He Ricardo Ricky Knuckles Alvarez the murderer of the torture of Chinese water drop

The drip was the only sound. A relentless percussion against tense skin. Each drop, a hammer blow, fracturing its resolution, shaking its sense of itself. He was motionless, attached by thick strings to a raw wood frame, the Chinese water chain tortures an evil pendulum that swings forward and backward, delivering its chilling payment load. He, Ricardo "Ricky Knuckles" Alvarez, once an executor feared on the Ramírez poster, was now just a pain container, a canvas for fear.

Ricky had faced rival gangs, looked death on the face innumerable times and fulfilled his fair part of suffering. He was a man built of muscle and insensitivity, his knuckles with the scars of innumerable fights. But this ... this was different. This was not a fight. It was a slow and methodical erosion of his will.

He tried to concentrate, to conjure the image of his daughter, Sofia, his brilliant smile, a lighthouse in the dark of darkness. I needed something to hold on, some reason to resist. The Ramírez poster, the life he had led, was a stain in his existence. Maybe, just maybe, if I could endure, I could somehow atone for the elections he had taken.

But the drip continued, each one dropped a small hammer that takes away the strength of his mind. His blurred vision, his thoughts were fragmented. He remembered the deal. Protection. He had offered protection to Isa Ramírez from a rival faction that tried muscle in her territory. He had trusted her. He had been a fool.

One Ramirez:

Isa observed it through the unidirectional mirror, a glass of cold tequila in her hand. The rhythmic Plink ... Plink ... Plink was almost hypnotic. She swirled the amber fluid, the ice that gently achieves against the glass. She felt a blink of ... something. It is not remorse, not exactly. More as a clinical curiosity.

Ricky had been valuable. Loyal. Brutal when necessary. But he had also become complacent, arrogant. He had begun to believe his own legend. And in this business, the legends were liabilities.

I had seen too much, I knew too much. And he had started asking questions. Questions about where the money really was going, about the growing participation of the poster in human trafficking. Questions that could unravel everything.

Isa took a sip of her tequila, burn is a feeling of welcome. She had learned the best. His father, the old patriarch, had always said: "Sentimentalism is a luxury that we cannot pay."

She had received the task of cleaning her disaster. It was a simple and simple business. Without resentments, right?

A figure entered the room, its dark silhouette against the faint light. He was tall and thin, with a scattered smile that never reached his cold and calculating eyes.

"Does everything go according to the plan?" He asked, his soft voice as silk.

"Yes, Miguel," Isa replied, giving him the glass. "It's almost ready to talk."

Miguel "Silas" Vargas:

Miguel took the tequila, turning it expert. He observed Ricky's distorted face through the unidirectional mirror. Man was a disaster. But he admired his resistance. Most would have broken hours ago.

"It's harder than I expected," said Miguel, taking a slow sip. "Do you surely know where money is hidden?"

Isa nodded. "He was the one who moved him. My father trusted him implicitly."

Miguel laughed between teeth. "Trust. What a picturesque. Especially in our line of work."

He had been seeing Isa for months, watching her movements, testing her loyalty. She was acute, ambitious and ruthless. Everything that the poster needed to survive in this landscape constantly changing. But she was also young, inexperienced. And she still housed a flickering of humanity. I would have to extinguish that if she really rises to power.

"Let me have a turn," said Miguel, delivering the glass. "I have some ... own persuasive techniques."

He entered the torture room, thick air with the stench of fear and sweat. Ricky's eyes opened, focusing on Miguel with a desperate plea.

"Please ..." he roasted, his voice cracked and raw.

Miguel smiled, a predatory brightness in his eyes. "Don't worry, Ricky. All this will end soon."

He collected a small silver scalpel from a nearby table. "Now, let's talk about that money, okay?"

Ricardo (Ricky Knuckles) Álvarez:

Pain. I could only feel the pain. An abrasing and hot agony that consumed his whole being. Miguel was a teacher of his trade, a surgeon of suffering. I knew exactly where to cut, where to press, to inflict the maximum amount of pain without causing immediate death.

Ricky shouted, a primary sound torn from the depths of his soul. He was broken, destroyed, his mind a moor of pain and despair. I could no longer resist. I would tell you anything, everything, just to stop.

"The ... the warehouse ... near the docks ..." stuttered, his voice just a whisper. "Below ... the floor ..."

Miguel leaned close, his breath heated in Ricky's face. "Well. Now, tell me about the encryption key."

Ricky's eyes opened with terror. The key. He had sworn to protect him, take him to his grave. But he was at his limit. He couldn't bear anymore.

"The ... birthday ... Sofia's birthday ..." He managed to drown before fainting.

Miguel straightened, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He turned to one of the guards. "Clean it. We might need it later."

He left the room, leaving Ricky to his torment. He found Isa waiting for him outside.

"He spoke," Miguel announced. "He gave us the location of the money and the encryption key."

Isa's face was pale, her eyes full of a mixture of relief and disgust. "Thank you, Miguel. I ... I appreciate your help."

Miguel placed a hand on his shoulder, his surprisingly firm grip. "Don't thank me, Isa. We are together on this. Always remember that."

One Ramirez:

Isa felt a chill for her spine. Miguel's words were reassuring and scary. She knew she was playing a dangerous game. But she was determined to win.

He had always felt that he had to prove his worth to his father, to the poster. She was a woman in the world of a man, constantly having to fight for her place. Now, he had the opportunity to take control, to shape the future of the organization.

But at what cost?

He thought of Ricky, his face contorted in agony. She had met him for years. He had been a loyal soldier, a trusted friend. And she had condemned him to a destination worse than death.

She pushed the thought. Sentimentism was a luxury that could not afford.

"What are you going to do with him?" He asked, his voice just over a whisper.

Miguel smiled, a chilling expression that sent a wave of nausea through her. "Don't worry about that, Isa. I will take care of everything."

He turned and moved away, leaving her alone with his thoughts.

Miguel "Silas" Vargas:

Miguel walked to the garage, where the elegant and black Auto Sports of Isa was parked. He opened the driver side door and settled in the leather seat. The engine began, the powerful roar filling the space.

He had a feeling of emotion. The plan was falling in place wonderfully. The money was as good as his, and with the confession of insured Ricky, Isa could be online to raise the poster.

He saw Isa approach and criticize the passenger window.

"Where are you going?" He asked, his tight voice of anxiety.

"I'm going to collect the money," he replied, his smile expands. "I'll be back soon."

He withdrew from the garage and quickly moved away, leaving Isa in a cloud of dust.

While driving, he took out his cell phone and scored a number.

"It's done," he said on the phone. "He spoke. Money is ours."

A voice at the other extreme laughed between teeth. "Excellent job, Miguel. You will be well compensated by your efforts."

Miguel smiled. I wasn't doing this for money. I was doing it for power.

One Ramirez:

Isa observed Miguel to disappear on the way, a knot of restlessness in the stomach. Something did not feel good. I couldn't shake the feeling that they were playing it.

She returned home. She needed answers.

She went to the security room and lifted the surveillance images of the torture room. He observed how Miguel tortured Ricky, extracting the information he needed.

But then, she noticed something. Something she had lost before.

When Miguel left the room, he had stopped for a moment and whispered something in Ricky's ear. She approached the images, striving to listen to what he had said.

"I am working with the federals, Ricky. This is the only way to get you out of this. He plays."

Isa gasped. Miguel was a rat! I was working with the authorities! I was preparing it!

She felt a wave of anger and betrayal. She had been so blind, so naive. She had trusted the wrong person.

She knew what she had to do. He had to warn his father, to expose Miguel before he was too late.

He turned and ran to his father's office, his heart was beating in his chest.

Miguel "Silas" Vargas:

Miguel led the warehouse near the docks, his mind accelerating. He had to move quickly. He had to collect the money and disappear before Isa realized what she was doing.

He arrived at the warehouse and parked the car. He went out and approached the building, his hand resting on the weapon stuck at his waist.

He entered the warehouse, the air full of mold and decomposition. He found the hidden compartment under the floor, as Ricky had described. He opened it and took out the cash batteries, carefully grouped and wrapped in plastic.

He smiled, a feeling of triumph that washed him. He was rich! It was free! It could start a new life!

But then, he heard a sound. A click.

He turned around and saw a figure stopped at the door.

It was Isa.

He was holding a gun, his stable hand, his eyes full of a cold and unwavering resolution.

"You betrayed me, Miguel," he said, his voice dangerously low.

Miguel's smile hesitated. He realized that he had underestimated her. He had thought she was weak, easily manipulated. But he was wrong. She was a Ramírez, from beginning to end.

"Isa, listen to me," he begged. "I can explain ..."

"There is nothing to explain," he interrupted. "You are a traitor. And traitors pay the price."

She raised her gun and shot.

The bullet hit Miguel in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

He looked at Isa, his eyes full of disbelief.

"Because?" He whispered, his voice barely audible.

Isa looked at him, his face devoid of emotion.

"Because you underestimated me," he said.

She shot again, ending her life.

Later that night:

The black car, the same car that Miguel left with such confidence, approached a remote section of the coast and stopped. Isa left the vehicle. A figure left the shadows, Ricky. He was mistreated, but alive and relatively well. He smiled weakly. The federals were faithful to their word. It was free.

"You had a great risk," Ricky said, his still hoarse voice. "Trusting me like this."

Isa shrugged. "You were right about Miguel. I owed you so much."

He looked at the dark and endless ocean. It was a new beginning.

"What will you do now?" Ricky asked.

Isa paused, considering for a moment. "I have a business to execute," he replied, a steel brightness in his eyes "and a lot of cleaning to do."

She extended her hand to Ricky. "Thanks for everything"

Ricardo smiled, accepting the offer.

He saw Isa Ramírez move away, knowing that she returned to a world of darkness and violence. But she also knew that she was strong, capable and determined to survive. He felt a strange feeling of respect and sadness for the woman who had once protected.

When Isa's car disappeared at night, Ricky turned and walked to the vehicle that hopes she would take her to her new life, leaving the old woman, and all her sins, to be swallowed by the deafening roar of the relentless waves.

By Carlos del Puente relatos,