17. Question and Answer

"You are going to tell us everything you know about the Central Intelligence Agency," says the scar-faced son-of-a-bitch who's got me strapped spread-eagled to a table. Guess I really am in trouble: everything I know about the CIA is what I've read in Tom Clancy novels. I need to buy time; RC probably suspected something like this would happen. Hopefully, the call I attempted went through. The contents of my shoulder bag are lying on a countertop: guns, gadgets, keys, wallet, grooming products and that poor old tee shirt. The bag itself looks like a deflated Macy's balloon.

"What do you want to know?" I'm trying to convince myself that this isn't so bad; I've still got my clothes on, and I'm not at the bottom of a pit. On the other hand, remembering what happened to Sands, my stomach teeters. It hasn't been a fun afternoon; if I'd foreseen several sizzling hours of being locked in the trunk of a car and rattling around over the worst roads imaginable, I might not have gone so quietly.

Scarface - not that he resembles Al Pacino, not on the best day he ever had, he's just butt-ugly - has a better idea. Out of a drawer, he pulls something with a long strap and a remote control. Grinning down at me, panting on me with breath that would strip paint, he buckles the strap around my neck, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. It's a shock collar, like they use in dog training. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Kate Martin."

He zaps me. "Don't lie! We have your passport. We know who you are, we know what you do. And we noticed something interesting...there's no stamp showing you entered this country, so we know you're here undercover."

My passport lists me as Catherine Anne Martin, occupation, consultant. No customs stamp for this whirlwind visit, that's true - unfortunately, the conclusions they've drawn are erroneous, but it's not like they're going to believe me. Scarface's sidekick says something in Spanish about about getting me hooked and keeping me as a playmate. In the unlikely event that the Rescue Rangers don't show up to save the day, it would be interesting to see them try that strategy. Me, a playmate? Yeah, right.

"What's your name?" Scarface barks again.

"Catherine Anne Martin."

"How long have you worked for the Central Intelligence Agency?" Saying I don't work for the CIA and I never have is only going to get me zapped again. I think of my failed application to the FBI and give that year.

"Who was responsible for the destruction of my factory?" asks a voice from the doorway. The two in the room come to attention. He's better dressed than either of them, a compact, stocky man, in his mid-thirties. He carries himself with an assured air.

Señor Gomez, I presume. "I don't know," I say, already knowing what's going to happen, and it does. I yell. Let them think I'm a twink. "I don't know! I don't know! You've got to believe me!"

"You're lying!" says Scarface, fingering the remote. Here's a guy who likes his job, you can tell. There's a big grin on his homely face because he gets to use one of his favorite toys - gets to use it a lot, because I'm not giving him what he wants.

"I don't know! I'm not in ops! I'm just an accountant!"

"An accountant?" repeats Gomez, sceptical. "What would an accountant from the Central Intelligence Agency be doing in Culiacan?"

"One of our agents retired here," I answer quickly. "Agent Sands. I'm here to discuss his retirement benefits with him. Usually we'd just send him the forms, but-" I stop. Um, maybe telling professional torturers what happened to Sands wouldn't be such a good idea. "-there are extenuating circumstances. So, you see, I wouldn't be privy to any information about active agents operating in this area."

The boss looks at the creep with the remote, and nods. Scarface gives me a longer, harder jolt this time. White light is starting to flicker at the edges of my vision, and I wonder, panicked, if it's possible for them to give me so much juice with that thing that my eyeballs pop. I let myself scream - not completely acting - and as soon as the voltage cuts off, I start reciting Sands's hypothetical benefit information - the details of my portfolio and insurance, but it's 100-percent truthful and thoroughly boring.

Gomez looks at the row of guns by my bag and sneers. "They must have been very dangerous forms. We'll see just how useful you can be." He looks at the other two and continues in Spanish. "Break her. When she has nothing left to give up, give her a dose of -" a word I don't recognize "- and bring her to me." He smiles and says to me, in English, "I'll be seeing you again, Señorita Martin."

Yeah, and I'll be having prairie oysters Rockefeller when you do, I think though a surge of pain as Scarface cranks the control again. I'm too busy gasping for breath to holler after a few minutes of their treatment. Scarface asks more questions about the attack on the factory, and I'm so brain-fried I can't even think of a convincing lie.

Why lie? Why not just give up RC? Hmm. The idea has merit. Again, it's perfectly true, and after all, my boss was hoping to lure the cartel into the open.

There's some kind of disturbance in the distance; I perk up as the second thug leaves the room, gun drawn, leaving me alone with Scarface. "Is that them?" he demands. "Is it the CIA?"

I actually grin. "Nope, I'm pretty sure that's not the CIA." I know the sound of those guns by now. More guns, coming closer. I open my mouth to hail them, when Scarface cranks the voltage to barbecue, and I can't freaking breathe.

Dawnie-7: No wonder Sands likes western boots - he does have a certain sense of style.

Mojave Dragonfly: Although for Sands, 'honeybunch' is pretty mild. Yeah, it's sexist and condescending, but at least he's not singling out parts of her anatomy. Kate being Kate - well, it was in charecter for her. She's not dumb, but she sure has a stubborn streak. (Which comes in handy when you're being tortured.) And she has a weakness for cool cars, but more about that in a few days...