Page 94 of The Final Cut

Her arms are extended straight out from her sides, her palms up in a posture from another century. In each hand rests a small prayer book, their black covers worn soft. A rosary is looped around each wrist, the red beads tight enough to leave impressions in her skin. Around her knees…beneath them…lies a scatter of broken rosary beads and tiny white stones, the kind used in garden paths and old religious courtyards. The damage will be small if she holds still. That is the genius of it. Enough pain to teach. Enough dignity left to make pride a torment.

She does not look broken. She looks furious.

A fine tremble makes her arms quiver, but her chin stays level. Sweat glitters at her temple. A La Rosa woman stands near the altar with a phone mounted on a small stand, its camera aimed at Delia’s face.

Another soldier, a man I do not know, circles behind her.

“Again,” he says.

Delia’s voice is hoarse. “No.”

He touches the end of a thin cane beneath her left wrist and lifts slightly, forcing the arm higher. The prayer book wobbles. Her fingers flex to keep it from falling.

“If it drops, we start again,” the woman says. “Mrs. del Rosario only asked for one message. You make this unpleasant by being vain.”

Delia smiles.

It is a terrible smile. Reva’s mouth in a colder shape.

“Tell Isabel if she wants to hear my voice, she can come back and beg.”

The man swings the cane.

Nash’s hand clamps onto my shoulder before I realize I have moved.

He does not speak. He does not need to. His grip says wait, timing, not yet, and because Reva is waiting in a cabin with her hands wrapped around a cat instead of a gun, I force myself to obey.

The cane strikes the floor beside Delia’s knee.

She does not flinch.

The woman near the phone exhales. “You were raised better than this.”

“I was raised by Isabel.” Delia’s arms shake harder. “There is no better.”

The woman’s expression shutters. She glances toward the door.

Sabine whispers, “They are waiting for the hallway guard to bring fresh water. That’s the next reset.”

“How many inside?” Nash asks.

“Just the two,” I reply. “One woman. One man. Delia on the floor.”

Nash draws his weapon. “You take the woman.”

I keep my eye to the slit. “The man carries a blade low at the back. He’s closer to Delia. I take him. You take the woman and the phone.”

Nash nods once.

Trust, then. Not friendship. Not absolution. Just a practical surrender of the space between our knives.

For today, for this mission, that’s enough.

Sabine steps back and raises her radio. “Hall clear.”

The woman inside turns her head at the sound. Nash opens the door.

He goes left. I go straight for the man behind Delia.