Survival ( Book 2: Stronger Series )

33. Torture

"What?! Darren, no! Please, listen to me!" I screamed in absolute shock and panic. "I had nothing to do with-"

"Shut up," Darren cut me off, his voice low and dangerous. "I've heard enough."

"No! Just listen to me for one sec-"

Darren yanked me to him by my throat as he squeezed tighter than ever, practically lifting me off the ground. "If I hear one more fucking word come out of your mouth ..." He didn't have to finish his threat, just glared at me with the promise of something even more horrible than what I was already going to experience. I gulped back my tears and just lowered my watery eyes to the ground. "Now move," he ordered.

He turned me around and led me down toward the back of the house by the nape of my neck. His men followed, carting the poor gardener as he yelled and pleaded in Spanish. Terror consumed my entire being as I shook from head to toe, chills running up my spine with goosebumps forming along my arms. I didn't say another word, fear controlling my every move now, though, I wanted to continue my protest. Something very bad was about to happen, and I had a strong feeling I was going to be a part of it.

Eventually, we made our way through the trees and came to a rather large looking shed like structure. Darren punched in a code that was to the right of the door, but the bulk of his body blocked my vision from catching it. When he pushed the door open, he pulled me inside while the miserable party behind us followed.

The room around me was dim with only a few ceiling lights to reveal the area. Concrete walls surrounded us with a dirty cement floor beneath my feet. Darren then pulled me over to the side of the room, which almost resembled a single car garage, but when he reached down to the floor, he lifted up a secret door hidden under the cement.

The two cops pulled the gardener down the steps while he struggled with every step. The man with the sheriff's badge joined them, followed by Scott, Darren, and me, and Darren's guards in tow. The stairs were long and curved until we came to the bottom of what looked like an unfinished basement. More cinderblock walls, except for a white tiled wall in the corner of the room, dimly lit ceilings, and cemented floors with a drain in the middle of it. My stomach coiled as I realized there were chains hanging from the ceiling and hooks on the walls. There was also a large iron door in the middle of the wall, but I could not tell where it led.

Two chairs were placed about ten feet apart, and a metal table of various instruments I couldn't fully make out was set up beside the chair in the middle of the room. The chairs were not the same as the other. One was metal with rusted, dirty arms while the other looked more like a damn La-Z-Boy.

The cops practically threw the gardener onto the metal chair and immediately tied his hands and ankles to the frame of the chair. Darren still had me by my neck as he headed toward the other chair and nearly shoved me to the floor in front of it. He sat down and pulled me by my hair to perfectly position me on the floor between his legs.

I was going out of my mind with panic as tremors continued to hold my body prisoner, chills crawling up my skin. I quickly pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs securely. Darren held my hair in a tight grip to keep my head up to the horrible scene before me. When the cops finished securing the gardener to the chair, they stepped back and Darren's guards headed toward him, sick and twisted glints in their eyes.

"You need anything else?" the sheriff asked from behind us.

"No, I'll take it from here. Thank you, Hagen," Darren replied without taking his eyes off the gardener.

"Have fun," the sheriff said with sick enthusiasm and then headed back upstairs with his deputies. Scott remained in the corner of the room with his arms crossed as he stared ahead of us.