Fear by Francine Pascal

path, but the man’s hand suddenly clamped around her wrist. He pulled her back against his chest with brutal force. The spy’s arm slipped around Tatiana’s throat and pressed hard against her windpipe.
    â€œOh, no, you’re not going anywhere.” He pressed down until sparks began to flutter across Tatiana’s vision. “You were looking for me,” he said. “Well, now you’ve found me.”

Cooked
    IT WAS AMAZINGLY SIMPLE. NOTHING much to look at. Just an old wooden chair, some auto batteries, four cables that had probably once been jumper cables for starting stalled cars, a few cloth straps, a roll of duct tape. It was something that could be built by a couple of kids, really. But the pain it caused was. . . Tom didn’t even have the words.
    Tom had been tortured before. More than once, actually, and by people with a lot more experience. Compared to some, Carlo and his men were rank amateurs. Just some brutes with a few batteries. But Carlo and crew had one big advantage over the intelligence agents that had tortured Tom in the past—they didn’t want to know anything.
    Through his long hours in the chair, one of the two muscle guys had put the cables on Tom’s hands, his feet, his face. Again and again he had touched the cables to the batteries and Tom had been treated to the thrill of watching his own body dance and twitch out of his control. The pain was something like the worst charley horse in the world and something like being cooked from the inside out.
    Through it all, Tom was not asked a single question. They didn’t seem to want to know anything about Gaia or his work with the government. They didn’t ask about how he had found Loki’s organization in the Caribbean or who had helped him. The purpose of this torture session was just that, torture. Information was not a part of the game.
    The current came on again and Tom’s neck snapped back so hard, he thought it might break. His heart floundered in his chest, jumping and hammering like an animal desperately trying to escape from his rib cage. He tried to talk, but the only thing that came from his mouth was a long, meaningless moan. Tom wondered if this time, he might actually die.
    After what seemed like an hour but was probably no more than seconds, the power cut off. Tom sagged against the straps and tried to catch his breath. He didn’t think that he could take much more of this. But that wasn’t completely true. He could. They could torture him all night long and all through the next day and he’d probably live through it just fine. He might wish for death, but it wouldn’t come. He would just hurt like hell.
    There was a sound of footsteps in the hallway. Tom struggled and managed to raise his head in time to see Carlo come into view. “Well,” he said. “Have you and Bruno had a nice chat?”
    It took an effort, but Tom managed to squeeze out a reply. “We were talking about you,” he said. “About what a baboon-faced jackass you are.”
    Carlo’s lips curled beneath his dark mustache. “I think you must have been having fun in here.” He stepped into the small cell and slowly circled around the chair. “That’s good. That’s very good.” He stopped in front of the chair and took a painful grip on Tom’s chin. “I’m glad you’ve been having fun in here, because I’ve been having a really good time down the hall with your lady friend.”
    Tom twisted away from his hand and surged forward. The chair rocked slightly, but the straps held him firmly in place. “You leave her alone, you son of a—”
    Carlo delivered a sharp, backhanded slap that knocked Tom’s head back and brought a bright taste of blood to his lips. “Shut up,” said Carlo. He turned to the man who had delivered the torture to Tom. “Go down to the west room and get the woman. Take her back to