Justice by InSilva
Disclaimer: I know I promise to look after them when I borrow them. Well, I am sorry.
A/N: OK. Warnings for this chapter and lots of them. This is probably the strongest on page posted violence I've written. It isn't pretty, in fact it's brutal though I hope that those of you who have made it past the prologue understand that physical violence is very much a part of this fic. Apart from saying "don't try this at home", I feel I ought to point out that all the techniques Vincente employs are real. They happen in the world today and that is even less of a pretty thought.
Those of you who have read this and are reading "Falling like dominoes" (and if you aren't reading the latter, what is wrong with you? Go and read it! It is a genius fic!), will notice that otherhawk and I both seem to have a thing for Rusty's hands. We (obviously) came up with our thoughts separately but it's probably because Rusty's hands are, well...invaluable. Like a violinist's or a pianist's or something.
Oh, and otherhawk? That second opinion and reassurance thing? Right back at ya.
Chapter Eight: Pain
The first thing they'd done, after the makeshift blindfold and the gun in his ribs and the surprising decision to leave his hands free, was to remove his shoes and socks. Escape was going to be just that little bit more painful.
It wasn't the first time he'd been in a situation of impending violence. If he were lucky, there would be some unscientific pummelling and that meant punches and bruises and cracked ribs, all of which would mend. If they knew what they were doing, it would be bad. He thought back to Eddie Lavelle and his fondness for little games with electricity and water and gritted his teeth.
Of course, if they really knew what they were doing, it would be agony. Because he was as brave as the next man but the next man would be Danny and for them, nothing hurt as much as listening to the other being hurt. And fortunately, only a couple of people had ever worked that out: unfortunately, however, a couple of people had worked that out.
He pushed away the memory of the basement in New York. Oh, he'd begged, then. Not at first. At first, he'd watched them mete out punishment and he'd said nothing. He'd kept his expression completely blank. And then he'd realised that they were in fact watching him and he knew, he just knew they knew…
Then, he'd begged. He'd begged and pleaded till his throat was hoarse and he knew as he did it, it was a mistake, a big mistake, the worst kind of error, but Danny's eyes were rolling back in his head by then and the blood had been bubbling up through his lips and Rusty would have done anything at that point, anything to try and stop it…
They drove for a while and then the van stopped. Doors opened and he was dragged out roughly and pushed forward. There was salt in the air and waves lapping and he winced as hard gravel bit into his feet. The surface underfoot unexpectedly changed to smooth concrete and he guessed they were now indoors. The blindfold was lifted and he stood blinking in the artificial light of a warehouse without windows.
Rusty felt a rush of relief as he realised Danny was absent. So it might be bad but it wouldn't be the worst. Then he caught sight of the hooks in the ceiling and the chains attached. Once, some sort of butchers, some place where they'd once hung meat. And now, other things…the thought rose unbidden.
There were two wooden chairs in the middle of the room and in one of them, there was Vincente. Suddenly, Rusty wondered if he should be nervous about the fact that they'd left his hands free.
"So nice to see you again, Mr Ryan," Vincente greeted him. "Please take a seat." He indicated the chair opposite him.
"Happy to stand."
Vincente chuckled. "You say that now… In any case, Mr Ryan, I must insist."
The nearest colleague leaned in towards Rusty and he sighed and sat down.
"You know, I saw the way you were dressed today and I really thought you were co-operating. You don't know how sorry I was to realise that you were bluffing."
Bluffing? The only hint he'd given had been… Rusty swore inwardly.
"Now, some people might tell you that they're going to regret what's about to happen," Vincente said conversationally. "But I'm not one of those people."
"Didn't think for a moment you were."
"Don't get me wrong, I don't take pleasure in it either."
"Really." Rusty's tone was sceptical. "Is it going to hurt you more than it hurts me?"
"Oh, I don't lie."
"So, there's going to be pain," Rusty said lightly.
Vincente's eyes agreed.
"What do you want?"
"Only to make a point."
"Nothing else?"
"If I wanted something else, I could have it in seven seconds."
Rusty's eyebrow raised itself involuntarily.
"You don't believe me?" Vincente smiled. He considered for a moment and Rusty swallowed hard. He hadn't intended to suggest a challenge.
"Inclined board, you strapped down on your back, head first, towel wrapped over your face, water hosed down in your mouth, up your nose. You'd believe you were drowning and no amount of holding your breath would help. Seven seconds is about the average."
"Huh." Now that was an image to hang on to.
"But not right now. Right now, I just want to impress upon you how serious I am. What the consequences would be. I've shown you what will happen to your business. And now, I want to make sure you fully understand what will happen to you."
Rusty looked at him searchingly. "It won't matter what I say or do, will it?"
"No."
"Not if I beg or plead or cry or scream."
"No."
"Then, can't we just skip to the end, take it that I've got the message and avoid the senseless torture?"
Vincente chuckled again. "Unfortunately, Mr Ryan, I need to make sure I've made myself clear. Therefore the senseless torture remains. If it's any comfort, you will survive. And I don't intend to leave you permanently damaged. Though I'd be lying if I said that means it will hurt any less."
He reached over and took hold of Rusty's left hand.
"Don't remember saying we could go steady."
A smile flashed on to Vincente's face and off again.
"Tattoo as well, I see," he remarked, running a thumb lightly over the ink marks peeking out of Rusty's sleeve. "Sign of youthful indiscretion?"
"Oh, the tattoo's got a story all of its own."
He looked into Rusty's eyes. "Maybe you'll share that another time."
"Don't count on it." Rusty looked down at Vincente's own tattoo. "Per Siempre," he read aloud. "And was it?"
"Left me the day I got it," Vincente shook his head. "Got to be some sort of record."
His thumb moved down Rusty's hand to the knuckles, kneading each in turn. "A hand is a very valuable commodity, Mr Ryan. Very delicate. Full of little pressure points. Did you know that?"
Rusty was silent. His hands were his livelihood.
"All the little bones and tendons…" the thumb was continuing to knead, digging a little bit deeper as it went. "So fragile. So vulnerable."
Without warning, he bent the little finger back on itself. Rusty stifled a yell. Vincente watched his face with dispassionate interest.
"Very good," he approved. "I can see I'm going to find you intriguing."
Slowly, deliberately, he bent each finger back in turn, stretching the tendons each time till Rusty had to break his gaze and screw up his eyes to try and shut out the fire shooting up his arm.
"There's an art to this," Vincente commented as he worked on the index finger. "You need to know just the point at which the tendons or bones will snap."
He looked at Rusty's face.
"Think I'm getting the balance right," he said mildly.
Rusty's jaw was clenched and he could feel the sweat breaking out on his back. Vincente dropped his hand and Rusty flexed his fingers in spite of himself. Vincente might have declared no sadistic interest and just simple objectivity but he was not wholly convinced. Then, Vincente smiled and with disbelief, Rusty read complete equanimity. Maybe he had been telling the truth after all.
"Time to get serious," Vincente said. He turned to his colleagues. "Tie him."
Rusty was pulled upright and his hands secured behind his back with rope. Testing the knots, he knew he wasn't going anywhere and glancing at the colleagues blocking the route to the door, he knew he wasn't even going to try.
"I feel I'm going to need to spell things out for you, Mr Ryan."
Vincente took the chain hanging loosely from the nearest hook and fastened it through Rusty's bonds. Rusty's mouth was full of the metallic taste of adrenaline and apprehension because he knew exactly what was coming next.
"Up," Vincente ordered.
Rusty braced himself as he felt the chain slowly tighten, pulling his arms up behind him at an impossible angle, higher and higher, till his feet left the ground - only a few agonising feet from the ground - and his weight pulled him down, pulled down on his shoulder sockets and excruciating pain hit him in a rush. An inarticulate string of expletives fell from his lips. It felt as if every ligament, every muscle in his arms were ablaze.
How long he hung there he couldn't say; time just melted into the very immediate present. Then the chain slackened and he slipped heavily to the ground, to his knees, smacking against the concrete, kneeling there, digesting the wave, letting it recede and managing it.
"I study pain, Mr Ryan," Vincente said pleasantly as if they were chatting over dinner. "This particular method has been around since the Inquisition at least. Still effective today. No physical signs. Nothing to show the authorities. Doesn't stop the agony, though, right?"
Rusty kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, breathing heavily, not trusting himself to speak because that had been right up there with Eddie Lavelle.
"Another means of persuasion which leaves no real external evidence," Vincente picked up a thin, wicked-looking little cane from the side of his chair and Rusty regarded it with deep suspicion.
"Let me demonstrate," Vincente pulled the chain to one side and brought it down hard on the bare soles of Rusty's feet.
Rusty yelped at the unexpected pain. Vincente did it twice more then moved round to face Rusty. He ran his hand through Rusty's hair and pulled his head back, leaning down and in so that Rusty could see the clear grey of his eyes. Lucid, emotionless, ruthless as hell and nothing would move him, of that, Rusty was sure. Quite the worst kind of person you'd want to be at the mercy of…hands of, Rusty corrected himself, because mercy wouldn't ever come into it.
With a chill that he couldn't stop flooding through him, Rusty suddenly saw the mirror. Because Vincente was as implacable as he was, knew his own mind just as he did and was just as able to bring single-minded focus to bear. And that was a comparison he wished he hadn't been able to make.
"I can inflict this particular exquisite tenderness until you can hardly stand. Or I can carry on until you will never walk without a limp again. Do you believe me?"
"Yes," Rusty replied truthfully.
Vincente stared at him then let go of his hair and sighed. "Sadly for you, Mr Ryan, I believe you. I still can't take any short cuts. Up."
The chain tightened again and Rusty found he couldn't even try to fight the urge to cry out. It was intense, it was agony, it was impossible to ignore, there was no hiding place from this and God, would it never end-
Just when he thought his arms were sure to be pulled out of their sockets, when dislocation seemed inevitable, the chain slackened again and he sank back to the ground.
Vincente stepped in and wielded the cane once more, swiftly, efficiently, effectively. Rusty felt it bite viciously again and again into the soles of his feet and tried to hold on to the scream building inside him.
"Up," he heard.
The third time was unbearable.
The fourth time was unspeakable.
The fifth time was beyond words.
After that, he lost count.
He supposed he must have passed out. He came to in the back of the van as it stopped.
"Here," Vincente said, picking his shoes and socks off the van floor and putting them into his hands. "That's about as much as you'll feel like carrying for a while."
He stared at Rusty. "I can do worse," he said in a low voice. "And I will if you make me."
Through the haze of pain, Rusty held his stare.
"Get out," Vincente said, in a voice that suggested he did not like what he was seeing. "We'll pick this up again on Monday."
It took every bit of iron resolve for Rusty to walk up the steps to his hotel and in to the foyer. Sheer bloody-mindedness carried him across the carpet which felt as if it were made up of thousands of needles as opposed to the luxuriant finish it really consisted of.
"Mr Ryan?" It was Kirsty, who seemed to be choosing to ignore the fact that he was barefoot. Somewhere in the back of his mind came the thought that he must have done this before. "I've got some messages-"
"Later, Kirsty," he cut her off. He'd have to apologise to her another time. Now he was just focusing on staying upright.
He held himself up in the lift, not daring to slump because he was not – not - going to be crawling to his room. And then agonising step by agonising step, he made it to the door of his suite. He pressed down on the door handle and as the door swung open, the last part of inner grit melted and he collapsed through the doorway on to the floor, shoes and socks going flying.
"Call you back," he heard and Danny was there.
A/N: Sorry. Sorry. Strong stuff, I know. Sorry, again.