Warm wet blood slickened her wrist where it escaped from her body, lubricating the cord just enough that Hatch felt it budge. Her hand was now an inch freer than it had been a minute ago.
There was no clock on the wall, or at least none she could see when craning her neck. Hatch knew a countdown had begun. To whose end was still up for debate. Under the current set of circumstances, Hatch did not feel the odds were in her favor. But Hatch had surprised herself in the past, so didn't count herself out of the game, just maybe down a few points. With Ayala making touchdown receptions, maybe Hatch would get her turn in the endzone. And if she did, she hoped she or one of her teammates would send the big yellow goal crashing down on top of Hector Fuentes’ skull.
Beside the metal pool lay car batteries and the black and red leads coming out of them were dangling loosely near, but not clipped to, the pool. The dim light of the room taunted Hatch and warned her of terrible things to come.
She continued to work at the restraint on her right wrist before she heard the door behind her open and close.
A metal chair dragged across the concrete floor and came to a stop just in eyeshot of Hatch's peripheral vision. Moreno’s scarred face was now tinging an orange hue. Hatch thought of the oversized walrus championing the cartel's juice company. In her mind, the orange sunglasses-wearing tusked creature became synonymous with the beast of a troll described in Ayala's fable.
"Miss Nighthawk, you have been quite troublesome for my employer. And as angry as he is with you for what you've done to his nightclub and how much you have taken from him, he would like your audience for a brief moment of your time. Before the last sands of your hourglass add to your life's pile, Mr. Fuentes would like to ensure when I arrange your disappearance, that nobody else comes looking afterwards to finish the trouble you started. It ends, here, today, with you. My employer believes, all truth lies just beneath the surface of a person's eyes. And before I dispatch you, he wants to look you in the eye himself."
Hatch thought of the people she would leave behind and those who would undoubtedly hunt for her until they found word it was no longer necessary, just as she had done with Angela Rothman. She thought of Savage, and how she wished the smell of his licorice overpowered the funk of the room she was in now.
She gave the man nothing in return. She would not entertain the whimsy of a murderous cartel thug, nor the wishes of his master. Hatch would face her end the way she had faced everything in her life up to this point, head tall and eyes front. She would give this man, and any to follow, no satisfaction to the contrary.
"You don't feel like talking. I understand. I think you will find you and I are a lot alike. I can smell the military training coming off your sweat. Did a little digging. Nothing came up under a Daphne Nighthawk. I think I can safely assume that's not your real name. But not to worry, I have other ways of digging. They're just a bit more painful." Moreno winked. "I'm very thorough. When we're done here today, there won't be a piece your life that I haven't peeled back and exposed."
The thought churned in her stomach, souring the bountiful meal she received at Josefina's hand. She thought of her family, of her mom, of Daphne, of Jake, and the last face to cross her mind’s periphery was that of Dalton Savage. In running from Hawk's Landing, Hatch had effectively traded one threat for another. Was there ever a time when they'd be safe?
"Mr. Fuentes is in the other room finishing up his breakfast. It may not look like it by this room, but it is one of his favorite restaurants when he ventures out to be among his people." Moreno's reverence for Hector Fuentes went beyond the norm, speaking of him as God or a holy man, whose power and influence extended into the very soul of the cartel leader's top enforcer and personal bodyguard.
The door opened again.
Hatch shifted her gaze to the man in the thousand-dollar suit who dabbed a silk napkin against the corner of his lips before repocketing it. He walked with an air of confidence that identified him to Hatch before he offered his name.
"I am Hector Fuentes, head of the Fuentes cartel. I have forgone my second cup of coffee to come sit here in your presence. This may mean nothing to you. But my routine is everything to me. And I love my second cup of coffee. You must imagine how important this conversation is for me to miss its flavor in exchange for the foul stink of your blood. The answers you give matter, so do not be hasty and ensure you choose them with the care and consideration of somebody who understands that they might end up being your last. By the looks of that arm of yours, I think this is something you understand. Am I correct to assume this?"
He looked down at the pool of water accepting another droplet of Hatch's blood and Fuentes smiled. "And the answers you give do not determine whether you live or die. That ball was in motion the minute you crossed my path in Arizona. The way you answer my questions and the information you provide determine how you die. And trust me, when I say this, Miss Nighthawk, or whatever your name may be, death is an ugly thing and can be experienced in many ugly ways. Ways which I'm sure, even with your experience, would shock you to your soul. Let's hope we do not need to explore these options in search of the truth. Yes?"
Hatch spit the blood that had pooled in the lower portion of her lip into the water below, scattering her bound image in the ripples that followed. "Better men have tried."
"We'll see about that, but one thing's for certain. As foolhardy as it is, I respect your will to fight. I think Juan Carlos will put that statement to the test. You should pray it's not your last."
Thirty-Four
The interrogation lasted less than thirty minutes. They had moved Hatch to a chair and bound her arms. Hatch now had a large fire poker sticking out of her left hand. The thick fire poker's light black coating was now stained in the red and brown of new blood over old. The fire poker entered through the web of flesh connecting her hand's index finger and thumb and the pointed end broke through to Hatch's palm and rested, painfully so, against the handrail of the chair.
Juan Carlos Moreno, the man who introduced himself as Hector Fuentes' personal bodyguard and head of security, worked the long metal fire poker like the joystick to an old Atari. Every time he asked a question, he would shift the fat fire poker in a different direction, twisting her flesh and trying to pry tendons away from her joints.
This was a different technique than she'd experienced before, but these were different men. One thing was a constant in all the survival training Hatch had endured: disconnecting the mind from the experience was the best weapon in defending against it. Truly taking on a transcendental state allowed the mind to drift to a safe place where pain didn't exist. This was a hard thing to do for most people. Hatch did it now with a large fire poker buried in her hand.
She was somewhere else now. Not in whatever room this was, wherever it was. Hatch felt the cool breeze spread across her face, replacing the sensation of the dried blood. The fire poker holding her left hand in torment was now replaced by that of Savage's strong grip. Hatch stood at the ridgeline behind her childhood home of Hawk's Landing, set against the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. That same hill where her father had challenged her to face her fear of heights. The same hill where she opened her heart to Dalton Savage. It was a good memory. It was a good place to be. Hatch bathed herself in the perfectness of the moment.