Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

When they entered the room, Rafael saw, backed against a wall but attached by the wrists to ceiling chains, Captain Raul Monteiro, Sarah, and an older man he didn’t know, though his face looked familiar.

Next to the group, dressed in black like most of the agents, was an individual Rafael instantly recognized. It was the Pole. Staughton and Thompson dragged Rafael over to the others, and locked both his wrists to a metal ring linked with the ceiling chains. Barnes’s two agents left the room. Now the detainees were at the mercy of the assistant and the Pole.

Rafael looked at Sarah, searching for signs of torture. Nothing-they hadn’t even touched her yet. He was afraid they’d taken her somewhere else. They’d been separated during the flight, and from then on, he didn’t know what had happened to her or her father.

The captain showed no sign of mistreatment, either, nor did the man next to him, whom he still could not identify. The assistant was the first to speak.

“Finally we’re all here.”

“Isn’t there anything to eat?” Rafael asked.

The assistant ignored the provocation.

“My deepest apologies for the treatment you have received, but I assure you it will all be over very soon.”

“Who are you?” Rafael asked the older man.

“I’m Marius Ferris. And you?”

“Marius Ferris. The one in the photo,” Rafael said, finally recognizing him. “My name’s Rafael.”

“We all know why we’re here, so let’s get straight to the point. Where are the papers?” the assistant asked.

On the only table in the room was a black suitcase, which the servant opened at that moment, handling the various cutting tools inside. They were torture devices capable of producing a confession from even the most stalwart. In some cases, simply displaying these terrible instruments was enough to make the detainees crumble.

“The papers are in a safe place,” Rafael asserted.

“They’ll be much safer with us,” the assistant countered. “Be reasonable. Isn’t it better to end this as soon as possible and avoid more suffering?”

Silence was their only answer. The assistant waited a few more minutes. Someone might give up. After all, it was unlikely that all four of them would be prepared to be tortured for something that didn’t directly concern them. But nobody said a word.

All right. He would start with Sarah’s father, since perhaps this could put psychological pressure on his daughter, forcing her to talk.

“Take care of the military man,” he ordered the servant.

Sarah’s startled eyes revealed her dread, her greatest fear. They were going to be tortured and would end up having the truth forced out of them, if not right away, then later, when they couldn’t stand it anymore.

The servant wielded an instrument like a lathe, its blade about a half inch wide and eight inches long, meant to pierce the skin and cause pain but not to harm any vital organ except by special intent. He slashed the captain’s shirt, exposing his torso. He aimed directly at the right side of his stomach, resting the sharp point on the skin.

A heartrending scream of agony announced the metal’s piercing of the flesh and cutting in a revolving path inside the body, producing acute, excruciating pain. The relentless point came out through his ribs. Very slowly, the torturer’s extremely steady hand withdrew the instrument. The damage was done, to the captain’s body and to the mental states of both Sarah and Marius Ferris, who watched, horror stricken. The suffering showed on the captain’s sweat-drenched face, contorted with pain.

“And now? Would someone like to say something?” the assistant asked. “Isn’t it starting to seem better to have us take care of the papers?”

“What would seem better to me is a nice hamburger,” Rafael suggested.

The assistant approached him, stone-faced, eyeing him directly.

“Is there something else you’d like to share with us?”

“With cheese, extra cheese. And smothered with ketchup.”

The assistant held his stare, inches away from Rafael’s face.

“I think Jack needs an appetizer. Something to remind him of what he shouldn’t do to his mates.” He signaled the servant. “Like betray them, for instance. That’s a no-no.” He stepped back to make way for the servant, who still held the terrible torture instrument he’d used on Raul.

Rafael didn’t change his sarcastic tone. He was well aware that the two men knew he was no ordinary person. They could tear him to shreds if they wanted, and he would let them kill him without saying a word. But that couldn’t save him from torture.

“Aren’t you going to clean the blood off that gadget?” he asked the Pole. “I could get an infection.” He turned to Raul. “No offense, Captain.”

“You can’t imagine the pleasure it’ll give me to cut you up, piece by piece, and watch you bleed like a pig until your last breath,” the torturer said, his face very close to Rafael’s, making sure he caught every word.

“At your disposal,” Rafael responded, “whatever you want.”

The servant answered the provocation, spitting in his face. There were many things he wanted to say, but it was better to concentrate his rage on the tool he was holding in his hand. The Pole savagely tore Rafael’s shirt, scattering most of the buttons on the floor.

“Stop that. Nobody here is going to gut anybody.”

The female voice filled the room, by surprise, catching everyone’s attention. All heads turned to look at the one who had spoken with such unqualified firmness.

“It’s a pleasure to see there’s one sensible person in the room, and that she has decided to be merciful to her companions,” the assistant said, facing Sarah, the one who expressed herself so unexpectedly.

“It’s hard to find anyone with any sense in this room,” she answered convincingly. “Tell your friend to back off.”

The assistant hesitated a few seconds, but finally ordered the servant to step back.

“Start talking,” he ordered.

“No, not yet. I’ll tell you everything you want to know, but-”

“Shut up,” Rafael interrupted her.

“You can’t do it, Sarah,” her father pleaded in a weak voice.

The servant hit Rafael with a well-aimed, painful smack.

“Shut up. Let her talk.”

“Please continue,” the assistant asked Sarah, regaining control of the situation.

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” Sarah repeated, “but only to the one in charge.”

“What?” The assistant seemed startled. “I’m the one in charge here.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re only an employee,” Sarah staunchly contradicted him. “What I know, I’ll tell J.C., and no one else.”

The Pole was astonished.

“Who do you think you are, giving orders here?”

A look from the assistant made him stop. Sarah was playing her card. She had earned that right.

“J.C. won’t speak with you. It’s better for you to say whatever you have to say now.”

“You want something that we have. I’m ready to give it to you, but that’s my condition and it’s not negotiable. I’ll only talk to J.C. Otherwise, you can continue with your torture until you kill us all. Nobody will say anything.”

The assistant walked over to Sarah, took out a gun with a silencer, and balanced it on her forehead.

“Who do you think you are, making demands on me?” His voice had a chilling tone, a mix of anger and impatience. “Haven’t you realized your situation? You’re in no position to demand anything. Tell me what you know.”

“If there’s anybody here who can demand anything, it’s me. I may be in chains, but if that’s the case, it’s because I’ve got what you want,” Sarah said defiantly. “Take the gun off my forehead and do what I say. Call J.C.”