Thunderstruck (Ramsey Security #1)

"There are two kinds of torture. The sort where the victim lives, and the sort where the victim dies. We have no intention of allowing you to live, which allows me great latitude on how to extract the information."

Mistress adjusts to the reality of dying at the end of the process. In her mind, she might have expected us to lie about her future. I have no stomach for torturing women, yet feel no pity for Mistress. Darla mentioned in passing how Mistress's job was to "clean" her. Based on the way she said the words, the cleaning process wasn't as simple as a shower.

"Before we begin, understand that you alone decide how long the pain goes on. If you provide the information and we find it sufficient, you will die quickly. If you choose to hold out, I will continue my work."

"Darla ran into the arms of monsters," Mistress declares.

Saskia refuses to react, and I wonder if she's ever reacted. Was she always so cold? Did she ever flinch at the nature of her work? I'd been raised as a normal person and only embraced death as an adult. Saskia likely always viewed death with the indifference of a killer.

Holding a power drill in her hand, she presses the button for a moment. The whirling sound startles Mistress.

"It's important for you to remain alive long enough to provide the information. This drill is painful, but it will not kill you," Saskia says, stepping closer to Mistress. "I don't want to give you any false hope of dying in the process. You will remain alive until I've deemed your information sufficient."

"Fuck you, whore."

Saskia approaches her with the drill. "I will begin with your knees. If at any time you wish to end your suffering, you are free to share everything you know about Christopher Baker."

Mistress flinches when she hears Locke's real name. She flinches again when Saskia presses the button on the drill.

I watch Saskia work until the screams become too much. My unease isn't from pity for the bitch in the chair. I want her to suffer. I want them all to fucking suffer for what they did to Darla and the Roses before her. Yet wanting them to suffer and finding any pleasure in that suffering are two very different things.

"I'm going back to the apartment."

"Good," says Rafael.

"Wouldn't you come here if it was about finding Harlow's tormentor?"

Rafael stares hard at me out of habit. "There's more to saving your woman than spilling blood. You know how freaked out Harlow was when we moved to Houston. She hated being away from her family, so I stayed with her. I didn't just assume she'd work shit out on her own. If you want Darla to get healthy, you need to learn to be more than a killer."

"I know all that."

"Explain to me why Minka stayed with Darla instead of you when you knew Saskia would handle this bitch."

Pulling out my car keys, I sigh. "Fine. I get it."

"Watching Darla freak out isn't easy, but she needs you to be strong enough to let her cry on your shoulder."

"I don't know that I'm strong enough to make Darla happy."

"Then dump her."

"Asshole," I mutter, walking away.

"It's not complicated. Either take a shit or get off the pot."

I say nothing before walking to my car. The thunder and lightning tapers off by the time I reach the apartment. I'm soaked anyway, but the warm rain feels good. I imagine taking Darla out into the early morning and let her enjoy what remains of the storm.

Minka answers the door and glares at me. "You ran away like a bitch."

Ignoring her accusation, I enter the apartment and look for Darla in the open concept living room and kitchen.

"Saskia is extracting the info now."

"I know."

"Where's Darla?"

"I convinced her to rest, but I don't think she's asleep. I hear her pacing around in the bedroom."

"Did she take a Valium?"

"No. She's running hot and won't cool down. She's going to have a major freak out soon."

"She's already freaking out," I whisper, walking towards the bedroom.

"No, she's trying to keep her shit under control. You're not helping matters."

"Save the lectures, Mom."

Leaving Minka in the hallway, I enter the bedroom. I don't see Darla, but the bathroom light is on. Unsure if I should call out her name, I worry about startling her.

I find Darla sitting on the bathroom floor, holding a pair of scissors. She's cutting into the floor between her legs. Chunks of her clothing and some of her hair rest next to her.

I kneel down and whisper her name. When she doesn't react, I say it again louder. Finally, she looks up at me wide-eyed.

"I'm not Rose," she mutters, hacking into the tile floor with the scissors. "I'm clean."

I reach out for the scissors. "I know. Let me have those."

"Fuck off," she hisses, grabbing her hair and cutting off another lock. "You don't know me. The smell isn't me. I'm clean."

"Darla, I love you."