Redemption Song (Daniel Faust #2)(30)
“Yeah? Then why not put a bullet in me right now?”
“That, I will tell you,” Sullivan said with a smile. “I have unfinished business with your ‘Caitlin.’ You’re going to help me destroy her. The one noble act of your misspent life. It might even be enough to earn your salvation, though I honestly doubt it.”
As the limo turned towards faint lights in the distance, I looked for a way out. So far, I wasn’t finding one.
A Spanish mission waited at the end of the line. Its crumbling adobe walls stood against time and the barren desert. A bell rang out as we pulled through the wrought-iron front gates, chiming from a tower high in the old central villa. A ragged handful of men and women came out to greet us. They closed and locked the gate behind the limo. Most of them carried guns.
Rough hands hauled me out of the car and slammed me against the hood. They kept my arms pinned behind my back as they rifled my pockets, taking my wallet, my phone, and my deck of cards. Alvarez got the kid-glove treatment. One of the cambion patted him down gently, just to be safe, but he did it with an apology on his lips.
“You don’t actually think,” I said, “that I’m going to help you hurt Caitlin.”
Sullivan tapped the tip of his walking stick against the dusty asphalt. “I don’t plan on giving you a choice in the matter. This is a kindness, really. Eventually, she’d betray you, just as she betrayed me. That’s what whores do.”
The limo driver had my arms pinned, but that didn’t stop me from lifting my shoe and smashing it down on the arch of his foot. He yelped, his grip slipping, and that was all I needed to get loose and charge at Sullivan, cocking a fist.
Stupid move. I didn’t even see it coming. He stepped to one side, graceful as a falling leaf, and the mahogany stick lashed out with the speed of a bullwhip. It hit me across the stomach, and the air gusted from my lungs. I stumbled. He whipped the stick around and into the back of my knees, sending me tumbling into the dust.
He wasn’t done with me yet. Every whistling slash of the stick was a precision blow, eye-watering agony and scarlet welts blossoming in their wake. He said something, but I couldn’t hear it, couldn’t do much of anything but writhe on the ground, cover my head with my arms, and try to escape the relentless beating.
It finally stopped. Alvarez had Sullivan by the wrist. Sullivan could have torn him limb from limb, but he lowered his hand, gentle as a lamb.
“Please,” Alvarez said. “Don’t.”
Sullivan nodded. “Apologies, Father. I…have a bit of a temper. You were right to rebuke me. Gentlemen, please escort that to a holding cell.”
I spat blood into the dust. It tasted like tarnished pennies. A couple of Sullivan’s goons hauled me to my feet, and I didn’t have the strength to argue.
“Father,” I wheezed. “Don’t tell these bastards anything. They are not your friends—”
Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Please, Mr. Faust. Have the dignity to know when you’ve been defeated. Now come along, Father. I’d like to give you a tour. Our facilities are humble, but I think you’ll be impressed…”
? ? ?
I wasn’t sure who I was angrier at, Sullivan or myself. Losing my temper and giving him the bum-rush was a stupid, stupid move. I knew what Caitlin was capable of in a fight. I should have known Sullivan would be just as dangerous.
Sullivan’s goons tossed me in a dusty storage room with a thick oak door and a high barred window too small for a toddler to squeeze through. I lay on the cold flagstone floor, listening to the squeal of rats in the dark and drowning in a dull, throbbing ache. Sullivan had intended on inflicting pain, not damage. Nothing was broken. I’d just be feeling the aftermath of the beating for days, wearing the red stripes he’d painted across my skin. That, and seeing his gloating face in my mind’s eye.
I’m not sure how I slept, but I did. I woke from fitful dreams to a world of fresh pain and groaned as I forced myself to sit up. With the light of dawn streaming through the barred window, at least I could see where they’d left me to rot. An antique standing mirror with an oblong brass frame gathered dust in one corner, across from a jumble of wooden packing crates probably forgotten about back when this place was still a mission. A quick peek confirmed my suspicions and the stench of mildew wrinkled my nose. The crates were packed with brown monks’ robes, the burlap-like fabric long since disintegrated to uselessness.
Not much to go on. I thought about an impromptu ritual, but seeing as my captors hadn’t bound and gagged me—a basic precaution, when you’ve got a sorcerer on your hands—I had to figure Sullivan would be sniffing for stray magical energy on his home turf. They’d be on me before I even came close to getting a spell off, not that I had any of the gear I needed to really brew up something potent.
The dark arts weren’t going to get me out of this mess, but there was more than one kind of magic. I’d tried doing things the dumb way. Now I needed to play it smart.
I started to sweat as the sun crested over the mountains. The cramped stone room was a broiler in the desert heat, and nothing but the glare of the sun came in through that miserly little window. Maybe an hour later, the door rattled. I braced myself.
The kid who came in had a plastic tray in one hand and a gun in the other. He looked eighteen, maybe nineteen, wearing a Warped Tour T-shirt and khaki shorts with flip-flops. I sat on the floor and held up my open hands, trying to look harmless.