocket, checks it, then sticks it back in.

“Smart,” he replies in a slightly different tone. “Here’s the thing about Zion. We’re all civilized people here.”

O’Shea sucks his teeth. “Right.”

“I don’t usually take the easy path, but Mr. Crone is a nice guy.”

Bishop turns and picks up something from a tray on a small table that I notice only now.

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