Page 69 of Riordan's Revenge

He raised his head, his body flexing, then dropped back into the torture position.

Above him, water dripped. Not a steady flow, but an intermittent trickle, hitting his face and soaking the material covering it. That was why he kept moving. He couldn’t breathe.

Horror and nausea sank through me.

This was fucked up. The whole world of gang violence scared the hell out of me, and I hated that it existed and that I was a part of it.

This wasn’t my life. I didn’t want it.

Then Cassie brushed by me, and my emotion evaporated. If she’d followed that note and walked out of the warehouse in search of me, he would’ve taken her. He would’ve killed her. Any pity I’d felt fled.

More, she was here and facing a man who I knew had to scare her. She’d told me how she tackled her fears head-on. It was admirable. I could take a lesson in that.

Cassie settled at a desk and reached into her bag, extracting a skeleton mask, then she tugged it over her head. It was a full-face version, concealing all but her eyes, different to the half-mask I took from my back pocket and tied on.

Then she jumped up and came to me. Pressing up on her toes, she held up a makeup palette. “You’re too pretty. Let me dirty ye up a little.”

I smirked and allowed her to paint out a black band across my eyes. The other skeleton crew members had done the same, though I doubted theirs was from a high-end makeup line.

Across the room, Shade consulted with the guards and spooled through some of the footage of the room. After a minute, he gestured for us to fall in.

The locks slid out. The bunker door opened. A wall of noise hit us, and we walked the strip of light piercing the entrance.

Along with the noise, a sour odour assaulted my senses.

Shade pointed to a seat against the back wall for Cassie to take. He positioned me to Bronson’s right. From a table, he collected a lamp and turned it on, indicating for the door to be closed behind us.

Oh fuck.

I swallowed. Like it or not, I was an active part of this. I needed to step into my role. But another aspect was stealing over me. I fucking loved watching Cassie in her element. When she’d taken on Piers, holding a knife to his dick, cutting him, I’d been hard. It was all her, not the torture itself, and I had exactly no idea why.

Perhaps it was a good thing that Shade had forbidden her from taking part. Me popping a boner while she dripped with blood wasn’t a good look.

The spotlight hit Bronson.

Then the music cut out. A horrible keening came from the prisoner. It changed tone, weakening but not stopping, as if he realised something had altered but his brain was delivering the news slowly.

“Grab that,” Shade ordered me.

I twisted to the metal chair he pointed to and positioned it under Bronson. Shade unclipped one hand then the other, finally lowering the chain that held our captive’s legs until I could guide him into the seat.

His old-boy button-up shirt was saturated, as were his jeans, a gross stain running down them. He’d soiled himself. Fuckinghell. I quickly calculated how long he’d been like this. Maybe twenty-four hours, though most of them not awake.

Shade refastened his hands and legs to the chair, and I stayed close in case Bronson lashed out. Instead, the man slumped to one side. At his spine, one of his hands shook uncontrollably.

Shining the light on his sorry form, Shade stood calmly for a second then removed Bronson’s mask.

“Bronson Lesk. Confirm that ye can hear me.”

A low, rasping breathing came from the prisoner, but no words.

Out of nowhere, Shade reared back and smashed his fist into Bronson’s face. The chair toppled, and Bronson collapsed on the floor. I waited for a signal then heaved him upright again, morphing back into the shadows.

“One more chance or I’ll put ye back on hold with the nice music.”

Blood dripped from his nose, and Bronson swayed on each breath. His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved. “I hear. Everything.”

Shade squared up, ready to proceed, but Bronson spoke again, his tone creepy as fuck.