The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 12: Situation Desperate (Part 3 of 8)

They brought him to the lounge on the main deck. Aaron wasn't far behind him. Maxwell might have thought they had taken him somewhere else, except for the occasional sob that escaped the frightened boy.

With his hands clasped behind his neck, the mercs presented him to their boss like he was a prize fish they had just hauled up from the deep. Benicio Terrealba sat with his legs set wide apart on a coffee-colored sofa. In his hand was a cut crystal glass of tequila. On his smug face was a pathetic starter mustache.

Had Emily really slept with this little turd?

"So are you the one that has been causing me so much trouble? Or perhaps you're just a lackey sent by my foe?" He took a deep drink and put the empty glass down. "A lackey, I think."

He stood up, straightening his overly tight pants. The navy blue fabric clung to the undefined contours of his legs. There was a saunter in his step that wouldn't be there if a pistol wasn't pressed against the back of Maxwell's head.

The fucker wouldn't be able to walk if there wasn't a gun on me.

He came over and examined his captive's face with amusement. With three armed guards, Torrealba truly felt he had the upper hand.

He pulled Aaron forward. Roughly tugging him into motion with a grip on his shoulder. "Go sit down."

The boy didn't move. He only let out a soft groan. Torrealba shoved him toward the sofa. "Callarse. I said, go." Aaron scampered to the corner seat.

The bearded mercenary, who seemed to be in charge of the trio said, "He had these on him." He made a beckoning gesture and the youngest of the group, dumped Maxwell's belongings on the table. The man looked nervous. His baby face was coated with a sheen of sweat. As soon as the items were disposed of, he retreated to stand by the door.

Benicio Torrealba poked through Maxwell's belongings. He ignored the Glock and gravitated toward the commando knife.

"What have we here? Very nice." He held it up to the light appreciating the blade.

With a quick and clumsy motion, he placed the knife up to Maxwell's face. "Now you are going to tell me who you work for, comprender?" Slowly, Torrealba dragged the blade across the upper side of his cheekbone.

Maxwell didn't flinch from the pain. Did the fool think he'd wither under so light a scratch? After all the things he had endured in his career. Heck, after all the things he had endured in his years with Bertrand, this was barely a paper cut.

He could have stood there stoically and taken worse, but instead, he made them think he was weaker than that. He sucked his breath in loudly and recoiled. The gun pressed into his scalp moved, as the guard readjusting to the sudden change in distance. The idiot's misguided instincts made him move off to give Torrealba room to work. There was no doubt that the pistol was still cocked and aimed, but it was an improvement.

Maxwell looked up at the pampered playboy playing master criminal with quivering fear in his eyes. "Please don't. You're right. I was just hired to get the boy."

"Who do you work for?"

Maxwell acted the scared rabbit as the knife hovered by his eye, but he didn't say anything.

"Come, come. Do I need to blind you, to get you to talk? I admit, it sounds like fun, but I would hate to have to replace the carpet."

There was a tittering from the men. It was a strange half-laugh that didn't seem natural.