A tall, athletically proportioned man in his early forties, wearing the distinctive blue uniform of the Mexican Federal Police, ran a hand through his thick, slightly graying hair and let forth an exasperated sigh. Captain Romero Cruz circled the object of his attention, a seated man shackled to a metal chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room. A solitary hundred watt incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, providing meager but adequate illumination for the interrogation cell. The captive was a high-ranking member of the Knights Templar cartel – close allies with the Sinaloa cartel. This man, Jorge Rodriguez Santiago, was rumored to be a confidante of the Sinaloans, which made him doubly valuable to Captain Cruz. Santiago had been the sole survivor of that morning’s bloody firefight; a surprise capture who normally would have been holed up in Michoacan, where his brutal gang ruled with an iron fist.
Santiago glared at Captain Cruz, blinking away the sweat and blood that trickled from his hairline into his eyes. The look conveyed an almost demonic hatred, and an arrogance born by the knowledge that no prison in Mexico would be able to hold him for long. Cartel chieftains tended to escape with astounding frequency, no doubt due to the abundance of money at their disposal to lubricate the system.
This was not the first time Santiago had been arrested under serious circumstances, so for him, it was merely an annoying interruption to his lucrative criminal career. The last time the case hadn’t even gone to trial; the judge miraculously ruling that the prosecution had failed to make an adequate case. That had been a blow for the Federales, and was among the judge’s last decisions before he retired to a hilltop compound in Costa Rica, to live out his days with a nineteen-year-old soul-mate who had a nose for stimulants, as well as an apparent affinity with vastly older men.
Santiago began spewing vitriol about what would happen to every member of the force who had participated in his arrest. Cruz stepped forward with surprising speed and backhanded him – a dismissive slap – more an insult than a rebuke.
“You’re going to regret this, you bitch–” Santiago spat.
Since the slap hadn’t gotten the message across, Cruz punched him in the jaw – it was he who would do the talking, and Santiago would answer the questions put to him, only speaking when told to.
Cruz blew on his reddened knuckles, the skin abraded by the prisoner’s coarse stubble. He motioned to the other man in the room, his lieutenant, Fernando Briones, to bring him the nightstick that lay on a table in a corner of the room. Briones, a compact pit bull with skin the color of brandy, obliged.
Santiago spat a bloody lump onto the floor, then grinned at the captain, displaying a mouthful of gold-capped teeth, with an incisor now conspicuously missing.
“You hit like a pussy, you marecon,” Santiago sneered.
Cruz slammed the wooden club into the side of the captive’s head; his ear began streaming blood as it swelled from the blow. Santiago appeared momentarily dazed, and for once didn’t have an insulting comeback.
That was more like it.
Captain Cruz glanced at Lieutenant Briones and made a gesture with two fingers. Briones fumbled in his uniform shirt’s pocket and fished out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to Cruz. He took it, and Briones lit it for him with a disposable butane lighter. He inhaled the smoke with evident satisfaction, and then blew a stream of nicotine into Santiago’s tearing eyes.
“These are good. What are they? Cuban?” Cruz asked.
“Argentine,” Briones told him, holding up the pack so Cruz could see it. “Parisienne. They’re made with black tobacco – they don’t have all the impurities the American brands do. They’re supposedly better for you. They taste better to me, so who knows…”
“Imagine that. Cigarettes that are good for you. What will they think of next?” Cruz sighed mild bemusement, and then approached Santiago. “So, you shit-bird, do you like cigarettes? Is that something you like to put in your mouth when you don’t have a burro cock in it?” He puffed a few times, ensuring that the cigarette tip was glowing red, then held the ember against Santiago’s neck. The sickeningly sweet smell of searing flesh was a small price to pay for the shriek of blind pain and fury that burst from the warlord. Now they were getting somewhere.
“You see, you piece of shit, you’re not so tough. You’re a big man when you have a bunch of your boyfriends around with guns, but alone, you’re nothing. Listen to you, blubbering like a baby. I bet you’d give me a blowjob right now for a piece of ice to cool the burn, am I right?” Cruz asked conversationally.
Santiago struggled against the restraints holding his wrists, tearing flesh in the process. Blood dripped deep crimson from the black metal cuffs.
“So now you’re starting to figure this out.” Cruz paced around Santiago while he talked. “I can do anything I want to you. Anything. You have no power here. I am judgment day for you – I’m God and the devil rolled into one, and you will tell me what I want to know. I actually hope you hold out and this takes a while, puta. I’m going to enjoy inflicting every morsel of misery I can on your worthless carcass.” Cruz paused, blowing a few lazy smoke rings. “Two of the men who died this morning were my friends. I’m sure they experienced considerable pain before they passed on, so I look at this as payback on their behalf. If I have my way, before this is done you’ll be begging me to kill you. You’ll cry, and you’ll tell me things I didn’t even ask about just to get me to stop. And I’ll savor every minute of it. In fact, I’ll think up new and creative ways to cause you so much pain that you’d stab your mother to death with a crucifix to make it stop. Part of me really hopes you make me do this the hard way.”
Santiago glared at Cruz, his fury palpable. “I want to see my lawyer,” he hissed.
Cruz nonchalantly swatted him on the other side of the head with the nightstick, the impact making a dull thunk against his skull. He struck him on the upper arms a few times, for good measure.
“I’m your lawyer. And I say case closed, you lose. Now I’m going to ask a few questions, and then you’re going to answer them, or I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born. You want to try me on that? What’s that line from the Clint Eastwood movie? Do you feel lucky?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
Cruz took a final puff on his cigarette and then applied it to Santiago’s neck again, generating a bloodcurdling howl of agony.
“Well, I don’t believe that. I think you will. In fact, I’m betting on it. So here’s my first, simple question. Where’s Carlos Aranas hiding these days?” Cruz asked.
Aranas, or ‘El Lobo’, was the absolute boss of the Sinaloa cartel, and the object of Cruz’s investigation into the latest string of grisly drug-related slayings in Mexico City. Cruz was a special type of cop, the Mexican equivalent of the top echelon of Homeland Security in the United States, and he’d been given virtually unlimited latitude by the president himself to do whatever it took to bring the cartels, whose violence was terrorizing the country, under control. Cruz headed up an autonomous task force that was working its way up the food chain until it got to the chiefs of the various cartels – the Knights Templar cartel, the Tijuana cartel, the Gulf cartel, a host of others; and the most powerful and dangerous – the Sinaloa cartel.
Cruz had earned his role by being tough, extremely smart, relentless, and incorruptible. A combination that was rare anywhere in the world, but in Mexico, virtually unheard of. For Cruz, bringing down the cartels wasn’t so much an occupation as a religious cause, and his life’s exclusive focus.
And the biggest fish in that particular polluted pond was Aranas, whose savagery was legendary; a fact Cruz knew firsthand.
“Come on, Santiago. Where’s El Lobo hanging his hat?” Cruz asked again.
“You must be crazy if you think I’m going to talk to you. Give up El Lobo? You’re insane,” Santiago said.
“That’s right. I am. And if you don’t give me what I want, you’re going to find out exactly how dangerous a crazy man can be, especially when he has
your testicles in his hand, like I do yours. So talk,” Cruz insisted.
“Fuck you.”
Cruz sighed again and nodded at Lieutenant Briones, who burrowed around in a rucksack before extracting a two-foot-long tube with a pair of electrodes on one end and a handle on the other. A cable ran from the evil-looking implement to a metal box with a dial, which Briones dutifully plugged into the wall. Cruz held up the wand and inspected the electrodes with a grim smile.
“Do you know what this is? We got this from some Guatemalans who were operating a kidnapping and torture ring. This is a picana – or as you’ll soon think of it, your worst living nightmare. It delivers a high voltage electric shock, but with low current. Since you probably didn’t pay much attention in school, that means it’s excruciatingly painful, but won’t leave a mark, so it can be used for hours without leaving any trace. I’ve heard about these, but never actually used one.” Cruz brandished it like an épée. “I’ve been saving it for when I captured one of the Sinaloa cartel captains, but you know what? I’ll make an exception today, seeing as I’m in a good mood, and you’ll be the first I use it on. Now the question is, do we start with the genitals, or maybe go with the less tender areas as a warm-up? I don’t want to see your miserable tiny prick if I don’t have to, so I’m thinking we start on your neck, and work down,” Cruz explained dispassionately.
Santiago’s eyes flared wide with terror.
“Oh, I see you might be familiar with it? Why am I not surprised? I’ll bet you never thought you’d have one used on you, though, huh, tough guy? Today’s just full of surprises, isn’t it?”
Cruz walked over to the table, picked up a bottle and returned to Santiago. He poured a few drops of water onto the prisoner’s neck, just above the blistering from the cigarette burns. Santiago shook his head, trying in vain to avoid the stream, further tearing his wrist skin.
“The water increases the conductivity, for maximum effect. Now, one more time, and then this gets uglier than you can imagine. Where is El Lobo?”
“Cornholing your mother.”
Cruz looked at his lieutenant and laughed, a dry sound devoid of amusement. “We have a comedian. That’s very funny stuff. Hold that thought for a minute.” He glanced at Briones. “Lieutenant, give me about half the maximum voltage to start, and let’s see how the funny man reacts,” Cruz instructed. “Bring that rag over here and help me stuff it in his mouth. We don’t want our esteemed guest biting his tongue off and spoiling the party.”
Briones tossed the rag to Cruz and approached Santiago from behind. He clamped his hands on either side of Santiago’s head, grinding his thumb into a pressure point just below the ear to force his jaw open. Cruz jammed the rag in and hurriedly pulled his hand away lest Santiago bite him. He stepped back, regarding the result with professional satisfaction.
Briones stationed himself by the rheostat and waited for a signal. Cruz nodded.
The lieutenant hunched over the box and turned the dial halfway up. The rod emitted a faint hum.
“You might want to plug your ears, Lieutenant. I have a feeling our boy here is going to be crying like a bitch kitty in a second,” Cruz said. He applied the rod tip to Santiago’s neck.
The reaction was immediate. Santiago’s entire body stiffened, his eyes bugged out, and his face turned beet red as his stifled shrieks penetrated the rag. Cruz studied Santiago impassively as he flayed and convulsed for ten seconds, then he disengaged the picana.
Cruz made a gesture with the device, and Briones pulled the rag from Santiago’s mouth, who greedily gulped air as though he’d been drowning.
“Give me something, Santiago. Or I can do this all day. In fact, you know what? I bet I could charge admission to the families of the cops you killed this morning; make money allowing them to use it on you, if I get tired. Remember, I’m authorized by the president to do whatever it takes to get information, so there’s no way out of this for you.”
“You…you are so screwed,” Santiago hissed through swollen lips. “You don’t even know it. And your president? He’s a dead man.”
Cruz shrugged, and Briones returned the rag to Santiago’s mouth and then cranked the knob again. Cruz held the wand to Santiago’s neck, this time for twenty seconds.
Briones cut the current and removed the rag.
“Oh, look, what a shame. The big brave drug lord pissed his pants like a little schoolgirl. Hey, pissy pants, are we having fun yet?” Cruz taunted.
“Your brat pissed hers before I did her,” Santiago growled, spitting blood at him.
“What did you say?” Cruz’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“You heard me. She was pretty good for a five year old, or whatever she was. I think she kind of liked it when I had my boys go at her, too. Shame she lost her head. I could have trained her to be really–”
Cruz dropped the picana and pummeled Santiago’s face with his fists. Briones grabbed his arms from behind and dragged him away, but not before he’d inflicted considerable damage. Santiago was now bleeding freely from cuts on his cheek and a newly broken nose; a bloodshot eye was swollen half closed. Cruz stood panting his anger out until he regained enough control for Briones to release him.
Santiago raised his head.
“Tell the president I had a hand in having him killed, will you?” he spat.
“What are you talking about? You’re nothing. An insect. You have nothing, and you’ll rot in prison until you die. You, kill the president? You’re a urine-soaked piece of shit, nothing more,” Cruz growled, barely containing his rage.
“You remember that when El Rey takes him and his American master out. I’ll be watching it on TV. That’s a day people will remember for a lifetime.”
“You think these puny lies will buy you bargaining power? You’re mistaken. It’s pure bullshit. And it’s not going to work.”
“Remember you said that when your ass-licking president is lying dead with the Gringo dog. Remember how smart you were.” Santiago fixed Cruz with his good eye. “And remember when your little baby was on her hands and knees, begging for me to give it to her, like your stinking whore wife did, and I–”
Cruz cranked the control box to maximum and took two steps towards Santiago, jamming the prod into his soaking crotch.
Santiago convulsed and screamed so horrifically that Briones was momentarily frozen in place. As Santiago convulsed, smoke began to rise from where the prod was in contact with his wet pants. Briones raced to shut off the current, and Santiago slumped over, unconscious.
Cruz spat on Santiago, and then handed the picana back to Briones, who averted his gaze.
“Let’s take a break for an hour and let this fecal speck stew in his filth. Maybe he’ll get more talkative now that he sees what I’m capable of,” Cruz said, checking his watch and straightening his uniform before moving to the door. “I’ll see you back here at five. Grab something to eat. This could be a long night.”
Briones’ eyes stayed glued to the floor, and he didn’t respond.
“Hey. Lieutenant. These are the bad guys. They killed a bunch of cops this morning, and this one claims he raped and killed my wife and daughter. This is an animal. Nothing but an animal…,” Cruz said.
Briones slowly raised his head and met his stare. “He’s probably lying about your daughter, sir. The story is well known. He used it to bait you, to get a reaction–”
“It worked then, huh? I’ll bet he thinks twice about doing it again. Go get something to eat. We need to keep at him until he breaks. And he will break. Make no mistake about that,” Cruz assured him.
“Yes, sir.”
Cruz knocked twice on the door in a distinctive pattern; it swung open, unlocked from the exterior. Two beefy police officers stood outside, guarding the room. These were men fiercely loyal to Cruz – men he trusted with his life. One of them handed Cruz back his service pistol, which he holstered.
Cruz instructed them not to allow anyone into the cell while he was gone, then marched down the
dank yellow hall, past two more armed federal police officers, to the scarred double doors of the industrial steel elevator. He punched the button and stood waiting as Briones joined him.
“I’m sorry if I seemed to lose it, Lieutenant. It was momentary. It’s been a long day, and I think I’m tired from the assault this morning.” Cruz stabbed at the button again, impatiently. “You were right. I gave the prick exactly what he wanted – a reaction. Learn from that. Always keep your emotions out of the job,” Cruz softly advised the younger man.
“I think I would have shot him,” Briones admitted.
“That’s why we don’t allow guns in the room.” Cruz turned his head and studied the lieutenant’s profile. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I can arrange a replacement if you’d rather sit it out. I won’t think any less of you – this is a tough assignment, and this part isn’t for everyone.”
“No, sir. I was also friends with several of the men who were killed today. I would want the same if one of these scumbags killed me. It’s the least I can do…to help you with this.”
“Good man. I’ll see you in an hour. I’m going to my office to start a report.”
“Do you…sir, no disrespect, but do you think there’s any truth in what he was saying about the president – and the U.S. president? He sounded pretty cocky for a man in his position,” Briones ventured.
“That’s why I want to write it up. I don’t know what to think right now, but these bastards have turned the country into a killing field wherever they go, so I wouldn’t put anything past them. I want to capture exactly what he said while it’s fresh in my mind. We can investigate later. But yes, I’m taking it seriously. I agree he seemed sure of himself, and that’s troubling.”
“And he mentioned El Rey,” Briones underscored.
“I know. Then again, that’s like mentioning the boogieman. So it may mean something, or nothing. But either way, I’ll record it, and once we’re done with him, add it to the pile of things to do,” Cruz concluded.
The elevator finally arrived, and the two men stepped aboard. They rode up two floors to the ground level in stony silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Briones exited and proceeded purposefully to the security area that led to the outside world, while Cruz continued to the fifth, where his task force occupied the entire floor.
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