I learned how to waterboard somebody without killing them back in Afghanistan. There’s a trick to it. If you pour the water too fast, shove the rag down their throat too far, you’ll drown them straight away. If you go too easy on them, they can hold their breath and they’ll never break. As I fill up a four-gallon canister with water from the outside tap close to the clubhouse, I spend a moment reflecting on how little Maria Rosa is going to like this. That’s probably the understatement of the century. She’s going to fucking hate it.
The roles are usually reversed in situations such as these. She tortured the ever-loving shit out of me when she found me and Rebel snooping around her place in Columbia. I spent three days strapped to a chair while she tried to ascertain if I was there to try and kill her or not. The experience was a frustrating one for her. Being in the Marines, you learn how to withstand torture. You learn how to keep your damn mouth shut and give nothing more than your name and rank, and Maria Rosa wanted me to be screaming. I was a disappointment to her in the beginning, but then later she confessed my silent stoicism turned her on. Wasn’t long before she was straddling me, grinding herself up against my cock, torturing me in a different way. That seems like a long time ago now.
She was unconscious when I carried her into the barn and down into the hidden basement, making sure to bolt the hatchway behind me when I came back up for the water. I trussed her up pretty tight when I tied her to the single, lone wooden chair down there, but she’s a wily one. No, not just wily; she’s a goddamn contortionist. I’ve had first hand experience of that. I’m yet to fuck another woman who can fold herself up into a pretzel the same way Mother can.
I try not to think about all the things Maria Rosa can do that other women can’t as I carry the canister of water back to the barn and unbolt the hatch. Down the stairs I carry the carton, along the badly lit corridor, water sloshing out onto the dusty concrete, onto my boots, not thinking about the things Maria Rosa can do with her tongue.
Jesus.
When I enter the very last room on the right, the woman in question is slumped forward in the chair, chin resting on her chest, a thick river of blood drying down her arm and her leg. She looks like she’s out cold, but if there’s one lesson I’ve learned in this life, it’s do not trust Maria Rosa. She’s a master manipulator. I’m sure Rebel would have a couple more very choice names for her, too.
She fucked with the club.
She fucked with my sister.
And now she’s fucked with Sophia.
It takes a lot to get Jamie to the point where he’ll bury you as soon as look at you, but we’re past that point now. I kind of feel sorry for the woman. He’s not going to go easy on her. Not even a little bit.
I pull the rag I found behind the bar in the clubhouse from the back pocket of my jeans and lean against the wall with the huge container of water at my feet, tearing the rag into long strips. This is where the boss finds me.
He’s not looking too shit hot.
“You tried to wake her up yet?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“All right. Let’s get this over with. I shouldn’t have reamed you out. I know you were only looking out for Sophia. I lost it. I’m sorry.”
I shrug.
“Don’t give me that shit, man. You’d have lost it, too. You’d have blown a fucking gasket if that had been Laura.”
I lock up at the sound of my sister’s name. We’ll go weeks, sometimes months, without speaking of her. Both of us just knows that she’s the reason we’re here though, neck deep in stinking shit that makes us both sick, drives us both crazy. We’ll never be able to get out until we find out what happened to her, one way or another. And then make whomever is responsible for her disappearance pay. Dearly. That day will be the day Jamie and I lose our souls for good.
I shoot him a shitty look. “So you’re comparing Sophia to her now, is it? You really must love her or something.”
Rebel’s eyes narrow so dramatically, they almost disappear entirely. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
I throw one of the balled up pieces of rag at him, and it hits him in the face. “You’re so full of shit, man. I saw the way you looked at her the second she climbed on the back of your ride in that fucking disgusting yellow dress and I knew we were all doomed.”
The ghost of a smile flickers across his face. Bending to pick up the piece of rag I threw, he grunts. “Like I said. Maybe. Maybe not.”
Maria Rosa groans. It’s not the kind of groan she’d fake. She’d want to sound sexy, even through her pain. No, this is the kind of groan someone makes when they’re in agony and their head’s not working right. Rebel turns his attention to her, and I catch a glimpse of how much trouble she’s in…
If the look on my brother’s face were to be categorized by a single act of violence in recent history, it would be codenamed Hiroshima. He’s going to kill her. I can read that fact in every line of his body. He’s wound so tight, I’d be surprised if he even waits for her to wake up before he starts on her.
“Are you okay, man? I can do this on my own if you need me to?”