I know, it's been a long wait, but this part was unbelievably difficult to write. Sometimes it's hard to comprehend and write all the evil that some people commit on their fellow human beings. Describing what happens to Mac was a painful process. Please be advised that there are some torture scenes in this part, hence the stronger R rating. I tried not to be too graphic.
All credit for the Spanish parts and the translations goes to ghostdoll, as I have only a rudimentary understanding of the language and could never have pulled those passages off without her. Thank you, ghostdoll!
I hope you enjoy this long-awaited next part!
Shake Hands with the Devil Part Two
Rated: R (some torture scenes)
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” Pete asked quietly, crouching down beside his shaken friend, gently placing his hand on his shoulder. “That would mean that we simply traded one dictator for another when our government supported and supplied aide to his military coup to oust Velazquez.”
“This wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened,” MacGyver said miserably, his voice muffled with his face buried in his hands. He looked up at Pete, his eyes filled with pain and sadness as if he had just experienced a vicious beating all over again. “He’s manipulating us, playing on our patriotism and our sense of justice, using it against us, knowing full well how foolish we are and how easily we’ll be misled and mistaken about his true motives. Once he assumes power, he’ll become just as sadistic, cruel, and ruthless as his predecessor Velazquez was, if not more so. He’ll use our goodwill to his advantage and then rub it in our faces, laughing and making a mockery of us in front of the world stage. That’s how he operates. Everything is a game to him, those in his way merely pieces to move around on a board until he gets what he wants—pure, bloodthirsty domination.”
“Mac, I don’t want to offend you or deny that what you’re saying isn’t possible, but how can you be so sure this is the same man who mercilessly brutalized you?”
MacGyver shivered, more out of shock from memories of his torture than the chill produced by his wet hair. “I just know,” he said, staring blankly ahead. “It’s his eyes. I can’t forget those eyes, the way they bore into your soul, eviscerating you, dehumanizing you with just a small…evil…glare. That’s what he is, Pete—pure evil. I can’t think of a better word to describe him. He can’t hide those eyes no matter how much he changes his appearance, or his name.”
“What was his name?”
“It
was Juan Garza, before he christened himself as Carlos Gutierrez. He was known by his more common nickname, El Diablo—The Devil.” MacGyver looked at Pete, his eyes pleading, a profound melancholy revealing itself in those brown depths. “I’ve never believed in the Prince of Darkness myself, but I’m telling you…after what I went through, he’s as close to the devil as they come. If we continue to support him, we’ll basically be shaking hands with the devil as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, if this is the same man as you claim, maybe I can search our files on Velazquez and see”—
“You won’t find him, Pete,” MacGyver said. “He operated in the shadows, elusive. He was Velazquez’s most trusted advisor, and the one that dispensed punishment to dissidents of the regime—his enforcer.”
Pete could hear the anger and disgust in his friend’s voice. He was shaking uncontrollably as he spoke about it, causing him to worry. He wrapped his arm around him as if to calm and steady him, although it seemed to do little to help.
“If this is the same man”—
“It
is, Pete. There is no doubt in my mind.”
“All right. Well, if it is, then why would he engineer a military coup against his own leader, someone he was devoted to and pledged his undying support to?”
“Because it’s a power game to him. That’s all he’s interested in—the thrill, the challenge. Nothing else matters to him, not even someone he maintained a loyalty to for several years. Everything that is an obstacle to him achieving his ultimate goal is destroyed. I should know. I experienced it firsthand. He almost succeeded in destroying me, something I never thought possible, thinking I had all the resolve in the world to withstand anything. Well, I couldn’t withstand him.”
***
Five years earlier…
MacGyver didn’t need to smell the putrid odor of decaying flesh or see bodies covered in rivers of blood to witness the deleterious effects of atrocities committed under Velazquez’s rule. It was evident on the filthy, waste-strewn streets where rail thin children with haggard faces and hungry, desperate eyes barely covered in threadbare, dirty clothing played, attempting to salvage the remnants of their stolen childhood. Rotting food and human waste commingled, producing not only a repellent stench but a breeding ground for potentially fatal illnesses such as cholera and dysentery, maladies common in the area, almost rising to epidemic proportions. The historical and architectural beauty of the once proud and prosperous capital city had crumbled to ruins, Alejandro Velazquez’s presidential headquarters the only building still worth taking residence in, the majority of his citizens living in lean-tos and other substandard housing. It was amazing to MacGyver how much could change in twenty years. All it took was the influence of one man, and he had managed to destroy an entire country and its people, looting and ransacking everything until it was reduced to complete poverty, taking everything greedily for himself, rationing his people into starvation.
What made it worse was that no one could protest the destitute, wretched conditions in which they now lived. Riots and other political disturbances meant to destabilize Velazquez’s power in the region were quelled quickly, usually by violent force. Still, several groups opposed to his rule survived, operating underground. MacGyver was there expressly for the purpose of meeting a contact from one of those subversive groups, hoping to help them make some progress at taking back their government. He was distracted momentarily by the gleeful laughter of two boys kicking around a worn ball as a substitute for a soccer ball. Their laughter and the joy in their emaciated faces was a pleasant, welcoming sound for an area that was so desolate and bereft of hope, and he smiled at them. The innocent scene did not last long as Alejandro Velazquez and his entourage, dressed in full military regalia, plowed through the streets as if they were human armored vehicles, parting the skeletal, ragged crowds with their bulky, overfed bodies, showing the obvious disparity between Velazquez’s elite and the pathetic minions he controlled. Hoarse, strained cheers erupted from the weakened people for their leader, their show of support forced and false, fear of harsh retribution preventing them from expressing how they really felt about him. MacGyver watched him with complete contempt, not understanding how someone could treat his fellow countrymen—his fellow human
beings—so appallingly.
The boys with the ball didn’t seem to be aware of his presence, because they kept playing. Pleas from the crowd to get them to pay attention were stifled for fear that they would be struck down for disobedience as well. They were playing directly in the path of Alejandro and his men, and when he stopped in front of them, rage boiled in his eyes. One boy saw him in time to release a terrified yelp and scramble away, burying himself in the crowd. The other boy was not as fortunate as Alejandro grabbed him by the arm and lifted his broad hand, prepared to beat him.
“ˇMas respeto, mocosos! ˇFuera de mi camino!” (“Show some respect, stupid children! Out of my way”)! He bellowed.
Before the defenseless child could be hit, MacGyver rushed towards him, yanking him free. The grateful, frightened, small boy stared up at him with awe, never seeing anyone with the temerity to stand up against El Presidente. He clung to MacGyver’s arm, hiding behind him, trembling. The rest of the crowd watched his daring actions with complete shock and horror, knowing what the man would be subjected to next for his insolence. Alejandro glared at the foreigner who dared defy him, a hateful smirk forming on his lips, bloodlust in his eyes. He turned to Juan Garza, his top advisor, a man who looked even more menacing, a hulk of a man with cold, dead eyes.
“Ese maltido Americano me las va a pagar bien caro,” he said. (“That damn American is gonna pay for it”). “ˇAgarrenlo! ˇY amarrenlo a ese poste!” Alejandro Velazquez shouted to his men, Juan Garza in the lead. (“Grab him! Tie him to the post”)!
Fluent in Spanish, MacGyver knew exactly what was about to happen, although he wouldn’t have needed to know the language at all to know what was about to happen next. He saw a tall, wooden post stained with the blood of countless victims, thick leather straps serving as restraints. The boy who had cowered behind him for protection abandoned his side, fleeing into the stunned, hushed crowd. MacGyver tried to escape as well, but Velazquez’s men were too fast, especially Juan Garza, who, despite his mass, didn’t lumber but instead raced almost gracefully to be the first to get his hands on the arrogant American who thought he could brazenly challenge his leader’s authority without consequence. MacGyver felt several hands clamping down on him, dragging him toward the post. No matter how hard he struggled, he was outnumbered, the strength of the men holding him far too great to overcome. They strapped him to the post before he could make any move to defend himself and ripped his shirt off, exposing his bare back. A shudder ran down MacGyver’s spine as he waited.
Juan took the long, thick whip that coiled like a venomous snake off Alejandro Velazquez’s belt, along with his other instruments of death and symbols of power—his gun, his grenade, his knife with the long, serrated blade. Slowly uncoiling it, he paraded it in front of MacGyver, laughing cruelly, toying with him, taking his time, wanting to see the American sweat. MacGyver gulped when he looked at it, but he tried not to show his fear, knowing that was exactly what the sick man wanted. He squirmed against his restraints, but they had no slack, cutting off his circulation. Even if he did manage to wriggle out of them, there was no possible escape route, the people in the streets too cowed into submission to help him, risking their lives if they tried to assist him in any way.
“For your disrespect, you will endure a public flogging of twenty lashes,” Alejandro said, spitting on the ground, showing his disgust for the American. He grinned maliciously. “Unless of course, you wish to tell me your true purpose here.”
“Tourist?” MacGyver asked, cringing at his own brashness. “I don’t know—maybe I didn’t want to see a defenseless child get beaten by some bully.”
Alejandro and Juan exchanged sneers. Nodding his approval to commence the whipping, Alejandro watched, pleased as his best enforcer walked slowly around the post, once again taunting MacGyver with the whip until he reached his back. MacGyver listened as the footsteps stopped, his pulse pounding, sweat trickling down his bare back. He had little time to prepare himself as the whip bit hard into his tender skin, cutting him deeply, forcing an involuntary, surprised gasp from his lips. Alejandro grinned savagely, amused by his reaction, thinking he was dealing with another soft, lightweight American, someone who spoke with false bravado but faltered when presented with the slightest hint of discomfort.
“Well? Are you going to tell me who you are and what you are doing here?” He asked.
MacGyver glared at him, daring him to continue. He didn’t care how many times the whip sliced into his flesh—he would not to reveal the location of the underground political movement against Velazquez, refusing to place them in jeopardy. Steeling himself for the next lash, he pulled against the restraints and clenched his fists tightly, biting his lip to stifle his cries. He waited for what seemed like hours before the next blow from the whip struck him high across his bare shoulders, once again cracking open his skin, leaving a stinging, searing pain in its wake.
“Are you here to contact the resistance?” Alejandro asked.
MacGyver maintained his silence. He waited for another lengthy period before the whip tore into him again. Juan Garza, the man snapping the whip, was slow, deliberate, and methodical. Calculating, he understood that prolonging the thrashing only extended MacGyver’s misery. Quick lashes in rapid succession would have produced as much pain, but he wanted to catch MacGyver off guard, teasing him with a reprieve before smashing the whip against him again unexpectedly, further tormenting him with the promise of relief only to deny it to him yet again. He worked on MacGyver’s back as if it were an empty canvas, painting it with his blood, striping his back with an intricate latticework of gore, deep lacerations and angry welts forming from his raised, ripped open skin. He didn’t leave a single spot on his back untouched by the whip, covering every angle until MacGyver’s back was entirely flayed open, his back a sticky, saturated mess of blood. His brute force only added to the severity of each lash, none of MacGyver’s whip marks superficial in any way, all deep gashes and bleeding profusely. Alejandro Velazquez might have been the man in power, the man threatening MacGyver with his words, but Juan Garza was the one who actually wielded that power through the crack of the whip, and he took his position seriously.
Moaning and whimpering, blood also trickling down the side of his mouth from biting down hard on his lip to prevent his screams from escaping, MacGyver sagged against the restraints holding him, too weak, exhausted, and in agony to support himself anymore. The blows continued, thudding against him, pushing his limp body forward and into the post. The pain was persistent, each blow increasing it. Still, he wouldn’t speak, releasing small grunts each time the whip struck him but little else. He fixed his glare on Alejandro, challenging him with his eyes even when his sweat mixed with his tears and stung them, causing the dictator’s image to become blurry. Even when wincing, he fought to keep them from screwing tightly shut to fight off the excruciating pain, staring constantly at Alejandro, trying to prove that he wasn’t daunted and would not be defeated.
Alejandro was not impressed, disappointed that his American captive had not screamed loudly in pain or begged him for mercy. “Your pathetic stubbornness will not last,” he said. “You will cooperate eventually. You will obey me and tell me everything I wish to know. It may take some time to break your spirit, as I see you are a much stronger man than I first supposed, but I am a patient man. Whatever it takes, I will extract the information from you. Until I get what I want from you, I will leave you in the company of El Diablo’s capable hands as our most honored guest.” Laughing, he signaled to Juan to cease the whipping, the twenty lashes finished after what had been almost a full hour.
Juan cut MacGyver down, letting him slump and then crash to the ground, falling onto his bloodied back and releasing an unrestrained howl, momentarily satisfying Alejandro’s need to hear him suffer. Juan and Velazquez’s other adherents swarmed around MacGyver like scavengers around a carcass, binding his legs and arms. A rope was also tied tightly around his neck, restricting his breathing. Through his dazed, painful state, MacGyver wondered if they were going to lynch him next in the public square. Later, he realized that execution would have been too humane a form of punishment, especially from someone with the brutal reputation of El Diablo. Standing over him, laughing, the figure of El Diablo appeared to be nothing more than a vague silhouette to MacGyver, the blinding sun causing him to squint, the blurs from his sweat, tears, and the haze of his pain making identifying him even more difficult. He needn’t have bothered straining his eyes. He would have plenty of opportunities to clearly see El Diablo AKA Juan Garza’s visage, his bulldog-like features and chillingly empty eyes seared permanently into his memory like the whip marks were on his back.
Still laughing, Juan bent over and pressed MacGyver’s sore, bleeding back into the ground, encouraging the other men to do it was well, smiling as he winced and groaned, the sharp stones grinding and embedding themselves into his cuts. He then grabbed the rope around MacGyver’s neck and gave it a firm tug, beginning to drag him down the street by it, choking him. MacGyver gagged and made raspy, gurgling noises, coughing and wheezing, struggling for air as the rope pulled tighter around his neck. Occasionally, allowing him a respite and not wanting to kill him just yet because it would spoil all the fun he had in store for his new possession, Juan released the rope around his neck and dragged him by the rope around his wrists instead, still rubbing his raw back into the rough ground, smearing it with his blood as they continued moving forward. Through his blurred, dizzy vision, MacGyver saw the impassive yet oddly comforting faces of the city inhabitants slowly fade from sight, the dilapidating buildings that surrounded them breaking up until they were out in the open. He lost track of time, unsure how long he had been dragged alternately by the wrists or by his neck, his pain a constant, unpleasant companion. He tried to focus, to make sense of where Juan was dragging him, like a cat with a freshly killed mouse. Through his half-open eyes, dots of white light swimming in front of them from the pain he constantly endured, he could barely make out what appeared to be vast fields, half-starved men in baggy clothing, some with mutilated or missing limbs working as slaves under heavy guard for Alejandro Velazquez’s massive crop production, using what he grew to feed everything but his people, the penalty for stealing from the crops instant death by either decapitation or firing squad. Some drugs were also produced there, helping to export the flow of illegal drugs and their brand of criminality to the United States.
Seeing the arrival of El Diablo and his newly acquired prize, the guards fired their guns into the air. The shots reverberated through the valleys, demanding the attention of the workers in the fields. They complied, trained to do so without delay or question for fear of another severe beating or removal of another extremity with a butcher’s cleaver. It was difficult to tell what those enslaved men thought about the new arrival dangling by the end of a rope, his back shredded. Not allowed to display emotion of any kind, it was almost impossible for MacGyver to read their expressions for any trace of pity for him. Hardened and desensitized by all they had been violently subjected to themselves, they seemed as interested in him as a lump of dirt. He was merely another slave, another faceless beast of burden brought to the fields and condemned to endless drudgery.
“ˇPerro maltido!” (“Damn dog”)! Juan shouted at MacGyver, kicking him hard in the ribs, causing him to gasp, the sharpness of this new pain adding to the throbbing, hot pain that raced up and down his abused back. “He is nothing more than a filthy, mangy, mongrel dog, like the rest of you! If you try to help him in any way, I will kill you!”
Those harsh threats were the last words MacGyver heard before he succumbed to the intense pain wracking his body, losing consciousness.
***
The Present…
“MacGyver, look at me,” Pete said, gently cupping his face in his hands and turning it towards him, trying to get MacGyver’s cloudy, distant eyes to focus on him. His skin felt alarmingly cold and clammy to the touch, and it had nothing to do with his wet hair, which was by then drying. “MacGyver? Mac, can you hear me? It’s all right now. Come on. Come back to me, please.” He placed his hands on MacGyver’s shoulders and gently shook him, still trying to revive him from his trance.
MacGyver blinked, recognition returning to his eyes. “Pete?” He asked.
“Yeah, it’s me, Mac. Where were you just now?”
“Remembering…”
Pete felt MacGyver’s pulse. It was beating rapidly. “I’ve got to get you home to rest,” he said. “In the meantime, I’m going to try to help you, okay? I’m going to talk to the staff at the hospital again to see if they remember who brought you there. Maybe he was your contact. How else could you have escaped that hell in the condition you were in at the time? It’s worth a shot. If I can find your contact, we might be able to have him help us bring to light all that Carlos—or Juan did in his former incarnation before he’s allowed to unleash more of his barbarity on his people. We have to stop him somehow. I’m beginning to be convinced that you’re right, that Carlos Gutierrez was the man who tortured you all those years ago. I doubt your reaction would have been this strong had you been operating on just a mere hunch that he might be the right man.”
“I
know it’s him, Pete,” MacGyver said. “I know…”
“I know, and we’re going to stop him.”
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
) I know it must be hard! I mean, I read a lot and I've found detailing descriptions to be the best, but is easier to read them than to come up with them!! Even with all my reading, it would take me three times as long to just write something like this chapter.
