5-
THE SALAZAR RANCH, Thirteen days before:
Jack awoke completely disoriented. He didn't recognize the room. And for sure he didn't remember how the hell he'd gotten here. Only when one end of the handcuffs clanked hard against the wrought iron headboard did he achieve any degree of clarity. Ramon. The heroin.
There was a small light on in the room, but no light coming from the window, so it was night. But what night? To his surprise, he found his left arm was unbound. Absently he ran his free hand over his eyes and then downward, finding at least a day's growth on his face. Fucking Ramon had kept him in a drug stupor for at least twenty four hours. He moaned in frustration and gave one more tug at the cuffs holding him to the bed. While the ornate cast iron was never meant to provide a means of bondage, it was doing a good job. The heavy metal didn't budge.
He stopped pulling on his sore wrist and discovered his mouth was parched and his tongue seemed glued in place. The pounding in his head was bad and confirmed he'd not had any food or water for too long.
While his right arm was cuffed, he found he could still move enough to swing his legs off the bed and sit up. Which he did too fast. A wave of vertigo and nausea held him still and he rubbed again at his eyes, waiting for them to clear. When they did, the first thing they beheld was the tattoo.
"What the fuck?" Jack asked aloud into the otherwise empty room. But he knew exactly what it was—the mark of the Salazar cartel. And not just the cartel, but the inner circle. Only Ramon and Hector wore this tattoo. And now him.
He wished he could enjoy the success of having infiltrated the cartel to the highest level…but the cuffs and the bruises on his face killed the buzz. They meant he was still in the process of paying for the privilege of the tattoo. This was so unlike Ramon-to give the gift before extracting the payment. That was worrisome to say the least.
For a moment, he stopped worrying about what Ramon had planned and appreciated the inked art on his forearm. He supposed he should be disgusted at how Ramon had, basically, disfigured him. But he wasn't. Staring at the finely done intricate design, he was pleased-although he was unsure why. Was it because he had moved so high, so quickly? Was it purely for the aesthetics of the thing? Or was it because this tattoo would serve as a permanent reminder of what he could…or had…become?
From now on, not a day would go by without physical proof that he had become Ramon's lap dog. That he had done things in the name of this job that sickened him. And this tattoo would never let him forget. Just penance.
"Do you like it?"
Jack started. Ramon had come in without a sound. The door must have been left ajar. He said nothing. He wouldn't give Ramon the pleasure of a 'thanks' or of admiration.
Ramon was instantly irritated. Jack could sense the simmering emotion as Ramon walked to the bed. But he maintained control as he took Jack's left arm and held it next to his own. The two Ladies lie next to each other, head to foot and foot to head. They were so alike…only the differences inherent in hand crafted art were discernable.
Ramon was pleased with himself and could not hold back a satisfied smile. "Lovely." When Jack didn't agree aloud, he roughly dropped his arm. "You stink," he announced harshly.
Jack couldn't argue with him there. He smelled of sweat and drink…and aging piss. He looked down past his naked chest at his groin. His jeans were clean, but he saw the telltale stain ascending all the way to the exposed band of his briefs.
Still Jack said nothing, even though he knew his silence was goading Ramon. He'd had no control over this. He hadn't been the one who injected enough heroin so that he didn't even feel when he had to go. Jack's eyes moved to his right arm. Four tiny puncture wounds dotted his vein, each with its own halo of dark blood.
Ramon took this as the accusation it was. When he lashed out, the first punch to the side of his head knocked Jack slightly silly. He tried to push back onto the bed, but gravity had far more control than he did and he slipped awkwardly off the mattress and right into the path of Ramon's boot.
At first, Jack found himself counting the blows, as if there might be a finite number. Ramon usually liked multiples of five. Ten lashes were most common. But 'ten' came and went quickly and soon he was simply laid out and helpless against the side of the bed without much coherent thought. His tautly restrained right arm prevented even the little protection of curling into a ball. At least Ramon wasn't kicking him full force. He'd be dead.
Suddenly, his right arm was freed and flopped numbly into his lap. Without it as ballast, he slumped slowly to the left, moaning when his battered muscles hit the floor. The coolness of the terra cotta, at least, was soothing. Above him, Jack heard Ramon's heavy breathing as he recovered and, hopefully, calmed down.
No time had passed before Ramon gruffly ordered, "Get up."
Jack wanted to comply, and he tried, but Ramon was still irritated and impatient. Grabbing Jack under the shoulder, he hauled him half way up. Jack was angry that he couldn't suppress a cry of pain at the rapid movement. Ramon didn't bother to wait until his feet were under him. Instead, he dragged him by that one arm into the bathroom. Holding Jack like a rag doll not far from his hip, he jerked open the shower curtain and essentially threw Jack onto the floor of the small enclosed space.
He barely had time to open his eyes and see the finely crafted colorful tile under his cheek before cold water rained down on him. "Oh fuck," he swore loudly as his breath caught in the freezing onslaught.
"He speaks," Ramon intoned flatly.
Jack struggled up, using his legs to push out from under the steady stream of frigid water and into the back corner of the shower stall. The shower light flicked on. Inanely, he realized he must be in the main house because of how beautiful the tile surrounding him was.
Unfortunately, in the middle of all the beautifully painted tiles, in the shower opening, stood Ramon's hulking figure. Ramon wasn't that big. Jack had always been impressed how he could project a much more imposing mass than he owned.
His arms wrapped around his own chest, Jack shivered. Ramon glared down at him. "Take your pants off."
Instantly Jack wanted to bargain. He'd do it for warm water. Thoughts of his modesty came second. He stared up at Ramon.
"I am not coming in there to finish what I started in the bedroom. You are not going to get off that easy. If you want to die, you'll have to work for it."
The words took Jack off guard. Dying? Working to 'get to' die? Just how bad was what Ramon had planned? He shivered again.
Ramon was reveling in this. Jack, helpless, wounded, weak-at his mercy. Shivering, covered in gooseflesh in the corner of the shower, the wet drops on his eyelashes as he looked up at him made Jack look more like a child than his toughest and most capable man.
His eyes went to Jack's arm. "That tattoo. You know you haven't earned her yet."
Jack knew. He looked at his arm, then at Ramon, waiting to hear the rest.
"If you want to keep your arm, then you had better find a way to make yourself worthy of her," he said referring to the Lady. He paused to let the threat sink in. "I'll help you get started. Step one…take off your pants." He paused again. "Step two…don't ever fucking make me repeat an order again."
So that's what this was about—obedience. Maybe Ramon had set him up at the raid, but he'd done it to proof a point. No matter how high up in the cartel, no matter how useful he was or how much money he brought in, Ramon's word was the law. And Ramon would teach him not to question the law, even when Ramon might be wrong.
Ramon was playing a high stakes game here. Either Jack learned or he died. This wasn't about punishment; this ordeal would be about submission. If he didn't submit, he had no doubt Ramon would take the Lady away and his arm with her. There'd be no tourniquet or doctor. He'd bleed to death in the dirt in the courtyard while Ramon gloated over him. He'd have spent the last six months of his life wasted in this hell hole.
Jack couldn't let that happen, not this close to the end. He had to find a way to make Ramon think he'd won. Step one-he reached for the button on his jeans. A new set of shivers racked his very recently abused body with pain. Ramon stood watching impassively. Jack braced his hand against the wall to stand.
"Stay down," Ramon ordered.
Obviously, Ramon liked this tableau. A man naked and huddled on the floor of a shower stall wasn't much of a threat. Jack suspected Ramon was a little afraid of what he still could do even in this condition. Jack glanced up and saw the gun in Ramon's waistband.
Ramon didn't get where he was by being careless.
Jack obeyed. As he unzipped his pants he unhappily noted his hand was now shaking too. He honestly had to admit the tremor wasn't all from the cold. His back against the corner, he braced his bare, pale feet against the floor and lifted as he hooked his thumbs under the waistbands of his briefs and jeans. The wet jeans seemed glued to his hips and as the muscles of his arms and chest tensed to push, another shiver consumed him.
The knife like pain that shot through his left side was overwhelming. His muscles quickly abandoned their work and he flopped to the floor on his good side, clutching at the phantom blade that seemed to be impaling him on the other.
At the shower door, Ramon smiled when Jack couldn't mask the pain. Jack's brief but loud cry was quite satisfying. He was already making progress—the iron façade was weakening. He watched Jack writhe on the floor for a few seconds under the still hard spray from the shower head, satisfied that he must have broken a rib or two with a well aimed kick.
Jack's hands on his chest were pale and his finger nails were turning a grayish shade of blue. The aquifer under the ranch was very deep. Their water was very cold.
"Hurting, Jack?" he asked nonchalantly. He was tempted to pull a chair up and light a cigar to fully enhance this moment.
It took Jack a few seconds to respond. "Yes, Ramon, it hurts." Jack had no choice but to play the game.
"Good, Jack," he rewarded condescendingly, knowing for a man like Jack, an admission of weakness cost him. "Now get those off."
Between the pain and the humiliation, Jack couldn't look up at Ramon. He stayed down on his side and in little fits and starts managed, over what seemed like an eternity, to nudge the sodden garments down to his thighs. He would need to sit up to take them off…and that would mean facing Ramon. He lay still catching his breath, not ready for that yet.
But at this point, Ramon was in no hurry, so he didn't prod Jack to keep moving. No, he had a fine view of his smooth white ass contrasting with the dark wet denim that bunched just below. Jack's tanned back quivered with cold induced tremors-making his muscles ripple in a rather pleasing way.
The shivering was nonstop now and Ramon finally took pity on the huddled man at his feet. He reached in quickly and turned the handle to 'warm.' As he toweled his dampened arm, he heard Jack moan in relief behind him. That was the key-suffering and then relief. Keep him off balance, always knowing that if he did the right thing, if he gave Ramon what he wanted, he would be rewarded. The pain need not be constant.
Jack wanted to cry, that's how good that warm water felt. He let the steady stream warm his back and side then he turned over, bringing his chest and face to the comfort. In his relief, he'd forgotten about Ramon's prying eyes. His eyelids closed against the spray, his knees bent but were held relatively close to each other by his pants around his thighs, he fortunately missed Ramon studying him, his cold and shrunken genitals lying flaccid above the opened jeans.
Ramon was not feeling generous enough to let Jack remain ignorant of his voyeurism. "I hope that is not a permanent state," he teased, "but maybe that would explain why you do not often use the ladies I make freely available." When Jack didn't take the bait, he continued. "I'd be embarrassed too."
Jack heard him, but just like his pissing himself, the state of his manhood was Ramon's doing. Only Ramon and his self inflated image would be insulted at this. Jack was too cold and in too much pain to let an adolescent insult like that get to him. Unfortunately, he had momentarily forgotten about playing the game. The water turned freezing again. He gasped.
His eyes flew open as he retreated back to the corner. "I'm sorry, Ramon," he instantly blurted, not knowing what he was apologizing for—maybe disappointing Ramon that his dick was not stalwart enough to face the onslaught of the frigid water?
Ramon snorted disgustedly. Jack still needed a lot of work.
A bar of soap hit Jack squarely in the chest.
"Wash up and get out. Then shave. You have five minutes," Ramon ordered and then disappeared.
Although he needed to hurry to comply and, before that, turn the warm water back on, Jack let his head fall back and relaxed in the moment of privacy. He didn't know if he was going to be able to pull this off. And even if he did everything Ramon demanded, the son of a bitch might still kill him. Briefly he wondered if it was even worth the bother of trying.
He pulled his jeans and underwear off the rest of the way and stood, his cold and battered body protesting every movement but motivated by the need to find heat. He'd try. But he knew that Ramon had no limits. This was going to get very ugly before it was over.
PUBLIC FOREST, TWENTY KILOMETERS FROM THE SALAZAR RANCH, EARLY SATURDAY EVENING, real time
The park was a little too close to the town of Xapata than he'd like, but they needed the cell signal. Tony could see nothing but a few trees dotting the grey horizon. Maria slept soundly next to him in a sleeping bag spread out on the floor of the van. He hoped to join her soon. But first he needed to hear from CTU.
They'd driven away from Los Rios before sunrise as a precaution. As soon as the time had been reasonable, he'd called CTU and apprised Ryan, Chase, and Michelle of what had happened with Oscar. For once, Ryan actually seemed pleased. Of course how could he not be? The intel on the ranch was detailed, they had some knowledge of why Jack had gone dark, and they even had a chance that Jack would get word of the raid. The downside, that Oscar might turn, seemed small in comparison.
The day had raced by. Chase had only needed a few hours to readjust all the previously drawn up plans to take into account the new intel. Then a few more to coordinate logistics with the local agencies. All CTU wanted was Ramon and Hector and their computer hard drives. Mexican police and drug enforcement could have everybody and everything else. And the extra manpower would be welcome, even if they only used them to set up an outer perimeter.
At 8pm sharp Tony's phone vibrated.
"Weather's good, the locals are on board. It's a go," Chase said without greeting. "Meet at 5am at the rendezvous point. The raid will begin at 6:15 with sunrise at 6:30."
"Okay," Tony said succinctly. For some reason he'd been subconsciously hoping they'd abort. Probably personal. He would have preferred knowing if Jack had gotten the note or not and that he was safe.
"Tony," Ryan joined in. "Stay in range of a tower so we can reach you in the event of a change. We'll be staging for a couple of more hours then the team will try to get some rest before we fly in. I suggest you do the same."
He was already planning that…after moving the van to somewhere more remote. But Ryan was right, they needed to take the risk and stay here so they could be reached.
"I understand Ryan." They'd been over the details so many times today there was nothing more to talk about.
"And Tony?" Ryan added.
"Yeah?" Tony asked gruffly, already a bit anxious about what was to come.
"Great work."
Only if we get Ramon and Hector alive, and Jack, he thought to himself. But a compliment from Ryan was a rare thing and he wasn't going to push it.
"Yeah, thanks," he said hanging up.
"Maria," he nudged her small down encased form.
"What?" she asked sleepily.
"We're on, 0500."
Maria sat up and checked her phone then set the alarm for 3am. Tony did the same.
THE SALAZAR RANCH, 13 DAYS BEFORE
Shaving was difficult. His hand was still stiff and numb with cold. But he wasn't about to try Ramon's patience and he did the best he could quickly. Wrapped in two dry towels he'd found on the rack-one around his waist and one around his shoulders, he steeled his breath and opened the door.
"I said five minutes, not six," Ramon growled as he threw a cuff around one of Jack's wrists. He'd been standing against the wall next to the door, waiting to pounce. He pushed Jack hard towards the bed. Jack managed to hold on to the towel around his waist, but lost the other during his fall onto the mattress.
"I'm sorry Ramon," Jack groveled as Ramon put a knee to his back and painfully wrenched the cuffed arm behind him. Jack could probably take him right now. Ramon knew this and Jack wondered whether this was a test to see how much Jack was going to fight him. Right now, he had no such plans. For all he knew, Hector was outside with a baseball bat, waiting.
Ramon had planned on pushing Jack to the bed and then having him cuff himself to the bedstead again. But he'd impulsively come down on him when he'd seen Jack come to rest off balance and face down on the bed. He wondered how Jack would take it if he knew how hard Ramon had instantly become the moment his knee brushed across Jack's towel draped ass.
Not yet, he paced himself. Not too quickly. He has to come to you. Ramon almost moaned out loud knowing it could take days, maybe weeks before Jack was willing to capitulate. But he would. Or Ramon would take him anyway and then kill him immediately. That definitely would be much more unpleasant for Jack. And he had to be honest with himself. He didn't want to lose Jack. He just wanted to be sure of him.
The room was deadly quiet as each man waited to see what the other might do. The answer was nothing. Ramon realized the risk he was taking getting this close to an unbound and very threatened Jack. If Jack fought, he'd have to punish him severely and at this point, he didn't want him badly injured. Constantly in pain, yes, but not unconscious or needing a hospital. That would be counter productive.
And Jack knew that even if he could beat Ramon in the condition he was in right now, he'd get nothing except the satisfaction followed by a substantial punishment.
Ramon stood and backed away from the bed. "Cuff yourself to the bed and then lie down on your back." Jack didn't look back as he moved. If he had, Ramon's erection under his fine linen slacks would have obvious. Ramon was glad. For now, he preferred to keep Jack ignorant.
Once he heard the tell tale click of the cuff and Jack settled down on the bed, Ramon escaped to the bathroom until the evidence was gone and to get the kit.
Jack's eyes followed him when he emerged and circled the bed to Jack's left side and sat down. Jack's unfettered left arm remained still. Maybe testing Jack hadn't been such a bad idea. Constant multiple restraints were a pain. All he needed was to keep him on the bed and for him to be still when needed. Like now.
Again, like last night, Ramon made a show of filling the needle and prepping Jack's arm. But it didn't go as quickly this time. Jack's arm was still very cold to the touch and his veins had all but disappeared in an attempt to conserve heat.
Jack was seething. Every fiber in his body wanted to lash out and pummel Ramon as the controlling bastard sat there and tried to rub warmth back into his arm, roughly flicking the crook in his elbow to coax the vein to the surface. But unlike last night, Jack wasn't trying to avoid the drug. As he had known he would, he wanted it-badly. He just wanted to hurt Ramon.
"Not begging me not to do it tonight, Jack?" he asked, finally finding a suitable pale blue target and placing the needle over it. "You want the rush, don't you?"
"Yes, I want it Ramon." His voice sounded automated, the sought after confirmation, the truth, spilling emotionlessly from his lips.
Ramon picked up on the tone. Jack would need to reach a point where true feeling and need inspired his answers instead of forced responses that he knew Ramon wanted to hear. Ramon smiled as he injected the drug. Once an addict, always an addict he thought as Jack's features went slack. Maybe Jack had been right about never being able to fully trust a junkie. He'd have to think about that some more in the coming days.
With Jack out, he returned to the bathroom to put away the kit in the hiding place. Jack's discarded jeans and briefs caught his eye. He began to harden again at the picture of Jack lying almost completely undressed on the shower floor.
He was a little taken aback by this new degree of lust. Until last night, he hadn't thought of Jack in this way. Not that it bothered him. The new found sexual aspect of this allowed for an entirely more interesting dimension of things to do with and to Jack. And Jack was far more interesting than that post pubescent Ordonez kid he'd been admiring. Every once in a while, he enjoyed feeling the strength and power of a man in his bed…and then proving he had more. Jack would do nicely…very nicely.
Ramon turned out the lights in the bathroom and then the bedroom. He walked to the window and opened the shutters letting a little moonlight flood the room. He should go. He had work he'd neglected most of the day when his attention had been diverted by Jack. Instead, he found himself wandering back to the bed. After a pause, he found himself reaching for the towel around Jack's waist. He tugged smartly at the edge and let it fall open.
Even that small bit of extra air caused a ripple of goose flesh on Jack's still chilled skin. But Jack's penis and balls were more to his liking now that he was a little warmer. His own dick swelled quickly at the sight of the entirely exposed, compact, muscular body.
Without thinking, he unzipped and took himself in his hand. He moaned at the thought of forcing Jack to do this to him-one hand roughly grabbing his blond hair, the other holding a gun to his throat. The fantasy morphed into Jack's mouth, not his hand, on his cock. He stroked slowly while he enjoyed the image of Jack on his knees in front of him. Then he stroked hard several times and came quickly.
Ramon was slightly annoyed with Jack for making him feel this way, for making him loose control of his urges. He leaned forward and wrapped the towel back around the thin hips, wiping his hand clean at the same time. Jack wouldn't know, not yet anyway. He zipped up and tucked his shirt in.
He found a blanket at the foot of the bed and threw it over the sleeping figure. No use in letting him get sick. "See you in the morning Jack," he said before closing the door behind him and throwing the dead bolt he'd had Tomas install on the guest room door.
6-
THREE DAYS LATER
Once again Jack awoke to a dark room. The heavy shutters had been closed tight every time he'd opened his eyes. He could tell when it was daylight only when the room seemed more grey than black. Ramon, or someone, had been leaving food and water. He was suspicious Ramon was monitoring him, because as soon as he'd eaten, Ramon would appear, let him up to use the bathroom, taunt him for a brief time and then snow him again.
Jack wasn't sure how many days he'd been fed and watered in the dark now, like a fucking mushroom. But the lack of light, the isolation, and the drug induced fog were getting to him—probably just as Ramon had calculated.
So much of his work was done outdoors. He liked being outside, even doing physical labor on the hot days didn't bother him. It reminded him of when he was a kid and in the summers he used to sign on to landscape crews to make some money. He hadn't minded the side benefit of showing up to football practice in late August ripped from all the lifting and shoveling.
Fuck, he couldn't believe he was laying here thinking about football practices from a lifetime ago. But not being outside, not seeing the sun, that's what he was having the biggest problem with-since it was one of the few things here he'd latched onto that felt good, or at least not bad.
He let his eyes adjust as much as they could to the dark and then he swung his legs over the bed to sit up to eat…left handed. He wanted to ask Ramon to switch wrists—his right one was bruised and raw now and he'd like to be able to use his right hand. But given how miserable he already felt, knowing a simple request might set off that hair trigger temper, he'd let it go rather than risk more bruises just as this set was healing.
Right on schedule, as soon as he finished the last bite, he heard the lock open outside the door. The lights flicked on. Jack's free arm flew to shield his eyes.
"Look at me," Ramon ordered, knowing damn well Jack would find that physically impossible at this moment. He pulled Jack's arm from his face.
Jack's unadjusted eyes squinted and teared. He couldn't comply. He waited for the blow for not following an order.
But Ramon just laughed. He just wanted to see Jack try. Poor Jack. Three days of growth on his very tan yet sallow skin, his hair dirty and sticking up, and his bruises from that first day a ghastly shade of green—cowering to protect his eyes.
Ramon produced a prefilled syringe and grabbed Jack's free arm. The deed was done quickly. Jack waited for the rush…the only worthwhile part of this ordeal. But there was no rush…no high. Instead, his head felt like it was filled with helium and his body with lead, and then some son of a bitch put him on a merry go round.
Again Ramon laughed. "You look like a drunken sailor, Jack." And he did, sitting there swaying slowly on the bed, his eyelids moving up and down slowly in exaggerated blinks. Ramon hoped the drug loosened Jack's tongue like some drunk as well.
Funny, Jack thought, that's exactly how he felt…drunk on a boat. "Yeah," he slurred. "Ramon…?"
"Yes, Jack?"
Jack hadn't meant to pause, but his tongue was just too heavy to use quickly. "What…did you …give me?" he finally managed.
"A barbiturate."
The word 'why' formed in his head, but the imaginary feeling of swaying on a heavy sea was having the concrete effect of upsetting the hell out of his stomach.
"Sick…" he blurted.
"What?" Ramon tried to understand.
"Fuck, I'm…gonna be…"
Ramon got it before he finished. He added his own curse word before Jack saw him grab the small trash can and throw it at him. Ramon took a step back. He was no fucking nurse. But he did have the decency to refill Jack's water bottle from the sink while he waited for Jack to finish.
Jack was too fried to be even mildly disgusted by wiping his face with his bed sheet. And Ramon's effort with the water bottle was wasted. He wouldn't have minded washing out his mouth, but he was fairly certain he didn't have the coordination to actually grab the bottle and bring it to his mouth.
"Done?" Ramon asked coldly before he took the trash can and shoved it into the bathroom.
Jack moved to lie down. That was the pattern—food, drug, sleep. Of course, the lights should have told him today…or tonight…whatever the fuck it was…was different. He'd already forgotten the drug had been different too.
"No, stay up," Ramon said roughly, grabbing Jack disheveled hair to hold him in place.
Jack stared at him drunkenly, barely suppressing what would have been a comical "Huh?"
"We're going to talk."
"Talk?" Jack repeated. "About what?" That was the drug. Jack knew sober and alert he would have never asked that question. He would have waited patiently for Ramon to come to the point.
Jack hadn't realized Ramon's hand was still in his hair until he pulled hard. Jack gasped and lifted his hand to grab Ramon's arm. But even drugged, he remembered he shouldn't do that half way there and stopped.
"Anything I fucking ask you about," Ramon said, giving Jack's head a rough jerk before he let go. He went and retrieved the upholstered chair, pushing it up to the bed while watching Jack struggle to stay upright.
Jack did the slow blink a few times to no avail. Ramon continued to come in and out of focus and occasionally split into two in front of him. Two Ramons thought Jack, fucking great, just what the world needs.
"What's so damn funny?" Ramon asked as he sat.
This time he did say it. "Huh?" He had no idea he'd laughed aloud about the two Ramons thing.
"You laughed..." he began and let it go, knowing explaining to Jack in this state would just take too long. But, of course, this was the state he'd been trying to achieve for the past three days. Disoriented to day and night, isolated, powerless, and messed up on two different drugs. He hadn't hurt Jack yet. Before he did, he wanted to see what he could learn from him in this condition.
Jack's upper eyelids began a slow journey down to meet the lower ones at the same time his torso began an exaggerated list to one side. Ramon worried the dose may have been too big. He'd given Jack barely enough food and water to get by. He was probably dehydrated and weak and he should have figured that into the dosing.
"Wake up," Ramon ordered and then followed swiftly with a moderate slap across Jack's cheek.
"Uh," Jack grunted as his eyes popped open and he saved himself from toppling over. As he did, he wrenched his bound wrist against the metal cuff and grunted in pain a second time.
Ramon saw Jack's wrist. The circumferential bruise was red and black and in places his skin was beginning to break down. To give Jack a small break, Ramon released the cuff. Absently, Jack rubbed at his battered wrist, fighting to keep his eyes opened.
"Jack," Ramon began, thinking maybe engaging him quickly would keep him a tad more alert until the drug started to clear out some. "Tell me where you're from."
"What?" Jack asked, wondering why the hell Ramon would care…and he thought Ramon already knew that. Wait, he cautioned himself, careful. He's trying to trip you up. Jack fought to recall the details of his cover story and the falsified background that Ramon would have dug up on him. Shit, it was all muddled in his brain. Ramon was fucking good.
Jack had paused for too long. Ramon seemed to have a thing for his hair today. He grabbed it again. "Jack, you know the rules. I ask once. If I have to tell you again you will regret it."
"Yeah…LA." One for one. But he doubted they'd stay easy like that.
"What did your father do for a living?"
Oh this was weird, Ramon asking shit like that. Was that something in the file Chloe made up? Was this a background test or something else? Only the second question and he was winging it already.
"He beat the shit out of my mother and me."
Ramon considered Jack's answer. Maybe that was why Jack was so stubbornly tough sometimes-and maybe where the dark side of his personality came from. Clean cut Jack, the blond California boy who could kill and torture when ordered. Jack's personality, the man he saw out on the ranch among the other men, was never as dark to Ramon as Jack's actions could be.
But that's not what he had asked.
"For money, Jack," he prompted as he laid three soft pats on Jack's cheek as a reminder to concentrate. Jack blinked with each contact.
Jack was desperately concocting a life story in his head-as close to his own life so he'd remember, but different enough from reality to be believable. His father had never abused him, physically at least.
"Don't know Ramon, he wasn't around much. Maybe a mechanic…I don't know," he repeated. "When I was old enough to care…" Jack rubbed at his face. This was so hard, stringing three sentences together. All he wanted to do was lay down. But he kept going. "I'd already scared him off with a baseball bat. He wasn't so tough."
"Tell me about that." Ramon wanted to hear where Jack's impressive skills in violence had their roots.
Jack was befuddled by why Ramon would care. But even befuddled and dopey, he knew he better than to ask why. So he continued to weave the story best he could and prayed he kept it together and making sense. He was fighting the nausea again.
"Baseball practice…I came home…he was hurting her."
"Who, your mother?"
"Yeah. I swung the bat and hurt him bad. I kept screaming…he tried to get me…but I was faster. I hit him again. Never saw him after that."
"How old were you?"
"Thirteen…maybe fourteen."
That story he had just told had been wishful thinking. He'd been too young to do anything but listen to his father scream at his mother and wish he could protect her. She was gone by the time he played baseball. But he'd never forgotten.
Especially those nights his father would be waiting for him. Dad had never come to the games. Instead he'd wait at home for Jack to return then start on him about some grievance or other that he'd mulled over all evening and turned into something big. Even without being there, he always seemed to know when Jack had had a good game or a big win; because those were the nights he'd ride him the worst.
Jack would take it, just like his mother had. But standing there, his mind would be filled with frustration and anger and images of his bat sitting only yards away on the back porch. His father would taunt him, almost reading his mind, daring him to try. Jack never did. Instead, he escaped as soon as he could…to the army where he received accolades for acting out as he couldn't at home.
Ramon could easily picture a young Jack, back from practice, fiercely protecting his mother with a baseball bat. Again, the light and the dark coexisting, even as a boy.
The questions continued in this vein for several minutes-about his family, growing up, when he had joined the army. Jack was satisfied that Ramon was buying his stories. And with each succeeding question Jack's groggy mind wrapped more easily around the lies and warped truths. He grew complacent and began to think more about how much he'd like to go to sleep than the questions and answers.
"Tell me how your wife died."
Jack's heart pounded in his chest. The adrenaline produced by those words knocked him out of the stupor that he'd been heading towards.
"My wife?" he asked.
Ramon saw Jack animate and knew he had hit a nerve.
"Yes, your wife. You told me once you started the heroin after she'd died. How did she die?" Actually, he'd read that in the report about Jack's background Tomas had compiled. But he figured Jack was too stoned to remember he'd never said a thing about his dead wife.
Teri…she was shot…but wait, that wasn't this story. He thought hard. Car accident…that's what it had been…while he was stationed overseas.
"She was killed in a car accident." Then he remembered the other detail they'd made up to make the story more tragic. Give him more reason to have started the habit. "With my son. They both died." That wasn't that far from the truth. He looked up at Ramon. "I lost it after that." That wasn't either. The drug had decreased his inhibitions. His eyes were filling with real tears for his real wife.
"Where were you when she died?"
The accusation was there…why hadn't he saved her? Why hadn't he? He had tried. But failed.
"I was gone, somewhere…out of the country, but I wasn't there."
"That must have hurt, huh, Jack? She died and you weren't even in the country."
Jack sniffed loudly. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, as if he'd forgotten to whom he was speaking—the man who never needed a reason to be cruel.
Ramon hit him. "I ask the questions." The truth was he wasn't quite sure, but he had the sense that it was working. This was a weakness for Jack, this sentimentality about his family. The drug was of course bringing the emotions to the surface, but there was all this feeling simmering just beyond view.
"Tell me about the first time you used."
Jack thought back. He'd made contact with a dealer with connections to the Salazar cartel. He'd been nursing the connection for weeks by then, watching the dealers and the addicts. After the buy, it had been too late to go back to CTU, he'd taken the heroin home. Kate had been at her father's in Florida. They'd been fighting a lot lately as he'd become more tense and involved in this mission.
Undressing, seeing his reflection in the mirror, all he saw was an agent. He'd seen the addicts. Once undercover, they'd know; he'd been convinced he'd be found out for a fake. Still, he hadn't done it. The next day though, instead of turning in the vial to be stored and catalogued, he'd lied, said he hadn't had a chance to make the buy.
For three days he fought the temptation to shoot up, the vial in his hand…for the cover, to know what the rush felt like, just once. The fourth day had been Teri's birthday.
Kate had called to see how he was. Instead of being grateful she'd remembered and cared, he'd picked a fight. After he'd hung up, he'd been overwhelmed by the same dark feelings that had consumed him for the year after Teri's death—loss, loneliness…and most of all, guilt. He'd had a few drinks. Just as it always had, the alcohol only deepened the funk.
But the heroin…that had taken all the pain and guilt away. He didn't even remember having made the decision to finally do it. In his memory, all he saw was the needle in his hand and then that first incredible rush.
The next morning he was disgusted. He tried to lie to himself that he'd done it because of his cover. But he knew he'd fixed for the wrong reason. He almost confessed to Tony what he'd done. But that would have ended the mission…and he couldn't let that happen. And as disgusted as he had been earlier the same day, that night, he found himself with the syringe in his hand once again.
After that, buying, fixing, all of it became easy. And he convinced himself that now his cover would be safe—even if his relationship and his honor were killed in the process.
"Jack," Ramon said loudly to bring him back from the trance he'd fallen into.
Jack jumped a little in surprise at hearing his name. He really had been back in time. "Uh…" he stammered, trying to remember the question. "My wife's birthday. A year after she died. I was alone…I knew a dealer. Got drunk, and then made a buy. The drug…it made me forget…them both."
Ramon was disappointed; he'd been expecting something a little more dramatic. But he knew that was unrealistic. Now the way he'd gotten Jack re-hooked—that was fucking dramatic.
Ramon was growing a little bored with his game. He stood and stretched then pushed the chair back to the corner. In that small space of time, Jack managed to close his eyes and appeared to doze off—sitting up. Ramon went and stood close to him. He lifted Jack's chin off his chest and studied his face. Jack opened his eyes, confused to be looking straight up into Ramon's.
This exercise had been interesting. He knew a little more about Jack. But he still wanted more. Then he remembered the scars.
"Lie down, Jack," he ordered.
Jack didn't hesitate to comply. Ramon sat on the bed next to him. Jack seemed oblivious. Ramon lifted the hem of his white tee shirt to expose the scars he'd discovered on that first night. He ran his index finger over the highest and deepest of them. Jack didn't stir until Ramon was exploring the fourth or fifth mark that disappeared under the waist band of his boxers. Absently, Jack's hand batted Ramon's away then plopped down protectively just below his navel. His eyes were still closed.
"Jack," he said.
"Hmmm?" asked Jack sleepily, not opening his eyes and certainly not fully aware the question and answer session had not ended.
"These scars, how did you get them?"
When Jack didn't respond, Ramon took the waistband and pushed it down far, stopping just before he exposed him. Jack's right hand flashed into action once more. This time Ramon grabbed his wrist and slammed it violently to the bed, making sure to wrench hard on the tender and bruised skin.
"Ahhh," Jack exclaimed and opened his eyes to see what the hell Ramon was up to. Ramon's left hand still held tightly to his wrist, his right was examining one of the lower marks. When Jack lifted his head, the earlier vertigo reared again with the sudden movement and his stomach churned. "What?" Jack asked, simply wanting Ramon to release his wrist and let him sleep before he was sick again.
"What are these scars from?"
"Interrogation," Jack answered barely audibly without forethought. Or even afterthought as he tried to drift off again without realizing what he'd said.
Interrogation? Now that was interesting. Ramon studied the marks further, noting some were healed ragged cuts, some where definitely burns, and up this close, he could discern the easily identifiable marks of tazer prongs. Tazers didn't usually leave marks…unless they'd been modified and amplified beyond their usual limits. He wasn't unfamiliar with that trick.
"Jack," he said, slapping him gently on the cheek to arouse him. Although he didn't want to wake him—Ramon didn't think a fully awake Jack would have given up that one word answer so readily. "Why were you being interrogated?"
"Interrogated?" Jack asked.
"Yes," Ramon pressed on, "you said the scars were from an interrogation. What did they want?"
He woke up slightly, realizing he'd said something he didn't remember even saying.
"Who?"
Ramon lost his patience and hit Jack hard across the face. "Enough, Jack," he shouted thinking Jack might now be playing him. "Who interrogated you? When and why?" He was less certain he was being played when Jack seemed to perk up only to roll quickly to the side of the bed and vomit onto the floor. He sagged there a few moments on his belly, his arm flopped limply over the edge of the bed, until he rolled back to where he'd been.
Jack felt more alert after he'd emptied his stomach again. Alert enough to know he'd fucked up and needed a story, but not clear enough to concoct a decent one on the spot.
"Two years ago," he mumbled, wiping at his face with his forearm.
Two years? He thought the reports said he'd been thrown out of the army more than two years ago. His background check didn't note any jobs he'd picked up that would put him in a position to be interrogated. For now, Ramon let him continue, but he was slightly preoccupied with the discrepancy.
"…was captured. They wanted information…." Jack paused.
"Information?" Ramon pressed, wondering if Jack needed another 'hit' of motivation to keep going. But Jack's eyes were opened and he was looking at the ceiling in thought. Ramon suspected he'd be getting no further unconsidered responses.
"Yeah," Jack continued. "They wanted to know where something was." His eyes closed again. Special Ops, terrorist cell, he rehearsed.
Jack was saved from continuing by a knock on the door. "Ramon," Hector called, before walking in. "It stinks in here Ramon," he complained, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
Ramon looked irritated at the interruption and the comment. He was short with his brother. "What do you want Hector?"
"That phone call is coming through in thirty minutes. I'd thought you'd like to discuss what we are going to offer before we spoke with them."
Now Ramon was irritated with himself for forgetting…for letting Jack distract him from the work of the cartel. He looked at the sleeping figure next to him on the bed. Jack was out again. Maybe he would need to take a different approach with Jack to finish this. He was finished for today in any case.
"Heroin?" Hector asked, referring to why Jack was out.
"No, I gave him a barbiturate—not too different from the old fashioned truth serum."
"Get anything," Hector sniffed, "besides the contents of his stomach?"
"Maybe, maybe not. Jack and I aren't finished yet." He'd wanted to play a little more with his semi-comatose friend. But Hector's presence had ruined the mood and he had work to do.
Ramon stood and found the cuffs and this time attached Jack's left arm to the bed. He suspected Jack would be miserable enough in the morning without his bad wrist hurting.
Three days of a constant high were likely more than enough to get him hooked again—especially since he'd only quit weeks ago. By the time of their next session, Jack should be nicely in the throws of withdrawal. From now on, he'd have to earn his next fix.
"Hector," he said, taking his brother's arm and walking with him towards the door. "Have Tomas bring me the background check he put together on Jack for us. I need to do a little reading."
Jack and he were not anywhere close to being finished.