“She wears you out, man, you send her straight to me, okay? I wouldn’t mind being toyed with by a pleasant piece of pussy like that.”

It turns out that Sloane was only half the issue with Julio, and once he’d decided she wasn’t a threat, he moved swiftly onto his other concern: Charlie.

“I’m going to need you with me today, Zeth. I need you to explain to me why you’ve run away from home like a dog with its tail between its legs. Plus, your help wouldn’t go amiss. I have some business to attend to.”

There wasn’t much I could do or say to refuse him. If I did, it would only make me look guilty as fuck. “Fine. Happy to help.” Happy to bury a bullet in the back of your head. Happy to set this place on fucking fire and dance around the resulting blaze like a crazed mad man. “What kind of business you got?”

“Is there more than one kind?” he’d said, shrugging. And that’s how we ended up in his basement.

I’ve never been down here before. No, a man’s basement is typically the place where they keep their darkest shit. If you end up in the basement, you’re either inner circle or you’re royally fucked. I’m hoping for the first, but in all honesty the later is more likely. The lower level is a series of small rooms, bare concrete boxes with no furniture and naked light bulbs dangling from the ceiling. It’s clear what goes on down here—I’m not even faintly shocked when I see the drain grates in the centre of each empty room as we walk by. In the third room we pass, a hospital bed has been set up and Andres Medina is laid out on it, hooked up to an IV with his right arm in a cast. He’s watching television, but his face is set into a permanent scowl—he’s definitely still mad that I kicked his ass. I didn’t know I’d broken his arm, though. That makes me deliriously fucking happy. Bitch should never have laid a finger on Sloane. Andreas notices us passing and tries to sit up, but we’re already gone by the time he shouts something offensive and Spanish down the corridor after us.

We pass more open doorways, until we reach one at the far end of the corridor that’s locked. I already know who’s inside that room. I haven’t forgotten about the guy Julio found spying on his girls outside the compound, and I haven’t forgotten the photos Julio showed me, either. Michael is behind that door, and I’m praying to all that’s holy that he’s still alive or I’m gonna blow my cover right here and right now and kill every last motherfucker within reach. I’ll probably die trying, but knowing that doesn’t change much. I won’t be able to control myself. And then everything really will be fucked. Sloane. I won’t be able to protect her if I’m dead.

“Teo, get the door,” Julio orders the other guard who was with Andreas when I arrived at the compound. Teo’s not like Andreas, though. He does as he’s told without voicing his fucking opinion over even the slightest thing. And he doesn’t seem to hate me the same way Andreas does. He just does his job and keeps his trap shut. This might make most people think he is less of a threat to someone like me, but actually the opposite is true. Andreas has shown me his hand. I know what’s going on in his head every time I fucking look at the guy. I have no idea what’s going on in Teo’s head. That makes him an unknown. A threat.

Teo’s all business as he opens up the door, and I brace myself for whatever we’re going to find on the other side. Am I gonna be killing a bunch of people in a second? Or am I gonna be putting my acting face on? Julio’s bulk blocks my view for a second, but then I see.

Michael.

Sitting on an armchair, hands cuffed together in front of him, watching television. There’s no other furniture in the room besides the chair and the television, resting on a splintering wooden stand. He doesn’t look up at us when we walk in. Just sits erect in his chair, eyes focused on the screen. Julio’s photos of Michael, taken when they captured him, had showed that they’d taken a pot shot or two already—he’d had a nasty black eye and a split lip—and I’d made the assumption that they would continue with their persuasion, but, weirdly, it looks as though I was wrong. He’s fine. Okay, not fine, fine, but they haven’t roughed him up any more. His black eye is a vivid purple against the coffee color of his skin, but the outer edges have begun to take on a jaundiced yellow, and his lip has had time to scab over. Julio lumbers into the room, pausing to take a moment to assess the TV set.

“America’s Next Top Model, huh? You gay, ese?” Julio asks in a conversational tone, as though he’s genuinely interested in Michael’s sexual orientation.

Michael, my boy, my right hand, smirks out of the corner of his mouth and raises one eyebrow. “Yes. That’s why I was checking out all those girls you got locked up here. ’Cause I’m gay.”

Julio snorts, nodding his head slowly. Michael finally peels his indifferent gaze away from the TV and rakes it over Julio and me, and the a silent Teo behind us. His expression doesn’t falter when he sees me. I’m cheering like a fucking moron on the inside. Seriously. Most people would twitch or something—would show some sign of recognition—but not Michael. He knows the drill here.

“Well,” Julio says, “I suppose it’s a good insight into how chicks’ brains work, I guess. You learned anything interesting yet?”

“That they’re all crazy bitches?” Michael rubs his nose with the back of his hand, apparently at ease in his surroundings. He’ll have been like this since they put him down here, which has undoubtedly been driving them, especially Andreas, stark raving mad. The problem is, a random perve busted for spying on chicks taking a shower wouldn’t react this calmly. They’d probably be shitting their pants. They may not have anything on Michael, but his attitude is telling them enough all by itself. He’s not just some pervert. He’s someone. He’s someone that someone else will eventually miss. Julio walks to Michael’s chair and picks up the remote. He switches off the set, which causes Michael to suck in a tired breath and pivot in his seat, so that his body is finally facing us.