Free False Witness by Randy Singer

ground.
    â€œThis is no game,” Clark snarled. “He’s got my wife.”
    Clark leaned over and pulled Chin back to a sitting position, then knelt in front of the hit man.
    â€œDon’t make this hard on yourself,” Clark pleaded. “I don’t have any choice here. I’ll go as far as I need to go.”
    Chin grimaced and caught his breath. He raised his eyes, told Clark where he could go, then spat in Clark’s face.
    Blood rushed like a torrent to Clark’s head, detonating his fury like nitroglycerin. Chin became the symbol of everything that had happened to Jessica, the personification of the faceless men who held her. Clark raised his gun to pistol-whip Chin, anticipating the satisfying thud of metal on bone, then caught himself. He allowed the anger to dissipate for a moment, wiped the spit from his cheek, and slowly rose to his feet.
    Anger would not make his captive talk. Nor would money or promises of freedom. Only pain might work. But it would have to be a calculated, unyielding pain, administered by someone totally in control, someone who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Chin would need to believe that Clark had the guts to do the unthinkable.
    Only then might the steel will of Johnny Chin bend to Clark’s demands.
    But when the initial surge of anger passed, Clark didn’t know if he had it in him to carry through. This was a human being on the ground at Clark’s feet. How could Clark methodically torture someone, regardless of what he had done? Even if Clark could force himself to do it, the guilt would haunt him forever.
    But then a second wave of guilt hit, more powerful than the first. They were probably torturing Jessica at this very moment. What kind of man wouldn’t do this for his wife? Could he ever live with himself if he backed off now?
    His watch gave him the last fiber of nerve he needed: 23:41:15.
    He pulled the extra roll of duct tape out of the trunk, dragged Chin to the refrigerator, and taped him to it, wrapping the heavy-duty tape several times around Chin’s body. For extra measure, he taped Chin’s head to the refrigerator as well, running a strand across Chin’s forehead and another strand securely across the man’s neck.
    In less than thirteen hours, Xu and his men would begin pulling Jessica’s teeth, one at a time. Two could play this game.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” Clark said, heading toward the Escalade. “I need a pair of pliers.”

13
    Clark was no expert on torture, but this much he knew: it was the psychology, not the pain, that would break a man. Walking back to the car gave him time to cool down and put together a workable plan. He would explain each grizzly step of his plan to Chin and follow through without hesitation. If Chin saw Clark flinch even once, exposing weakness, it would steel his captive to remain silent.
    Clark nearly hurled just thinking about what lay ahead. Though he worked hard to project a reputation as a heartless bail enforcer, in reality Clark couldn’t even bring himself to hunt. He couldn’t imagine skinning a deer he had shot down in cold blood. And now he was thinking about the best way to torture a fellow member of the human race.
    Does love for Jessica justify torture? He struggled with the thought as he walked back to his prey, sickened by the job ahead. But he also knew he couldn’t dwell on it. This was no Senate intelligence hearing—lawyers debating the ethics of torture under international law. Lives were at stake. His wife’s life was at stake.
    These men were evil. Clark would meet force with force.
    He knelt in front of Johnny Chin again, inches from his face. The heat of a thousand demons breathed down Clark’s back, egging him on. He checked his watch.
    â€œIn about twelve hours, they start torturing my wife,” he said coldly. “In five minutes, I start torturing you.” He searched Chin’s eyes for