Page 68 of Ravaged Hearts
Damp air filled my lungs. The cavernous space’s dome-shaped concrete ceiling made me think we were in anunderground bunker. This had to be part of the compound’s tunnel system.
Jesus H. Christ. I must’ve done some fucked-up shit in a past life to land myself in this situation twice.
A laugh burst from me. Then another. It didn’t matter that my skull pounded from the earlier blow or that my arms felt like they were about to be torn from my shoulder sockets. I couldn’t contain my twisted amusement.
But seriously, fuck me, fuck my life, and fuck the sociopath standing before me wearing a perplexed frown. Maybe he’d never met someone who reacted as I did in the face of torture.
On a wheezing breath, I regained my composure. Then Ortega stormed for me, his neck craned to snarl up at my face. He reeked of cigars and whiskey. The glassiness in his eyes made me wonder how much he’d had to drink. “Is there something you find amusing about your impending death?”
“Not really, just”—I exhaled a weary sigh—“having a bad day.”
“It’s about to get much worse.” Ortega removed his suit jacket and rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt.
I knew what was coming. He’d have a whole lot of questions for me and a particular skill set that could turn the hardest of badasses into an oversharer. I wouldn’t talk, especially if it incriminated Hope, and that would buy the team time to breach the compound and find us.
“Bring her in,” Ortega said, and one of the guards hauled Hope through the doorway.
My heart just about stopped when I saw her. She looked unharmed, although she shivered uncontrollably while tugging at the rope binding her wrists.
When Hope’s eyes landed on me, her steps faltered. Anguish lined her face. “Jorge, you sick bastard. Let him down!”
Ortega ignored her and went to a cabinet to add more shiny tools to his trolley of fun like some perverse backyard surgeon.
Screwdriver. Pliers. Hammer. Blades.
So many different blades.
Come on, Brandon. Hurry the fuck up. What was taking him so long?
“You’re our mystery man,” Ortega stated with certainty. “The one who’s been killing my men and protecting a village that should already be under my control. The one she”—he pointed a scalpel at Hope before placing it on the tray—“clearly has feelings for.”
I swallowed hard against my bone-dry throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’ll see about that.” Ortega turned to me with a disturbing grin. “Let’s get started, shall we?” He picked up a set of pliers and strolled toward me.
Hope tried to slip away from the thug holding her in place. It didn’t work. “Just tell him whatever he wants to know.”
I aimed a glance at her that saidI’m fine. I’ve got this. Not that she’d believe me. Not that I believed it myself.
Ortega examined my chest like a fucked-up artist contemplating where on the blank canvas to deliver his first brushstroke. Then his brow pinched, presumably because I wasn’t a blank canvas at all and my scarred body had already been some other sadistic asshole’s playground.
“Amateur work.” He scrunched his nose in distaste. “Perhaps we can skip the beginner techniques. Removing fingernails seems so rudimentary, doesn’t it?” He returned the pliers to the tray and picked up a long screwdriver.
“Jorge, no!” Hope demanded. “Stop this right now.”
He paid her no mind. Instead, he stepped toward me and, as though my body were nothing more than a lump of modeling clay, stabbed the tool into my shoulder.
Burning pain cut through me. I grunted through it as dizziness blackened out the edges of my vision.
Hope screamed, and the piece of shit holding her slapped a hand over her mouth.
“No.” Ortega shook his head and glared at the guard. “I want to hear her cry. Hear her beg.”
His soldier took his hand away, and Hope’s muffled shrieks turned sharp, echoing through the room.
Ortega plucked the screwdriver free and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Blood oozed from the wound and trickled over my pec. Judging by the wetness leaking down my back, the tool must’ve gone all the way through.
Fuck. This was going to be a long night if the team couldn’t find a way in soon, but I had to stay strong. Panicking wouldn’t help, so I worked to slow my breathing and focused on the one person in this room who would benefit from Ortega’s attention remaining solely on me—Hope.