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I'm led through another set of heavy metal doors that require badge entry, and then into a small sitting room with three doors. One door is ajar, a voice coming from inside.
“Bring him in.” It's my father.
This room is a lot less ostentatious than his office back home, but the furniture is still expensive. There is a window to the outside, the first one I've seen so far, showing the colorful bands of a sunset.
How long have I been out? In my haze it didn’t occur to me to check my watch. It’s been nearly twelve hours.
Sitting on the small sofa instead of the chair directly in front of the desk, I wait for my father to lose his temper again. Although he's obviously unhinged and I know how dangerous he is, I need him to rant. Only then will I know if he found them. If he found her.
“Why am I here?” I don't bother putting on a show of respect. Not only do I want him to lose his cool, but I'm also beyond the ability to pretend. This man, my father, had me drugged and kidnapped so he can do who-knows-what to me in an attempt to get information about the girl I will die to protect.
His eyebrow lifts incredulously, which makes me think of Luis. He stands and walks around the desk, straightening and buttoning his suit jacket. Sitting on the edge of a seat across from me, he leans down to put his elbows on his knees, his green eyes dark and menacing.
“I've decided that since you are deliberately hiding my most expensive investment, you will continue in her place until you come to your senses and help me get her back.”
My heart rate increases, but I refuse to show any weakness by reacting. Now that I have the most important information, I couldn't care less what he does to me. She is safe. That's all that matters.
“You might want to order some of those scrubs in my size. I don't think the ones in my cell will fit me.”
His gaze levels with mine, staring me down hard, but I won't look away.
“Even if I wanted to tell you where she is, I couldn't. I don't know where she is now, or how to get in touch with her.”
This is only a partial lie. My phone will wipe itself if it's lost or stolen, so none of my numbers or information can be retrieved unless I call Tony. A fact that I don't plan on telling my father, not that he is likely to let me make outside calls. Even if the numbers were tortured out of me, the guys' phones can't be tracked and they would never turn her over.
His eyes go from menacing to ominous in a flash, wetting his lips as he struggles to contain his rage.
He takes a deep breath. “Very well.”
Standing again, he gestures abruptly. One guard grabs my arm roughly and unnecessarily, seeing as I can't exactly escape. They guide me out of the office and back down the hallways to the frosted glass rooms.
“Remove your shirt, please,” my father requests casually, standing on one side of the room as I am directed towards an adjustable chair similar to what would be found in a dentist's office.
Maintaining eye contact, I remove my jacket and unbutton my shirt. Although I'm sure whatever I'm about to be subjected to will be horrific, I am determined to show no weakness. It will take a lot to break me, but even then, he'll never get what he wants from me.
Pushing me into the chair, a woman in burgundy scrubs sticks electrodes to my chest. A blood pressure cuff is wrapped around my bicep, a pulse oximeter clipped to my middle finger. Finally, a white plastic cap is pulled over my head and strapped beneath my chin.
Once the nurse and another man in a white coat strap me securely to the chair and step away, my father finally speaks again.
“We are going to start by getting some baseline measurements. Then you will be subjected to a series of tests. These tests will range from simple recall to reactions to stimuli such as photos, questions, and physical stimulation.”
I was wondering how long it would take to get to the torture.
Everything starts off easy enough, but instead of relaxing and letting my guard down, I find myself more tense. Once they get their baselines, I'm asked to do simple math questions and identify stupid pictures, like rubber ducks and a groundhog of all things. But then the pictures switch to something much more sinister.
Flashing in front of me are projected images of Six. There are photos of her as a young girl, with her head shaved and bandaged from when they inserted the chip. Various pictures of her strapped to machines, dazed and nonreactive, and even more pictures where she is screaming, eyes wide with pain. More pictures of her slumped over with blood dripping from her nose.
Try as I might, there is no possible way for me to not react. My entire body tenses, my head pounds harder than before, heat rising to my face as I grip the arms of the chair.
Without warning, a jolt of electricity hits me from behind. My already tense body jerks, a sharp pain radiating from whatever hit me. My father stalks around the chair holding a cattle prod. My eyes narrow at him as he prods me twice in the stomach, the sharp ends of the electrodes cutting through my skin.
He nods curtly to someone behind me, and the worst part of the torture begins. Screams, blood-curdling cries of agony fill the room, and I know without a doubt that these are recordings of Six.
The throbbing in my head becomes almost unbearable as my blood pressure rapidly increases, the beeping of the monitors betraying my calm performance. Nausea threatens, as does the rising need to release my rage. I do everything I can to swallow my visceral reaction to seeing and hearing some of the atrocities they committed against her.
“Do you think you have feelings for her, son?” He taunts me, slowly walking around the chair, intermittently hitting me with the cattle prod. A quick jab to the neck makes me bite my tongue, my mouth filling with the coppery taste of blood.
I spit at him. “You'll never hear those screams again.”
