Justice by InSilva

Disclaimer: Rusty isn't mine. And if the library finds out what I'm doing to him, I'm going to lose my borrowing privileges.

A/N: This chapter features Vincente at work and does not make for pleasant reading. Remember the warehouse? Yeah. Strong warnings for violence. And just like the warehouse, I didn't make this stuff up either.

Thanks in this as in everything to otherhawk for reading and reassurance. So grateful it is untrue.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Water


"Let's have you on your feet, Mr Ryan." Vincente's tone was completely business-like and Rusty reminded himself that this was what he did for a living.

"You seriously think I'm going to co-operate?" he asked.

Vincente gave a shrug. "Both doors are locked and all windows are toughened glass. You're not getting away."

Rusty smiled mirthlessly. "Well, I'm not going to make it easy for you either."

"No. I suppose you're not," Vincente agreed.

The morning light was bright through the kitchen window behind Vincente as he moved round to stand in front of Rusty: Rusty tensed his muscles that he hadn't used for ages and which he couldn't be sure he had control over and willed his body to work. And then he put his head down and launched himself at Vincente, connecting with Vincente's midriff and hearing the satisfying "whoof" of surprise as Vincente fell backwards.

He scrambled to the back door and pulled at the handle. Locked. Vincente hadn't been bluffing. And then Vincente was there, arm wrapped around his neck, dragging him back into the villa, and Rusty struggled and aimed blind kicks backwards but the arm around his neck tightened and as he'd known all along, there really was no escape.

"This pressure point here, Mr Ryan, will put you out for about ten minutes. Let me demonstrate."

And there were fingers on his throat and there was blackness.


Ryan had dropped, dead weight. He'd caught him before he'd hit the floor and swung him up on to the breakfast bar. Less than hygienic but he doubted he'd be hearing from the late owners.

Leaving the unconscious man, he walked through to the bedroom that had doubled as an art store and found more rope. He must remember to look out for artists' residences in the future. They were full of helpful equipment.

He was about to head for the bathroom to pick up a towel when something caught his eye and he nodded to himself. This would work. So much better.

Returning to the kitchen area, he readied his equipment. Jug…funnel… There was always the chance that Ryan might need a little more persuasion… He reached in the drawer, found what he wanted and prepared it.

He started with the rope down at Ryan's feet and mused briefly on how he'd have gotten on in the Boy Scouts. Knots, no problem. And he was always prepared. Couldn't say he would ever have been sold on the uniform, though.


Rusty came round and felt the cold marble surface underneath his bare skin and the taut ropes that were lashing him to it, digging into his ankles and legs and upper body and arms and shoulders. No slack and no weaknesses. The ropes were tied professionally and they weren't moving.

He blinked upwards at Vincente, standing to the right of him.

"Head up," Vincente instructed and when he didn't comply, pulled his head up anyway and started wrapping bandages around his face.

Rusty tried to pull away but it was pointless. Vincente continued without breaking his momentum.

"You know, Mr Ryan, I would say you possibly have the highest pain threshold of anyone I've worked on. With the exception of a guy in Atlanta who just didn't have the pain receptors in his brain switched on. Something I worked out all a little too late for both of us. You're definitely the most stubborn subject I've had. If Mr Ocean were still with us, of course, things would be so much easier."

Danny. Rusty's mind briefly imagined the pair of them simultaneously in Vincente's hands and he repressed a shudder. The basement in New York would have been nothing compared to what Vincente would have put them through.

The bandages were looping round his head and Vincente paused briefly.

"I'll say goodbye, Mr Ryan."

Staring up at Vincente's grey eyes, Rusty read the single-mindedness and the purpose and bit his lip. Then the material wrapped around him and the light went dim: another few moments and another layer and the light went out.

"You take care now," Rusty muttered as Vincente knotted the ends at the back of his head.

He lay still, the bandages tight over his face. He could see nothing although Vincente had wrapped his head in such a way that left his ears and mouth free. He could hear everything. His nose was smothered and he was forcing himself to control his breathing through his mouth. Not too fast, he told himself. Keep calm. And then there was the sound of a tap running fast in the sink behind his head and the calm turned to the taste of ashy fear.

"I need to know who knows I'm in Rio," Vincente said simply. "And I will offer you a limited window of opportunity to share that information with me. After that…I'm going to have to leave. And I shan't be taking you with me. Do you understand?"

Rusty said nothing.

"Do you understand, Mr Ryan?"

"You want me to talk and as soon as I tell you what you want to know you're going to kill me. And if I don't say a thing, eventually you're going to kill me anyway."

"You understand perfectly." There was wry approval in Vincente's voice. "Then let us begin."

Rusty knew to keep his mouth closed and his teeth clenched. Even so, the hard plastic being thrust against his lips took him by surprise. He gritted his teeth and heard Vincente laugh.

"It's not an option, Mr Ryan."

Sudden searing pain hit his shoulder and he gasped reflexively. Immediately, the plastic was forced in between his teeth and down over his tongue to the back of his throat and he tasted stagnant and bitter and didn't want to think about when or for what the funnel had last been used. He tried to twist his head to dislodge it but Vincente held it firmly in place.

There was a half-second where nothing happened. And then the water came.


The water had been constant and relentless and he'd had to swallow, had to, had to, and he was desperate for air and the pressure in his lungs was burning like the worst kind of pain and the water was forcing its way into his stomach and it was never stopping, never ending and he needed to breathe, he needed to breathe and he tried to gasp for air but there was only implacable water and he couldn't draw breath and he needed air, he needed to breathe and still the water came and that was all there was, and now he was kicking and twisting and fighting and there was no give in anything and his head was spinning with the pressure and he needed to breathe, he had to have air, he had to, he had to, he had to…

Abruptly, the funnel was removed, water flooding over the bandages on his face. Rusty took an enormous gulp of life and then twisted his head and promptly threw up, watery acid everywhere. As he lay there, hoarsely gasping, he heard Vincente.

"Are you ready to talk, Mr Ryan?"

"Always happy to have a chat, Vincente," he managed. "Who's your tip for the Oscars this year? Personally, I've never got over Morgan losing out-"

And then he felt the hateful tube pushing up against his lips, cutting in to his lips, pushing against his teeth, cutting the edge of his gums, and he tried so hard to fight it but it was Vincente at the other end and this was only going one way.

For a moment, the funnel was all there was and with wet bandages clinging to his face, blocking his nostrils, sticking to his eyes, Rusty drew in deep breath after deep breath, trying to fill his lungs with precious oxygen, never knowing when Vincente would start again. And then the water came.


"This would be easier, you know, if I pulled out your two front teeth."

Rusty clenched his jaw and tried to keep the funnel out though he could taste the blood and imagine the mess his mouth was in.

"Easier but, actually, I'm enjoying the contest. And that would seem a little like cheating."

The funnel forced its way in. And then the water came.


Rusty's insides ached. Swallowing the volumes of water was painful in the extreme. He felt his stomach distend each time and then the vomiting hurt. When he wasn't automatically sick, Vincente delivered hard blows to his abdomen which forced the water up and out. That wasn't the worst. The worst and scariest feeling was when he wanted to heave before the water stopped making its way down his throat and his body spasmed with the conflicting demands put on it. And when it came, he could not gauge how long the water lasted. All sense of time was suspended. All there was was the need to breathe; the need to breathe and the water.

He gulped the air down the funnel and heard Vincente say:

"One of my most effective methods, Mr Ryan. Slow suffocation. Controlled death, if you will."

That about had it. Vincente playing God and granting him life or leaving him to die.

"How are the bandages, by the way?" Casual and anything but.

The bandages…?

"Tight enough for you?"

They were tight across his face. In fact, they were feeling tighter and warmer and…harder? Rusty froze. His thoughts went in a reluctant direction. Surely not...surely, surely not…

"Plaster of Paris, Mr Ryan. A little bit of art all of my own."

And that was when the silent tears started. And then the water came.


The tears were flowing under the hardening bandage and Rusty was trying his best to control the sob that was threatening to emerge.

"Anything you'd like to tell me?"

"How d'you fancy the states in alphabetical order? Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas-"

The funnel was pushed back into place.

"Do be sure to let me know when you reach Wyoming, Mr Ryan. I'm afraid I won't be able to hear you."

And then the water came.


His throat burned with the acid and his body ached with the effort of regurgitation. He kept retching although there really couldn't be anything else to bring up.

"You are such a stubborn man, Mr Ryan," Vincente said matter-of-factly. "Stubborn as a jackass."

"I prefer crazy like a fox," Rusty rasped.

"Last chance."

Rusty swallowed painfully, his head pounding, pain raging through his body. There were rope burns where he'd fought against his bonds. There were bruises where Vincente had punched him. His shoulder throbbed. His mouth was so sore. He didn't want to think about the plaster solidifying around his face. And the thing was, he was never going to tell Vincente whom the text message had come from.

He smiled without humour. "Go for it."