Marco stepped away and nodded at one of the cowboys, who picked up the baseball bat and swung it hard against Sixto’s standing leg.
Sixto grunted from the impact and jerked his foot off the ground. The wire around his wrists dug deep because of the added weight.
When he put his foot down, the cowboy swung the bat again, so hard he exhaled, “Pah!”
Sixto’s leg jerked up as he half-muffled a scream. Art watched the weight make Sixto’s arms sag, and one wrist suddenly bent so the hand pointed to the side. It looked dislocated.
“Please,” Sixto said.
Marco stood there looking at him, silent.
As Sixto lowered his foot, the cowboy cocked the bat. “No, please.” His foot touched the floor and the man swung again. Sixto screamed.
The garage was cool, but Art felt drops of sweat like small marbles running down his temples and along his neck. Fear of watching the torture made his heart hammer in his chest, and the fear that he would be next almost choked him.
Sixto began talking, and when he lowered his foot, the man didn’t hit him. He continued to talk, rambling often, but not stopping either. He told secrets and named names about people that su
rprised Art, and about weapons stashes and narcotics warehouses on both sides of the border. He told who his bosses were, and who the wives and children were, including where the children went to school.
Marco liked that.
When Sixto stopped after thirty minutes of continuous talking, the man swung the bat.
As Sixto screamed, Art felt he was in a nightmare and he would never awaken.
Sixto talked for another hour before stopping. The bat swung again and the tall captive went slack, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Marco nudged him, but Sixto didn’t respond, though still alive. “Take him down, toss him over there by his friend.” He looked at Art and said, “Get him awake, we’re not through yet.”
Art felt his face flush with anger as he said, “Do you have orders to do this? Who’s your boss? Do you know who I am, who I represent?”
Marco smiled, “We know who you are, Mister CIA. We were sent after you, and others are being sent after your friends.”
Art felt a different thread of fear, “Who?”
“Oh, the bigshot, what’s his name, and the female. They really want that one. Brought in six specialists just for her.” Marco had a thought, “Isn’t she the one they sing the song about in the corrida, El Lobo y la Tejana? I believe it is her.”
“Who’s your boss?” Art tried again.
“Why would I tell you?”
“Why not? I know you’re not letting us out of here alive.”
Marco cocked his head, “You never know. With the right information you could be dropped off in the desert somewhere, and alive, not dead. Now shut up.”
He walked toward the door that led into the house, saying over his shoulder to the two killers, “Let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry.”
The three men left the garage, taking the bat with them.
Art scrooched to Sixto’s side and saw the man was still out. He moved again and felt the clothes hanger wire in his cast, still hidden under his pants leg.
Watching the door, Art pulled out the wire. He used the tip to worry through the zipties on his wrists, with adrenaline adding to his speed. He cut through them, then checked the door again. Nothing.
He bent the wire back and forth at the midpoint until he had two pieces, then he doubled the wires so two ends were together. He folded the remainder on both to make small handles. Twisting the ends of each makeshift weapon together in a spiral reinforced the blade’s strength. He put one against the concrete at an angle and pushed it back and forth to grind down the metal, until the small weapon had a wicked nail-like point. He did the same with the other, until he had two shanks with three-inch blades.
Sixto said in a weak voice, “Where are they?”
“Hey, you’re awake.”