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SIXTY-NINE

NICK

I focus on the water flow drowning my nasal cavities. After several seconds, I open my mouth and spit out the water, then close it and refocus on the water flow.

This is waterboarding at its finest. But only someone with military background knows how to do it properly, like this—making sure the water goes into my sinuses, not the lungs. And these two are doing it with a timer—it’s government protocol. I’ve read about this many times, did proper research, just like I did on the illegal nerve agent drug I buy off the Dark Web.

When Julien counts down to one, the cloth is lifted off my face. I spit the water out of my mouth as hard as I can, aiming for his face, then snort some of it out, and force a laugh.

“Morons,” I hiss. “What, your little trick doesn’t work?”

I used to be a swimmer in high school, a damn good one. Could have been a state champion if it weren’t for the chronic sinus infection that I had to have surgery for. I left swimming behind, but the surgery did wonders for my sinuses. In fact, professional swimmers go through special training, learning underwater breathing techniques. But of course these stupid idiots don’t know that.

I laugh into Julien’s face, then swish saliva and water in my mouth and spit at him.

“Moron,” I growl. “Good luck trying.”

I can see slight disappointment crossing his face. No, not that—he’s puzzled. Good. I’m a fucking genius. I’ve dealt with worse in my life, way worse than two guys on a wanna-be- Mission-Impossible quest trying to get all I’ve worked so hard for since college.

“I need the passkeys,” Julien says more intensely now, like a parrot on repeat.

Suck it! He’s better at flying past my radar with his botched management company and probably a fake name.

I force another laugh into his face, though my eyes burn from water, and so do my sinuses. He’ll pay for this, I promise.

The gardener makes a move toward me with the soaking wet fabrics, but Julien stops him.

“In different circumstances,” he says, his tone not even slightly changed, “I could work on you slowly and with less physical damage. But I’m afraid we are running out of time. And you deserve the worst, Nick.” He nods to the gardener. “Ready?”

The gardener grabs a black bundle on the side of the bathroom counter and unrolls it.

My sight is blurry from the water, and my head is dizzy, but I catch a glimpse of what’s inside that cloth—a row of stainless-steel objects, including knives, scalpels, and pliers. The ceiling light playfully reflects off their dangerously sharp steel edges.

I can deal with water, sleep deprivation, and punches. But not knives, pliers, and god knows what these two psychos are capable of.

My bladder goes weak, and I clench my jaw, hoping that I survive this, though I know already that these will be the worst minutes of my life.

But the gardener takes out matches.

“What’s that?” I choke out.

“This,” the gardener says, “is a match.” No shit . He holds one in the air. “It will be inserted into your most private and sensitive organ.”

His eyes drop to my crotch, and sudden panic slams into me.

“Then, I will light the match,” he continues with sadistic satisfaction, making my breath catch in my throat at the terrifying visual. “And watch it burn as you scream in agony.”

An angry smirk curls his lips as my entire body goes weak with terror. Before I can stop it, my bladder gives way.