Chapter Fifteen
Prisoners to rage.
It’s funny how fluid time seems when things just work out for you. Like the steady dripping of water, the parts of my plan had fallen into place. The time between staring at the tattoo on the man’s arm in the Ashburn video and the moment of sitting in the warehouse, looking up at the owner of the tattoo now chained to the rafters, had slid by.
I had never been the torturing type. I was no black-ops, government goon waterboarding anyone who looked suspicious. It was immoral, it was stupid, but above all, it was ineffective.
As a cop working in one of the most dangerous cities in the world, I’d learned that if you push someone hard enough they will tell you anything, whether it’s true or not. But if you want real results, interrogation had to be thirty
