Beyond the Breaking Point - Lori Sjoberg Page 0,77
her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest. It woke things inside him, things he’d long considered dead, and cast a light on the places where his demons usually lurked.
But now wasn’t the time to start getting mushy, especially when he had a prisoner to question. He leaned back far enough to see her face. “This guy you caught. Did you recognize him?”
She nodded. “If I remember correctly, his name is either Salzo or Salazar. I never interacted with him directly, but he used to visit the compound two or three times a week. Whenever he came, he always went straight to the house, so I assume he’s somebody important.”
She was probably right, which meant there was a strong possibility he knew critical information about how Aranza operated, including his current location.
Though a part of him really didn’t want to, he stepped back from her embrace. “I’m going to talk to him. It might be better if you’re not around.”
Worry lines bracketed her eyes and mouth. “Why, what are you going to do?”
All sorts of bad things. He might even enjoy them. He supposed that made him a terrible person, but he’d come to terms with it a long time ago. “It’s best you don’t know.”
Those hazel eyes of hers narrowed. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not some damsel in distress. Stop treating me like I’m delicate.”
“I know you’re not delicate. It’s just…” He was stepping into a potential minefield, and he paused to choose his words carefully. “To make him talk, I may have to do things you won’t approve of.”
“You mean torture?”
“I mean whatever it takes to extract the required information.” Contrary to how it was portrayed in the movies, modern-day interrogation techniques were largely based on incentive rather than intimidation. Most of the time, rapport building and empathy were more successful in convincing a prisoner to talk. Unfortunately, those tactics took time, a luxury he didn’t possess. He’d try nice first, but he wouldn’t hesitate to apply harsher forms of pressure.
Hope stared at him, disapproval on her face, and the fact it bugged him left him unsettled. “If that’s what you’re going to do, then I need to be in there with you.”
“It’ll be easier if you’re not.”
“Too bad. If my presence makes that much of a difference, then perhaps you shouldn’t be doing it.”
Whatever. He didn’t have time for this shit. Shoulders squared, he strode into the dining room—
And froze dead in his tracks at the sight of one of the men who’d taken great pleasure in torturing him and Carmen. Jackson and Navarre stood directly behind him, their arms folded over their chests like a couple of bouncers ready to crack skulls.
In the blink of an eye, Wade was back in that warehouse, the restraints biting into his wrists as he struggled in vain to break free. The stench of blood and sex hung heavy in the air, while Carmen’s screams drilled into his mind.
“Yeah, that’s it. Scream louder, bitch. It makes my dick even harder.”
Primal rage slammed into Wade with the full force of a freight train. A red haze clouded his vision, while his hands balled into fists so tight it was a wonder his knuckles didn’t pop right out of their sockets.
The man looked up at his approach, recognition dawning in his eyes.
“Hey, I remember you. Guadalajara, right?” The bastard smirked, a ballsy move, considering the position he was in. “It was you and that sweet piece of ass.”
Any lingering thoughts of rapport building flew right out the fucking window. Wade didn’t say a word, just glared at the guy while he struggled to keep a lid on the fury that coursed through his veins like molten lava. He slipped one finger into his pants pocket and touched the silver cross that used to belong to Carmen.
With a great deal of effort, he reined his temper in, though the savage need for retribution remained. He stalked across the room, grabbed the guy’s left hand, and slapped it onto the table. In one fluid movement, he pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt and drove the blade through the man’s callused palm and into the table below.
A high-pitched shriek filled the room. Once the guy stopped screaming, he shouted, “What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Don’t you know who I—”
A fist to the face broke his nose. Blood gushed out, running down his chin and soaking the front of his shirt. As his free