She scooted a few feet away with the Glock gripped tight in her hands, watching to see how well her containment system would perform. It was too dark. She got up and backed toward the bathroom doorway, keeping her eyes on the figure on the ground. She felt behind her until she found the light switch and flipped it on.
Hector’s face was turned toward her; his dark eyes, although still tearing, were intensely focused. His face showed no evidence of the pain he was in. It was a disconcerting gaze, though his face was in other ways one of the most ordinary she had ever seen. His features were even and nondescript. He wasn’t attractive, but he wasn’t ugly, either. It was the kind of face that would be extremely hard to pick out of a lineup.
“Why haven’t you killed me?” he asked, his voice hoarse from the chemicals. Other than that, his voice was unremarkable. He had no accent at all. He could have been a network news anchor—no hint of where he came from in his inflections.
“I want to know who hired you.” Her voice rasped through the mask, slightly distorted. It sounded a little less human. She hoped that would throw him.
He nodded once, as if to himself. She saw minute shifts in his hands as he tested his bonds.
“Why would I tell you anything?” He didn’t say it angrily or as a challenge. He just sounded curious.
“Do you have any idea who I am?”
He didn’t answer, his face neutral.
“That’s the first reason why you should tell me what you know—because whoever sent you out here didn’t give you the information you needed to be successful. They didn’t prepare you for what you were facing. You don’t owe them anything.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” he pointed out, still in a polite, conversational voice. His fingers stretched downward, trying to reach the zip tie.
“No, you don’t. But if you don’t talk to me, I’ll hurt you. That’s the second reason.”
He weighed that. “And the third reason… if I talk, you’ll let me live.”
“Would you believe me if I promised you that?”
“Hmm.” He sighed. He thought for a moment and then asked, “But how will you know whether to believe what I tell you?”
“I know most of it. I just want you to fill in a few details.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you much. I have a manager; he works as the middleman. I never saw the person who paid for this.”
“Just tell me what your manager told you.”
He considered that, then twitched his shoulders as if to shrug. “I don’t like your offer. I think you could do better.”
“Then I’ll have to persuade you.”
CHAPTER 19
He watched with a poker face as she stuck the Glock in its holster and retrieved the bolt cutters from the floor by Angel’s leg.
She’d considered bringing the welding iron. Fire could be more painful than almost anything else, and many people had related phobias. But Hector was a professional. She didn’t have the time to break him down with pain; his resistance would be too high. What would frighten him more than agony would be losing his physical edge. If he didn’t have a trigger finger, he couldn’t do his job. She’d start with something less vital to him, but he would be able to see the inevitable coming. If he could survive tonight, he would want to do it with functional hands. So he would have to talk to delay her.
Hector’s left hand was most convenient. As she fit the metal blades around his pinkie finger, he curled the rest into a fist and fought harder against the ties. She kept a tight hold on the handles, knowing what she would be thinking in his position—if he could get control of the cutters, he would have a chance to free himself. Sure enough, he tried to kick out with his left leg, despite the excruciating pain it must have caused him. She dodged the blow, moved a few feet higher, then refit the cutters to the base of his folded finger.
These were made for cutting through rebar, and she kept the blades sharp. It didn’t take too much muscle on her part to snap those blades together.
She watched his reaction. He thrashed against the ties ineffectually. His face turned dark red and the vessels pulsed in his forehead. He gasped and panted, but he didn’t scream.
“Sometimes people don’t think I’m serious,” she told him. “It’s good to get that misconception out of the way.”
Right now, Hector would be thinking about the amount of time that could pass before it was too late to reattach a finger. He could live without a pinkie, but he needed his hands, and he must know she wasn’t going to stop there.
She would emphasize her point.