Pedro Carver screamed in pain or he tried to, as the tiny metal rod was inserted into his hip for the umpteenth time, and he was tied to the chair, his hands secured behind him with a long, thick, juicy, rope.
The rod was violently twisted as it was still inside his hip, eliciting another muffled scream before it was abruptly pulled out with force, blood gushing from the injury, his body buckling from the pain.
An abandoned warehouse was where this torture was taking place, six tough-looking men all around the badly beaten Pedro who was sobbing quietly from the pain. The warehouse stank of rubbish, with dust caking the floors, and smelled like a moldy cake with spoiled rice mixed in. If anybody was outside, they wouldn't be able to hear inside the warehouse due to the heavy wind.
Pedro was a huge mess, his face swollen and bruised with claw marks and cigarette burns, a tooth was out of his incisors and made him look ridiculous and stupid at the same time. His shirt was torn and riddled with holes, his chest was wide open and had, what looked to be cigarette burns marked rapidly all over his chest and looked raw and fresh. Welts, the size of fleas, were also consistent in his body, noticeable on his chest.
His hips were covered with small wounds from where the rods had pierced him, three fingernails were gone from each hand and the bloody gag around his neck dripped with saliva from all the screams he had bellowed in the echoing warehouse.
The six men who were certainly torturing him, wore white jackets with a shark on the back, a hammerhead shark tattoo on their necks, and an emotionless look on their faces as they did what they were ordered to.
A man suddenly stepped out of the shadow, dressed in a tuxedo, a good watch on his arm, a hammerhead shark tattoo on his neck, and half of his face was burned, really burned. He looked like a certain comic book character, but anybody who had ever joked or said the resemblance hadn't lived to tell the tale.
He walked with purpose, moving to the front of the room, the six thugs making way for him to pass. Pedro scowled in anger, although it was not visible due to the cloth muffled in his mouth. He knew who that person was.
The man in the suit reached him and then sat in the chair across from him, still staring at him without saying a word, his emotionless black eyes boring into Pedro's scared and furious eyes. He gazed at Pedro again before leaning forward.
"I'm going to remove the cloth from your mouth." The nan finally spoke, his voice deep but smooth like butter. "You try to bite me or spit on my face you get a bullet to your left hip, you do it again, to the right hip, again, to the groin. Is that understood?"
Pedro glared at him with hatred before reluctantly nodding. The man, seeing the gesture, stretched out a well-manicured hand, free from calluses, and pulled the cloth from his mouth gently.
Pedro immediately gasped and sucked in fresh air into his lungs then he elicited deep coughs for a minute before he settled.
The man leaned back and relaxed, still staring at the enraged Pedro then he spoke again. "You're a hard man to find, Pedro. I must say I'm impressed that you were on the run for so long. If only you hadn't become horny and gone to see your baby mama, I don't think we would have been able to catch you."
"Belikov," Pedro snarled. "I should have known it was you all along. How much? How much did you pay Mira to turn on me?"
"Pay?" Belikov muttered as if he was thinking before he looked up. "I didn't pay a dime and I'm sure you know that. My dick turned and broke that bitch of yours into becoming a snitch. I must say, she was freaky. Really freaky."
"What do you want for me, Belikov?" Pedro snarled at him, rage in his eyes.
"You know exactly what we want," Belikov replied quietly. "We gave you ten million dollars to craft a huge batch of Ahegro pills in Colombia. We know they were discreetly exported out of the courtyard and into the States. We know you stashed them somewhere and we want you to tell us now."
"Kiss my ass! Fucking Burnface." Pedro spat at him. "Fuck you!"
Belikov gazed at him for a moment before sighing and then looking over to the thug on the right. The thug understood the message instantly, stepping forward and driving his fist into Pedro's jaw without an ounce of hesitation, the latter grunting in pain.
"Look," Belikov sighed again as if he was bored out of his mind. "You and I both know you don't deserve this pain you're experiencing right now. Now, I'm not sure if the disappearance of the stash is because you grew a backbone or if you grew a conscience. I don't fucking care, what I want is the stash and where you hid it."
Pedro gritted his teeth, he had no choice. He had to give it up. After everything he had done to stay away, one big move and he's on the verge of death. Just as he was about to open his mouth, a car burst into the warehouse, guns blazing. Belikov sprang up from the chair in surprise, bullets targeting where he had recently sat. Pedro, sensing danger forced himself to fall on the floor with the chair.
"Fucking Hammerheads!" A man in the front seat of the car yelled. "Get the fuck out of our territory, you scum!"
"Shit!" A Hammerhead thug cursed, returning fire. Immediately, the warehouse erupted into chaos, each gang ducking and firing bullets at one another. "It's the fucking Raptors. How the hell did they find us? We were careful!"
Belikov's eyes widened as he dove to a container. 'These bastards are dumb. How on earth will they use a Raptors hideout? Are they out of their senses?'
The air was thick with smoke, the metallic tang of gunpowder clinging to every breath. Shell casings clattered like rain, and the warehouse seemed alive with violence. The Raptors used their car as cover as they fired at the Hammerheads, the latter retaliating while ducking behind wooden crates.
Belikov, standing at the edge of the melee, turned sharply at a faint sound behind him—a rope snapping, a chair scraping. His eyes widened.
Pedro.
The man he had bound, the one whose secrets he had been prying loose, was gone. The ropes lay slack on the floor, the chair overturned. A trail of scuffed footprints led toward the shadows of a side door, already swinging shut.
For a heartbeat, Belikov forgot the gunfight raging around him. Rage and disbelief surged through his chest. He had been so focused on the gangs tearing each other apart that he hadn't noticed Pedro slipping free.
"Fuck!" He cursed quietly in anger. "That fucking bastard!"