Savage Son (James Reece #3) - Jack Carr Page 0,84

in agony as his bladder erupted in an uncontrollable spasm coupled with the most intense cramping imaginable. His body naturally attempted to curl up and vomit, but the noose and tape held him in place, vomit spewing from his nose and mouth, eyes bulging from his head.

Reece waited thirty seconds and then attached the syringe with water, flushing the capsaicin from the Russian’s system.

Reece stepped back, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.

“Maybe that first question was too difficult,” Reece said, disconnecting the clean syringe and reattaching the one with capsaicin. “Let’s try something easier. What’s your name?”

What harm could that do? Dimitry thought. Instead, all that came out between labored breaths, chunks of vomit still falling from his mouth, was “Fuck you.”

Reece didn’t hesitate. Depressing the plunger, he sent 15cc of his homemade mixture, three times the original dose, into the Russian’s bladder. Then he stepped back.

The results were horrific; the man’s neck strained against the noose as he began to foam at the mouth, choking, cramping, vomiting, emitting a visceral cry reserved for those in the throes of death.

Reece counted the seconds ticking by on his watch, giving a full minute this time before flushing the system again.

Then he waited as the animal became human, trying desperately to breathe.

Who was this American?

“I already know that Ivan Zharkov ordered the hit. I know he is the head of the Tambov Gang. I know you work for him. You won’t be betraying him. I’m already going to hunt him down and kill him. Nothing you say will change that. And, as you’ve probably figured out, you are not leaving here alive. What I need to know is why. If you can tell me that, I can offer you a quick death.”

His detainee paused in thought.

“James Reece. I studied you. I knew we needed a professional team, yet we almost killed you with a group of thugs. In the bratva we learn, too. They will come again. And this time they won’t just be after you and your friend. The next time they come, it will be professionals. You’ve insulted their honor now. That is something that bratva will not let, how do you say? Lie? They will kill you all, wives, children, especially children. The bratva doesn’t want to fight another generation. They might even fuck a few of your women to death and make you watch. They will come for you and they will kill every last one of you.”

Reece knew it was true. In his head he saw visions of the dead. There was only one way this ended, and it was up to Reece to finish it.

Reece slowly picked through the med kit until he found a connector from the IV kit and attached it to the syringe, which he then connected to the “Y” port on the IV drip.

“Last chance,” Reece said.

“Fuck you,” the Russian said without much enthusiasm.

He’s close.

Reece slightly depressed the plunger, releasing what he hoped was about 1cc of capsaicin into the IV drip and directly into the Russian’s bloodstream.

A bloodcurdling scream filled the cabin as every single pain receptor in the Russian’s body ignited at once. Like a bolt of lightning hitting brain, muscles, and organs, a pain worse than the previous two capsaicin exposures threatened to boil the Russian from the inside out. Intestinal fluids began to spew from his lungs while brain secretions worked their way into his nasal cavity and labyrinth of his inner ear. His heart felt like it was about to explode.

Via the bloodstream was the most painful delivery method for the solution, but it was also the most short-lived. A person would metabolize the 1cc solution in about thirty seconds to a minute depending on weight, composition, and body type.

Reece kept slowly injecting the serum as he sensed it was beginning to subside.

“What? I can’t hear you,” Reece said over the screams. “Only you can stop this. Ivan is as good as dead. Just tell me why he sent you, and I’ll end your pain.”

Sensing that the Russian’s body and brain were about to give out completely, Reece gave the man a moment of reprieve.

“Dimitry,” the man said, coming down from what felt like a blowtorch working every portion of his body and brain. “My name is Dimitry Mashkov.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard. Keep talking or I keep pushing this shit into your system.”

“Please, please…”

“It’s all up to you. Remember, Ivan Zharkov put you here.”

The Russian attempted to catch his breath. He wanted to die.

“I

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