Chapter 61: Drive

Chapter 61: Chapter 61: DriveThe room was a box — no windows, just concrete walls that swallowed sound. The only light came from a flickering bulb overhead, casting wild shadows across Mario’s bruised face. His right eye was swollen shut, lip split and bleeding. Sweat and blood mixed in a sticky mess down his neck.

Leo, the short man, rolled his shoulders, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. The air stank of iron and stale sweat. Zaldy’s lifeless body slumped against the wall, eyes half-open, as if still witnessing the nightmare.

Mario’s head lolled forward, strands of matted hair clinging to his forehead. Leo crouched down, grinning.

"Hey, you awake?" he said, snapping his fingers in Mario’s face. "Good. Let’s try this again."

Mario breathed heavy, each breath a jagged rattle.

"Where?" Leo asked, leaning in close. His breath stank of cigarettes and cheap beer. "Where the hell is it?"

Mario’s jaw clenched.

Leo straightened, feigning disappointment.

"You know, if you’d just told us the first time..."

A fist swung. Crack. Mario’s head snapped sideways, blood spraying from his mouth. Leo shook out his knuckles, sucking air through his teeth.


"Damn, you got a hard jaw. Must’ve been a boxer or something."



Mario’s chest rose and fell, each breath coming faster. He looked up, eyes dark, gaze locked on Zaldy’s corpse. The body sagged like a deflated doll, mouth hanging open, skin waxy and gray.

Leo grabbed a fistful of Mario’s hair, yanking his head back.

"Look at him," he snarled, voice dropping low. "You see your buddy? That’s what pride gets you. He could’ve sung. Could’ve walked outta here. But he kept his mouth shut. And now he’s just meat."

Mario’s lip curled. Blood trickled down his chin, staining his teeth.

"So?" Leo leaned in closer, close enough that Mario could see the tiny scar running down his cheek. "You gonna talk? Or you wanna end up worse than him?"

Mario grinned, red teeth flashing. Then he spat, thick and wet, right into Leo’s face.

Leo’s jaw twitched. He wiped his cheek, slow and deliberate. His eyes darkened.

"Okay," he said, voice calm, too calm. "You just done it."

Leo stepped back, hands on his hips. He nodded toward the door.

"Manny! Get in here!"

The door creaked open, and a tall, lanky man stepped inside, eyes shadowed beneath a baseball cap. Leo gestured to the metal table in the center of the room.

"Help me lay him down."

Manny cracked his knuckles, the sound like dry branches snapping. Together, they hauled Mario up, his legs barely holding his weight. A sharp punch to the gut doubled him over, and they slammed him down onto the table, arms splayed and feet tied.

Leo disappeared behind a stack of crates, then came back holding a rusty bucket of water. The surface rippled as he placed it on the floor.

Manny draped a thin, gray towel over Mario’s face.

"You know," Leo said conversationally, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, "I saw this in a movie once. Some KGB or CIA shit. Guy named Liam Neeson did it. You ever see that movie?"

Manny chuckled, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

"Yeah. Taken. That scene where he’s got the guy strapped to the chair. Think he used a car battery too."

Leo smirked, lifting the bucket with both hands.

"Well, can’t say we got a car battery lying around, but this’ll do."

The first splash hit cold. Mario’s body bucked against the table, water soaking the towel, seeping into his nose, mouth, eyes. He choked, thrashing, legs jerking against the restraints.

Leo kept pouring, expression flat, eyes dead.

"Where’s the drive?" Leo asked, voice echoing above the splashing. "Where’s the damn drive?"

Manny leaned in, watching Mario’s chest heave, his body arching, every muscle straining for air.

"You know," Manny said, lighting a cigarette, "I kinda like this game."

Mario’s muffled screams echoed beneath the wet towel.

The water kept coming.

An Hour Later

Mario’s body trembled, muscles twitching involuntarily. Water dripped from his hair, pooling beneath the table. His breaths came in ragged, shallow gasps, each one a struggle.

Leo and Manny hovered over him, Manny holding the nearly empty bucket, Leo clutching the wet rag. The air reeked of damp concrete, sweat, and stale blood.

Leo shook his head, chuckling as he tossed the rag onto the floor.

"Man, I was this close," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger a hair apart. "Woulda poured the gas and lit him up like a barbecue."

Manny snorted, wiping his wet hands on his jeans.

"Yeah? And then what? Boss Estello walks in and sees a crispy corpse? You wanna be the one explaining that?"

Before Leo could respond, the door burst open. A guy in a Lakers jersey rushed in, breathing hard, phone clutched in one hand. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

"Hey!" he said, eyes darting to Mario, then to Leo. "Sir Ismael just called. Boss Estello says keep him alive. He’s coming here himself."

Leo paused, fingers flexing. His jaw twitched, annoyance flickering across his face. He glanced down at the bucket still in Manny’s grip.

"Well, ain’t that a damn shame," Leo muttered, rubbing the sore knuckles on his right hand. "If you hadn’t come in, he’d be charcoal by now."

Manny chuckled, dumping the rest of the water onto the floor with a loud splash.



"Guess we saved on gas, huh?"

They pulled the towel off Mario’s face. Mario’s chest heaved, water spilling from his mouth as he sucked in greedy breaths. His eyes rolled back, and for a second, he looked like he was about to pass out.

Manny leaned down, tapping Mario’s cheek lightly.

"You awake, diver boy?" he said, grinning. "What’s the matter? All that breath-holding, you a surfer or something?

Mario didn’t respond. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, breathing shallow and slow.

Lakers Jersey guy glanced nervously at Zaldy’s body, slumped against the wall like a broken puppet. The skin was already starting to turn a sickly shade of gray, mouth half-open, eyes empty.

"Uh... what about him?" Lakers Jersey guy asked, wrinkling his nose. "He’s gonna start stinking up the place."

Leo sighed, stretching his arms above his head until his spine cracked.

"Yeah, yeah. Manny, untie the surfer boy. Let’s get rid of this one before he starts rotting."

Manny knelt down, yanking at the ropes binding Mario’s wrists. Mario winced, his raw skin peeling where the ropes had cut deep.

Leo turned to the door and bellowed,

"Ryan! Call Musang! We got a body to move!"

Two armed men entered, both wearing black shirts, guns strapped to their sides. Without a word, they moved to Zaldy, grabbing him under the arms and legs. Zaldy’s head lolled to the side, neck limp, eyes staring through Manny as they dragged him out.

The door swung shut, and the room felt emptier. The stench of sweat and blood lingered, mingling with the scent of wet concrete.

Leo plopped down on a metal chair, rubbing his knuckles again.

"Damn. My fist’s gonna swell like a damn grapefruit," he muttered.

Manny snorted, crossing his arms.

"Like you didn’t love hitting that guy. You were smiling the whole time."

Leo grinned, teeth flashing.

"Yeah, well. What can I say? I got a heavy hand."

They both laughed, the sound hollow and sharp, echoing off the walls.

----------------

The black BMW 7 Series rolled to a smooth stop outside the white-stone estate, its paint glistening under the morning sun like oil. Guards in dark suits and earpieces shifted positions, one of them muttering softly into his sleeve as the passenger door opened.

Naomi stepped out, crisp slacks and a white blouse under a tailored blazer, sharp and clean. Her afro haloed around her head like a crown of confidence. She walked briskly toward the grand doors, heels tapping against the marble driveway with a rhythm that said: I’m not here for small talk.

Inside, the estate smelled of old money, cigars, and polished mahogany. Naomi didn’t stop to admire the art or greet the help. She knew better.

She found him exactly where she expected — sprawled on a suede sofa in a sunken lounge, robe loose, chest exposed. Andre. Mid-30s. Arrogant smirk always in place. The man who treated power like a game of chess, and women like the disposable pawns.

Two of them flanked him now, giggling at nothing, champagne flutes in hand, wearing far less than they probably started with.

Naomi cleared her throat just loud enough.

"Sir," she said.

Andre didn’t even look at her at first. Just a lazy gesture — the kind you give to a servant. She stepped forward, the thick brown envelope clutched tight in her hand, and placed it on the table beside him.

That got his attention.

He picked it up, fingers unhurried, like a man opening a birthday card he already knew was full of cash. He peeled the envelope open, pulled out the drive inside, and his grin spread slow and wicked across his face.

"The drive," Andre whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

He sat up straighter, robe falling slightly off his shoulder. One of the women reached for the envelope but he waved her away.

Then came the laugh. Low at first, then louder, echoing off the high ceilings. That smug, villainous kind of laugh that belonged in a bad action movie. But here, in this house, with that drive in his hand, it wasn’t a joke.

"Finally," he said. "With this... my position as the successor is cemented. That bitch can keep playing games, but she’s already lost. Everything she does now is just noise."

Naomi didn’t flinch. She’d heard worse. Andre stood, tying his robe with one hand while holding the drive with the other.

"Project Orion’s final piece to the puzzle. When I take over this family, I’ll rose to the ranks and become the first human to rise to the status of slave. "

He handed the envelope back to Naomi.



"Give this to Director Kaigham. He knows what to do with it. And make sure he knows it came from me."

Naomi nodded once. Took the envelope. Turned.

"And Naomi," Andre added as she walked away.

She paused, one hand already on the door.

"Tell him," Andre said with a smirk, "War doesn’t need. Compliance just needs a right frequency. "

Naomi didn’t respond. She walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Back on the couch, Andre sat down between the women again. One leaned on his shoulder. He stared at the now-empty envelope still faintly warm from the drive.

"Let’s see how many empires we can bury before lunch," he muttered to himself.

Outside, the wind shifted. Clouds darkened. And Naomi’s car pulled away, drive in hand — headed straight to DARPA.

Inside the envelope, beneath the foam padding where the drive once sat, something was stuck to the bottom. A thin, nearly invisible sticker, only visible if someone looked close enough.

A tracker.

And it was live.