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Chapter Sixty-One

Garcia wasn't the type who scared easily, but what he saw burning inside Russell's eyes as he quickly moved up to where Garcia was sitting sent fear spreading throughout his body like pumped blood. He was losing this game – he knew that – and this was the final whistle.

‘Wait,' Garcia called out, his voice not as steady as he would've liked. ‘What are you doing?'

In one quick and smooth movement, Russell moved the blade from Garcia's neck to his chest, pulled his shirt away from it and drove the surgical scalpel through the shirt, slicing it open from top to bottom to expose the detective's torso.

‘I'm doing what I do best,' he replied, placing the scalpel in his back pocket, returning to the table and, once again, retrieving the kitchen blowtorch before his chin jerked in the direction of his parents. ‘I'm making them watch.' He addressed his parents. ‘Watch this.'

As if hypnotized, the old couple immediately set their unblinking eyes forward, looking directly at Garcia. Russell's command practically turned them into robots.

Garcia felt a panic attack coil just beneath his sternum, as every muscle in his body tensed.

Russell lit up the blowtorch and walked back to where Garcia was. ‘I'm only going to ask these questions once, Detective. If you don't reply, or if you lie to me…'

Garcia locked eyes with Russell.

‘What was the information that you had on my truck?'

Garcia saw no point in lying.

‘Pretty much what you just said – a dark Dodge RAM pickup truck – either a 2500 or 3500 model. That was it. That was all we knew.'

‘And how did you come across that information?'

‘Your truck was spotted at the 7th Street Bridge,' Garcia replied. ‘The night you dropped Terry Wilford from it.'

Russell studied Garcia's expression for a moment before deciding that he didn't like that answer.

‘Bullshit.' He brought the torch fire to Garcia's torso – left side, just between the sixth and seventh ribs.

Garcia felt the fire immediately blister, then rip his skin clean off the flesh. For some reason, there was a two-second delay between what he felt and the guttural scream that he let out. A scream so primal that it could've woken the dead. His body jerked violently on his chair, as he tried to deal with the kind of pain that he'd never felt before.

‘Motherfucker,' he yelled at the top of his voice. A split second later, his nostrils picked up the smell of burned human flesh, which Garcia knew from experience was a distinctively different smell from burned animal flesh. ‘What the fuck? I answered your question. Arghhhhhhhh, fuck, that hurts!'

‘No,' Russell came back. ‘You gave me a bullshit answer, that's what you did. There was no one at the bridge that night. Do you think I didn't check?'

‘Not on the bridge,' Garcia replied through gritted teeth, his voice whizzing. The pain was so intense it distorted his vision and sucked the air right out of his lungs. ‘Under it, you sanctimonious prick. Two LASAN workers were cleaning the concrete channel that evening. They were the ones who spotted your truck.'

Russell studied Garcia's face once again, but there was nothing else there other than the expression of pure agony and pain.

He didn't like that answer either.

‘More bullshit.'

This time, Russell brought the fire to the center of Garcia's chest and, in a slow, up–down movement, scorched a three-inch patch of skin right between his pectoral muscles. He kept the flame there for at least three seconds longer than he did when burning at Garcia's ribs.

White-hot pain exploded from that spot, traveling at lightning speed through every nerve in Garcia's body before meeting up again in his brain, where it blew up like a nuclear bomb. He let out another feral scream that sounded alien. This one was enveloped in spit, which flew off Garcia's mouth in every direction. Every muscle in his body tensed so tightly he began getting cramps in his shins and forearms. He convulsed, and carried on convulsing for seconds, even after Russell had dragged the flame away from Garcia's blistered and charcoal-black skin – the flesh beneath it red-raw and moist.

The disgusting, almost putrid smell of scorched flesh hit Garcia's nostrils in no time, traveling even faster into his stomach, where it collected whatever it could find there before erupting back up his esophagus.

Garcia's vision blurred and he puked.

Russell knew that that was coming and moved out of the way in time.

Vomit spilled down Garcia's chin and down to his chest, where it found the freshly burned piece of moist flesh. As acrid bile came into contact with the open wound, a new, gigantic octopus of pain spread its tentacles up, down, and sideways, grabbing and squeezing every nerve it touched. The room began spinning around Garcia.

‘There's no way that anyone standing on the concrete channel under the 7th Street Bridge could have identified my truck to that degree. The night before I had blown out a lamppost on the bridge. That's where I stopped. There just wasn't enough light. Superman himself couldn't have spotted a black Dodge RAM 3500 up on the bridge from that distance.'

Garcia felt as if his whole body was on fire. Cold and hot sweat spilled out of his pores, making his skin glisten as if he'd just come out of a shower.

‘One of the workers,' Garcia finally replied, his breath catching on his throat, ‘is a truck aficionado. Can tell a truck just by its silhouette.' He managed to regain his breath, but not his balance. The room was still spinning around him. ‘The 2500 and 3500 have a very distinct design.'

Garcia knew that he couldn't take another burn. He would pass out if he did.

Russell paused, analyzing Garcia's words one more time. Too plausible a reply for someone to come up with on the spot and under so much pain like Garcia was. He decided to accept it.

‘All right, how about the fingers? How did you find out about that? And think before you reply, Detective, because if I suspect that you're lying, the next thing that I'll burn…' This time Russell paused for dramatic effect. ‘Will be one of your fucking eyeballs. Are we clear, Detective?'

That was when Russell heard a voice come from where his parents were sitting.

‘Somehow… I really don't fucking think so.'

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