Brute Force

Chapter 42

The heavy steel hatch flew open the moment Ronnie turned the handle, knocking her backwards and sending her sliding across the metal floor on her butt. She tried to bring the Snake Slayer to bear on the dark form of a man, but the hard leads of a cattle prod impacted squarely in the center of her throat. The Snake Slayer skittered across the grating, useless and out of reach. She looked up to see Glen Walter’s smirking face as he loomed over her.

Boots stomped and clanged, sounding hollow in the small metal room. Focused intently on Walter and the blue arcs of electricity coming from the end of the cattle prod, Garcia was vaguely aware of other men climbing through the hatch.

Walter said something in an odd, disembodied voice. It sounded as if he was speaking in slow motion as he pressed the prod to her neck, driving her head backwards so it slammed against the floor. Someone kicked her hard in the ribs, stunning her heart and saving her from the pain of the crackling voltage as darkness closed in around her.

The effect of the heart shot was only momentary and Garcia came to with a gasp in a jerky panic. Another bag had been placed over her head. Cold metal cut into her wrists. The electric winch whined in the corner. The cable clicked and twanged as it drew the restraint bar up toward the ceiling, stretching her arms high over her head until only the balls of her bare feet touched the floor. Another shock came out of nowhere. She writhed sideways, nearly wrenching her shoulders from their sockets.

Screaming inside the hood until she could no longer breathe, she let her head loll forward, panting. The weight of her spent body hung against her wrists.

“Do you ever hunt, Ms. Garcia?” Walter’s syrupy voice buzzed next to her ear through the heavy hood.

“I… wh… I…” she gasped. “What?”

“Do you hunt?” Agent Walter said again.

“Hunt?” she said, trying to catch her breath.

” It doesn’t matter,” Walter said. “But if you had ever field dressed an animal, you would know that the shoulder is a unique joint.”

Blind inside the hood, Garcia recoiled as he ran his fingers along the shoulder of her scrubs.

“A little change in angle,” he continued. “A half an inch more lift — and you’ll never be able to lift your arms again. Do you understand?”

“Understand?” Garcia spat, her voice muffled inside the hood. “I understand that you are beating the shit out of me for no reason.”

“I only point it out about your shoulder,” Agent Walter said, “so you remember not to jerk too much during the procedure—”

“What procedure?” Ronnie could hear her heart in her ears. “What are you talking about?”

“No one told you?” Walter chuckled.

Garcia heard the scrape of boots against the floor and braced herself for another round of shocks from the cattle prod. The next sound nearly caused her to pass out — the slosh of water in a bucket.

Without warning someone grabbed the back of the cloth hood, catching her hair and yanking her head back and downward so she faced the ceiling. Suspended from the metal crossbar by both hands and standing on tiptoe there was nothing she could do to fight it.

She heard Walter say, “Go,” an instant before water began to splash against the cloth stretched over her face. She tried to draw in air, but the large weave of the bag made her get nothing but water. She’d seen this done before. All they needed was a thin stream. A trained professional could make a bucket last far longer than a person’s lungs could hold out. Ronnie coughed and spit and croaked for air, forgetting the pain in her shoulders or even where she was.

And then it was over. The water stopped and the unseen hand released her head, letting her fall forward to gain enough of a gap in the hood so she could suck in great, wheezing gasps. She gagged as much as she breathed, heaving, fighting the urge to vomit inside the bag — but at least she had air.

An instant later the bag was snatched away, causing her to recoil at the sudden brightness. She squinted at Agent Walter, who stood in front of her with a smug grin.

He touched her with the cattle prod, caressing her chest, but did not shock her this time.

Ronnie let her head roll back and forth, a line of bloody drool trailing from her chin. “What do you want from me?”

“The administration wants Winfield Palmer,” he said. “And the traitor Virginia Ross.”

“I can’t figure it out,” Ronnie said, her words slurred as if she’d been on a three-day drunk. “Do you even know who Drake and McKeon are?” She watched his face for any sort of reaction.

“Please,” Walter chuckled. “You’ll have to do better than some Internet conspiracy theory.”

“I got proof, mijo.” Ronnie sighed, tired of ducking questions, exhausted from the games. “These guys want us in a shooting war.”

Agent Walter brushed a flap of hair out of his eyes and patted the cattle prod against his open hand, smiling.

“You don’t give a shit, do you?” Ronnie said, genuinely surprised. She’d thought Agent Walter to be a more integral part of the plan, but something was off about the look in his eyes — a telltale glint as if he was processing some new information. “You’re not a mole, you’re just a pathetic thug, a sadist with a government sponsor.”

“I guess none of that really matters right now, sweetheart.” He waved the prod in front of her face, brushing her lips with the metal probes. “Tell me where Palmer is and maybe we can be more… civilized—”

“Glen Walters”—Ronnie gave a derisive laugh, spitting a clot of blood on the floor—“civilized!”

“The name is Walter!” the man snapped, leaning in to make his point. “No ‘s.’ ”

Ronnie lunged forward as far as the cable would let her, head butting him in the nose. Blood gushed from his nose as he reacted by grabbing her by both shoulders and kneeing her savagely in the groin. Screaming in pain, she slumped against the chains, putting all her weight on her shoulders, nearly passing out from the sickening shock of the blow.

Walter ripped a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his nose. His chest heaved in anger. “I’m going to break you in two, sweetheart,” he said.

Ronnie raised her head, blood and spittle drooling from cracked lips. The intense pain welling up in her groin brought on a new clarity, an odd peace of mind at what she knew she had to do. Her words sputtered out in a mix of sobs and maniacal giggles. “Why… why… you mad at me? ’Cause I hurt your nose or ’cause I forgot the ‘s’?” She let her head loll again, mimicking his Southern accent with a hint of Forrest Gump. “The name is Walter!” Her laugh turned to scorn. “No shit…”

“Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie,” Walter said, obviously working to stay calm as he dabbed at his bloody nose. “Everyone who could help you is either on a different continent or hiding to save their own skin. You have no idea of the things I’m capable—”

“Maldita sea!” Ronnie’s head jerked up so quickly that it caused Walter to take a half step back. “You gonna talk me to death? Go ahead and do what you gotta do.”