The howls were surreal. Always were. Sometimes they sounded comical in isolation, until Quinn considered that the ridiculous noises were coming from a fellow human being, suffering in unspeakable agony.
Maybe his victims had it coming to them, or maybe they didn’t. Quinn had long since stopped trying to assuage his conscience with delusions of some moral rectitude, some higher purpose to justify the barbarism.
He’d caught his employers in too many lies over the years to believe anything they told him, so he had slowly given himself permission to submit to his own inner beast, do what he had to do, and not worry too much about it.
Plus, the pay was outrageously good. That helped.
These particular howls had been caused by applying an electric belt sander to the subject’s lower back, then sprinkling salt on the resulting abrasions. It wasn’t terribly sophisticated, but it was terribly, terribly painful.
In fact, Quinn was briefly afraid that his subject—forty-something, good shape, expensive clothes, an upscale address, and an ivy league last name Quinn kept forgetting—would pass out from the pain, so he moderated the salt application a bit.
As always, Quinn had a list of questions in need of answers, and he judged his guest to be just about in the right frame of mind for truthful and forthcoming conversation. Salt was magical like that.
“I’m recording our conversation for posterity,” Quinn began. He tightened the straps holding his subject spread-eagled and face down on the hard cement of the safe house’s basement floor. The heavy leather straps, one for each limb, attached to thick metal loops, which were arranged in an eight-foot square and bolted into the concrete. “Name, please.”
“I’m pretty sure you already know my name,” the prone and naked man said between gasps.
“Tsk tsk,” Quinn chided. “See, you’re going to make me lose a bet. My friends said I’d have to remove at least one fingernail, but I told them you were smarter than that.”
Quinn noticed that the man’s breathing quickened, and his hands involuntarily balled into fists to protect his fingers. Quinn sprinkled a little more salt on the man’s back, and said, “Dammit, I can’t seem to keep from spilling that salt. So clumsy of me.”
The victim’s back arched in pain, and he thrashed against his restraints. Quinn let the wave of agony subside before speaking again. “Now, let’s start our conversation again, shall we? Your name, please.”
Silence, then a long sigh, then, “Peter Kittredge.”
“Good. I like the decision you just made. Cooperation is a smart move,” Quinn said, absentmindedly feeling the long scar under his eye as he hovered over the naked man lying on the bare concrete floor. “Tell me your job title, Peter Kittredge.”
“Deputy Special Assistant to the U.S. Ambassador to Venezuela,” Kittredge said, long breaths punctuating his labored speech.
“Sweet. Pete, we’re on a roll. Now, don’t lose momentum on this one. It’s a little bit tricky. You might be tempted to answer a number of different ways, but I would urge you to think of your fingernails. It really, really hurts when someone pulls them out.” Quinn watched Kittredge squirm. “Ready for the big question?”
Kittredge didn’t move.
“Here goes, Pete. Mind if I call you Pete? I feel like we shared a moment a while ago when I took your clothes off and tied you to the floor.” Quinn chuckled as Kittredge’s butt cheeks clenched visibly.
“So here’s the big question, Pete: what is the name of the Venezuelan man who pays you to spy on the United States?”
Kittredge’s breaths came in short, rapid gasps, and Quinn was sure he heard a sob or two thrown in the mix. It was predictable, almost boring, Quinn thought. Lots of guys thought they were tough, but most of them weren’t. A little bit of pain, a compromising position that usually involved restraints of some sort, and a hefty secret was all it took to bring all but the biggest badasses to their knees, literally and figuratively. And Kittredge didn’t seem much like a badass.
But he also hadn’t answered the question.
More salt.
More agonized screams, writhing, twisting, and thrashing.
But still no answer. “I’ve got all week, Pete. We’re going to be good friends, you and me. We’ve talked about the fingernails already, but sometimes a deep-cycle marine battery hooked up to the gonads is a great conversation starter, too. We’ll just have to see what kind of mood we’re in later.”
There was just something special about a man’s balls. Nine times out of ten, just describing testicular torture got some sort of positive movement out of even the most recalcitrant subjects. “Okay,” Kittredge finally said. “But I need something first.”
“A drink of water? A skinny male hooker? What could you possibly need before you answer the question, Pete?”
“I need a guarantee.”
“Okay. I guarantee,” Quinn quipped.
“Guarantee what?” Kittredge asked.
“I’m asking the questions,” Quinn said, laughing at his own humor. Then he tossed more salt on Kittredge’s bleeding, ablated skin.
When the most recent wave of salt-inflicted pain subsided, and Kittredge was again able to speak, he tried a new tack. “I can be useful.”
“Not to me,” Quinn said. “I’m just the hired help.”
“I can be useful at the highest levels of your organization,” Kittredge said.
“Ahh, you’re asking for a Mephistopheles to your Faust, yes?” Quinn read too much, and fancied himself a Renaissance man. “Through the miracle of modern technology, the devil himself is watching and listening right now. Make your offer.”
Kittredge took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and rested his head on the cold, damp concrete. He knew he was about to embark on a path that had a strong chance of ending very poorly.
But it didn’t appear that he had many other options at the moment. If he merely sang, he could be executed for treason, depending on who was listening. Worse, he could wind up spending the rest of his life in prison. He was a small, slight man and he wouldn’t fare well in a penitentiary, he knew.
On the other hand, if he made a deal, he would likely spend the rest of his days beholden to whoever was currently holding him captive. They’d have the kind of leverage they’d never be willing to relinquish, and he’d find himself doing all kinds of dangerous, unsavory work for them.
Either way, and even in the best possible scenario from this point forward, his treachery would hang forever over his head. It was bitter like bile, all the more so because he had sold out for not nearly enough money.
It was time, he knew, to sell out again. “I’ll give you what you want in exchange for the US Attorney General’s signature on a lifetime immunity letter.”
Quinn laughed, harsh and barking. “That’s all?” he quipped. “I thought you were going to ask for something difficult.” Another sprinkle of salt drove home his displeasure. “Stop playing games.”
“No games,” Kittredge said between clenched teeth, the strength of the salt-induced agony still surprising in its brutal intensity even after half an hour of abuse. He felt tears streaming from his eyes, felt his heart pounding in his chest, and felt the impossibly painful fire covering his lower back. He rallied every ounce of his resolve: “Kill me if you want. No immunity, no names.”
Quinn snorted derisively. “Pete, you would be surprised at how many people say things like that, before they really understand how much pain a person is capable of experiencing.”
Quinn knew his words had found their mark. Kittredge’s body shook, and his tears intensified. But the clenched jaw told Quinn that, for the moment at least, Kittredge remained resolute in his decision.
The assassin pondered his next play. Though he hadn’t yet made his presence known, Bill Fredericks, Quinn’s CIA case officer, was indeed watching and listening to the interrogation. Quinn knew that the prisoner’s offer was an attractive one, despite how outrageous it might have seemed on the face of it. A lifetime of immunity would certainly come with a lifetime of obligation, something the assassin knew from experience that the Agency would salivate over. While the Agency’s budget was appallingly, obscenely large, its real currency was leverage.
“It’s your lucky night, Pete,” Quinn finally said. “In my mercy, I have decided not to hurt you while the devil considers your request.” Quinn spoke the words more for Bill Fredericks’ benefit than for the prisoner’s, in case Fredericks was napping in the observation room and hadn’t recognized the juiciness of Kittredge’s offer for what amounted to a lifetime of servitude.
The Agency’s answer took a little over half a minute. Two knocks on the door.
“Lucifer accepts,” Quinn reported.
Kittredge let out a deep breath, and his body stopped shaking.