Hatch shifted her gaze to the man in the thousand-dollar suit who dabbed a silk napkin against the corner of his lips before repocketing it. He walked with an air of confidence that identified him to Hatch before he offered his name.
"I am Hector Fuentes, head of the Fuentes cartel. I have forgone my second cup of coffee to come sit here in your presence. This may mean nothing to you. But my routine is everything to me. And I love my second cup of coffee. You must imagine how important this conversation is for me to miss its flavor in exchange for the foul stink of your blood. The answers you give matter, so do not be hasty and ensure you choose them with the care and consideration of somebody who understands that they might end up being your last. By the looks of that arm of yours, I think this is something you understand. Am I correct to assume this?"
He looked down at the pool of water accepting another droplet of Hatch's blood and Fuentes smiled. "And the answers you give do not determine whether you live or die. That ball was in motion the minute you crossed my path in Arizona. The way you answer my questions and the information you provide determine how you die. And trust me, when I say this, Miss Nighthawk, or whatever your name may be, death is an ugly thing and can be experienced in many ugly ways. Ways which I'm sure, even with your experience, would shock you to your soul. Let's hope we do not need to explore these options in search of the truth. Yes?"
Hatch spit the blood that had pooled in the lower portion of her lip into the water below, scattering her bound image in the ripples that followed. "Better men have tried."
"We'll see about that, but one thing's for certain. As foolhardy as it is, I respect your will to fight. I think Juan Carlos will put that statement to the test. You should pray it's not your last."
Thirty-Four
The interrogation lasted less than thirty minutes. They had moved Hatch to a chair and bound her arms. Hatch now had a large fire poker sticking out of her left hand. The thick fire poker's light black coating was now stained in the red and brown of new blood over old. The fire poker entered through the web of flesh connecting her hand's index finger and thumb and the pointed end broke through to Hatch's palm and rested, painfully so, against the handrail of the chair.
Juan Carlos Moreno, the man who introduced himself as Hector Fuentes' personal bodyguard and head of security, worked the long metal fire poker like the joystick to an old Atari. Every time he asked a question, he would shift the fat fire poker in a different direction, twisting her flesh and trying to pry tendons away from her joints.
This was a different technique than she'd experienced before, but these were different men. One thing was a constant in all the survival training Hatch had endured: disconnecting the mind from the experience was the best weapon in defending against it. Truly taking on a transcendental state allowed the mind to drift to a safe place where pain didn't exist. This was a hard thing to do for most people. Hatch did it now with a large fire poker buried in her hand.
She was somewhere else now. Not in whatever room this was, wherever it was. Hatch felt the cool breeze spread across her face, replacing the sensation of the dried blood. The fire poker holding her left hand in torment was now replaced by that of Savage's strong grip. Hatch stood at the ridgeline behind her childhood home of Hawk's Landing, set against the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. That same hill where her father had challenged her to face her fear of heights. The same hill where she opened her heart to Dalton Savage. It was a good memory. It was a good place to be. Hatch bathed herself in the perfectness of the moment.
Juan Carlos manipulated the painful joystick one more time, Hatch felt it, winced at its sting, but managed to stay beside Savage just a few moments longer as the sunset danced colors of purple and red across her mind's eye, replacing the bruises she'd endured. And this time, her recall had no rattlesnake to interrupt their kiss.
Her lips were pressed against Savage’s. She could still taste the licorice on them when she opened her eyes and looked down at the water below. Blood stung her eyes, further blurring her vision. The water held her reflection for the brief pause between red droplets. In its momentary stillness, Hatch saw herself. And for a moment, she was that twelve-year-old-girl again. It held for the briefest of moments before the next drop shattered it, further muddying the stagnant water with her blood.
Juan Carlos released the fire poker and sat back in the chair he had first taken up when he arrived. He looked at his employer. "She's not going to break. I've never seen it. A strong woman."
"Your mother was a strong woman." Hector Fuentes was talking to someone else in the room. She blinked to clear her vision. During the torture, and her altered mental state, somebody must've entered. The man standing next to Hector Fuentes was a younger, leaner, version of the drug kingpin. "Wouldn't you agree, my son?"
His son, who looked more like a boy, nodded. Hector Fuentes now spoke to his son and not to Hatch, as if she was not in the room, suspended in a chair, moments from her own death.
Hector put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Men of power wield their power firsthand. Strength comes in those moments when the unthinkable must be done. I know death does not sit well with you, my son. It never has. But if you are ever to hold your place at the head of this family, you must make death your ally. You will need to use it your advantage. And with that, today you will prove your worth in that regard. And in that demonstration of strength and will, you will show me you're worthy to be my heir."