Page 9 of Covert Affections (Shadow Agents/PSI-Ops #5)

Chapter Nine

Jesse

Jesse strained against the chains binding him to the thick concrete wall.

He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d watched Samuel and the others making their escape.

All Jesse knew was that when he came to, he was chained.

By design, there were no windows or clocks in the area.

Nothing to measure the passing of time. Only the periodic visits from his tormentors.

It felt like forever.

His wrists were raw, the silver embedded in the restraints burning through his flesh, each movement bringing with it searing agony.

The tangy, metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth, and the smell of charred flesh filled his nose.

Every breath was pure torture, every movement a reminder of how battered his body was.

His eyes fluttered open momentarily, his vision blurred as he stared down at the blood pooling on the floor.

Over the smell of burnt flesh, he caught faint hints of the silver—something they’d been injecting him with since he’d first awakened to find himself being held captive.

The silver was meant to cause him pain and to slow his shifter healing abilities. It was doing its job well.

A long moan came from him, sending a sharp pain radiating down his neck. He suspected his jaw was broken in more than one place. It wasn’t the only broken thing on him. He knew he was drooling a mix of blood and saliva, but he didn’t have it in him to care.

The room they kept him in was deliberately cold. His breath fogged before him, a testament to the temperature. Just another way to wear him down.

Jesse knew the game well. After all, he’d been on their side too many times to count.

He’d been trained by The Corporation to be one of the best interrogators they had.

He was far better than Peters and Efren.

That was for damn sure. It never took Jesse weeks or months to get information from others.

Hell, it was rare that it took more than a few hours.

He was that good at what he did. He knew the best ways to break each and every kind of supernatural there was.

It also meant he was uniquely equipped to withstand most of what his tormentors dished out.

They knew as much, and they hated it. Hated that he didn’t fold or beg for mercy.

They’d grown creative, at least in their minds, with what they’d been doing to him.

In truth, it was nothing Jesse hadn’t seen before.

Since that hadn’t been going according to plan, they’d taken the route of deprivation. Of starving him and withholding basic necessities, like water. Jesse couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a drink. From how swollen his tongue felt, it had been days.

He pushed the thought from his mind, knowing if he focused too much on it, thirst could very well be his downfall. There was no fucking way he was going to give Peters and Efren the satisfaction of breaking him.

This new cocktail of drugs they’d been giving him felt like acid in his veins, burning away not just his strength but pieces of who he was.

He sagged against the chains, his head lolling forward.

Blood and sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision further.

Shadows flickered at the edges of his sight, the drugs fueling hallucinations he couldn’t shake.

He knew he was under the effects of the drugs and that his mind was playing tricks on him, but still, the flashes in his mind felt real.

Already, he’d thought Samuel, Benat, and Nick were in the cell with him—more than once—only to realize he was alone.

Then, there were the seemingly endless flashes from a past that never existed.

And the damn French-laced voice of the male speaking to him—telling him to obey orders , keep his head down, and not to question the process .

It was all too much.

Too confusing.

He was losing his mind.

Laughter filled the room, cutting through the haze and drawing him from his thoughts. “Samuel?”

The laughter increased, going from what sounded friendly to twisted. That wasn’t Samuel. Jesse knew that voice, and he hated its owner.

Efren.

Jesse clenched his teeth and forced himself to blink, shattering the vision.

When his gaze focused, he saw but tormentors, not allies.

Efren stood before him, an ever-present sneer plastered across his face, obscured partially by his ridiculous mustache.

He was flanked by Peters. Both men carried stun batons, the hum of electricity emanating from the weapons a warning of what was to come.

“The fucking cat looks a little worse for wear,” Efren taunted, circling Jesse like a buzzard over a carcass. “Not so tough now, are you?”

Peters snorted. “They always think they’re invincible, right until they’re not. We’ve had how many of them in here? None of them lasts forever. They always break.”

Jesse’s lip curled in a snarl, though it took every ounce of strength he had to lift his head. “Cut me loose,” he rasped, his voice hoarse from screaming earlier.

Efren tilted his head, feigning consideration. “Not until you tell us what we want to know. Where’s Samuel? Where did he take the test subjects?”

Hearing the bastard refer to innocent little children as test subjects enraged Jesse, breathing life into him. He spat blood onto the floor at Efren’s feet. “Don’t know. Wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

Efren’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with sadistic glee. “We’ll see about that.”

Peters stepped forward, swinging the baton into Jesse’s ribs with a sickening crack. Pain flared through Jesse’s chest, and he made sure to remain silent. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of giving any indication what they were doing hurt.

Peters leaned in close, his cheap cologne—the kind that hadn’t been popular since the eighties—mixing with the smell of blood and the old pine air freshener hanging just outside the cell.

The thing was long past its prime and smelled nothing like pine anymore.

Jesse suspected it had been put there at one point in time to chase away the smell of piss and blood.

Then again, it could have been there to mask the smell of Peters and Efren, who both stunk.

The blows came in relentless waves. Stun batons crackled against his skin, sending volts of electricity surging through his body.

Fists and boots came next, every strike designed to inflict maximum pain without killing Jesse.

Blood pooled beneath his feet, mixing with the sweat dripping from his battered body.

At some point, Jesse lost consciousness. It was a welcome relief. He woke to the sound of Efren’s laughter and the searing pain of a knife slicing across his chest. At some point, they’d stripped the tattered remnants of his clothing, leaving him naked, exposed, and vulnerable.

“Where are they?” Efren demanded again, his voice a low growl.

Jesse raised his head, his one good eye narrowing. “Who?”

“Don’t try to be cute,” warned Peters.

Jesse’s lips drew into a partial smile, causing them to split more. He didn’t care. “Can’t help it. I was born this cute. Unlike you, you ugly fuck.”

Efren slammed the baton against Jesse’s temple, and the cell seemed to tilt. Jesse’s chains rattled as he strained against them again, adrenaline spiking despite his weakened state. He felt the bolts in the wall groaning under the pressure.

“Careful, Efren,” Peters said, mock concern dripping from his tone. “You don’t want to kill him before we get answers.”

Efren grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m just warming up. He’s gonna tell me where Samuel took my little sweet thing if it’s the last fucking thing he does.”

At the mention of “little sweet thing,” Jesse’s gaze hardened and red seeped into his vision. Rage filled him, leaving him yanking against the chains more. This time, one of the bolts gave way. As it did, Peters’ and Efren’s laughter died.