very startled. "What the hell you mean by that?"
"We are not the police, Senor, nor the feds. You seem to be under a mistaken impression. We took great pains to keep the cops out of this, since wedon't want them any more than you normally would."
At least something could get to the man. There was a glint of panic in his eyes now, but they were still mean, crazy.
"Who are you? Mafia?"
Markham chuckled. "Now, you know that there is no such thing as the Mafia. No, Senor, not the Mafia. We are far worse than the Mafia. We are the ones who use even organized crime as a tool. We're the ones behind every bush and in every shadow that you can never see out of the corner of your eye. You went a step too far this time, Senor. We don't like your business and we don't give a damn about your politics, for if you ever got big enough to take over a country you would find our strings upon your leaders as sure as they are on the ones you might overthrow. Do you know us now, Senor?"
The man's eyes widened and he looked at each of them. "Conquistadores!" he breathed.
"That is the name the smartest and slimiest of the dark corners of this world know us in your area," Markham admitted. "Your two employers have taken themselves out of the game. Maybe I'll let you see them at some point so you can see that there are those even more fanatical than you. Right now, though, I want some information."
"You can go to Hell!" the man snarled. "I will die rather than betray my comrades!"
Markham sighed and sat down and leaned back in a chair. Sam had already sat down facing the man but remained silent.
"That," said Markham softly, "is not an option."
He waved his hand in the air, and suddenly two small traps slid back in the ceiling out of which dropped two small ball-shaped devices, like tiny turrets, with pencil-like guns protruding from them. Suddenly the tips of both "barrels" glowed -one white, the other red-and they shifted until both were pointing directly at the prisoner's head, making tiny little dots of light on his hair. The man eyed them nervously and then tried to move his head to louse up their aim, but they followed his every move instantly-and he could only move so far.
Markham reached into his sports coat jacket and brought out a small device resembling an electric pager with two buttons on it, one red and one white.
"Now, let's start with the basics. I want your name. I hate to have a nice conversation with somebody and not know their name."
"Fidel Castro," the man responded bravely. Markham pressed the red button and suddenly the man screamed in pain, his face contorting in almost unbelievable horror, his body writhing against the bonds.
Markham's thumb came off the red button and the man suddenly seemed to collapse, sweating profusely. Sam found the whole thing unpleasant to watch, but this bastard had been one of them who had kidnapped his son, and God knows how many other people's kids he and his organization had hooked, or killed, or sentenced to a fate worse than death. Besides, there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it anyway.
"Madre Dios! Who.-what is that which you did?"
"Want me to do it again?"
"No, no!"
"There's a rule you probably know, and that is that nobody is unbreakable," Markham told him. "Sooner or later, everybody breaks. It's just a matter of time. That's why so many important people with things to protect will commit suicide or trigger self-lobotomies rather than be subjected to this. You, unfortunately, don't have that option. Those two little beams are very complicated devices and I must confess I don't understand how they work, but I know what they do and how to use them. The red one somehow stimulates the pain center directly-no intermediaries. It's quite level-sensitive, though, and now that we've used it once the computer driving it knows just where your pain threshold is and will keep it just a microscopic hair below your pass-out point. I could let that thing play almost indefinitely
"We are not the police, Senor, nor the feds. You seem to be under a mistaken impression. We took great pains to keep the cops out of this, since wedon't want them any more than you normally would."
At least something could get to the man. There was a glint of panic in his eyes now, but they were still mean, crazy.
"Who are you? Mafia?"
Markham chuckled. "Now, you know that there is no such thing as the Mafia. No, Senor, not the Mafia. We are far worse than the Mafia. We are the ones who use even organized crime as a tool. We're the ones behind every bush and in every shadow that you can never see out of the corner of your eye. You went a step too far this time, Senor. We don't like your business and we don't give a damn about your politics, for if you ever got big enough to take over a country you would find our strings upon your leaders as sure as they are on the ones you might overthrow. Do you know us now, Senor?"
The man's eyes widened and he looked at each of them. "Conquistadores!" he breathed.
"That is the name the smartest and slimiest of the dark corners of this world know us in your area," Markham admitted. "Your two employers have taken themselves out of the game. Maybe I'll let you see them at some point so you can see that there are those even more fanatical than you. Right now, though, I want some information."
"You can go to Hell!" the man snarled. "I will die rather than betray my comrades!"
Markham sighed and sat down and leaned back in a chair. Sam had already sat down facing the man but remained silent.
"That," said Markham softly, "is not an option."
He waved his hand in the air, and suddenly two small traps slid back in the ceiling out of which dropped two small ball-shaped devices, like tiny turrets, with pencil-like guns protruding from them. Suddenly the tips of both "barrels" glowed -one white, the other red-and they shifted until both were pointing directly at the prisoner's head, making tiny little dots of light on his hair. The man eyed them nervously and then tried to move his head to louse up their aim, but they followed his every move instantly-and he could only move so far.
Markham reached into his sports coat jacket and brought out a small device resembling an electric pager with two buttons on it, one red and one white.
"Now, let's start with the basics. I want your name. I hate to have a nice conversation with somebody and not know their name."
"Fidel Castro," the man responded bravely. Markham pressed the red button and suddenly the man screamed in pain, his face contorting in almost unbelievable horror, his body writhing against the bonds.
Markham's thumb came off the red button and the man suddenly seemed to collapse, sweating profusely. Sam found the whole thing unpleasant to watch, but this bastard had been one of them who had kidnapped his son, and God knows how many other people's kids he and his organization had hooked, or killed, or sentenced to a fate worse than death. Besides, there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it anyway.
"Madre Dios! Who.-what is that which you did?"
"Want me to do it again?"
"No, no!"
"There's a rule you probably know, and that is that nobody is unbreakable," Markham told him. "Sooner or later, everybody breaks. It's just a matter of time. That's why so many important people with things to protect will commit suicide or trigger self-lobotomies rather than be subjected to this. You, unfortunately, don't have that option. Those two little beams are very complicated devices and I must confess I don't understand how they work, but I know what they do and how to use them. The red one somehow stimulates the pain center directly-no intermediaries. It's quite level-sensitive, though, and now that we've used it once the computer driving it knows just where your pain threshold is and will keep it just a microscopic hair below your pass-out point. I could let that thing play almost indefinitely
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