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concern was the victim’s suffering.’
    ‘Of course it was. But . . . just in case I’m right, guess what? I was already prepared for it.’
    The man on the screen had reopened his eyes. He was still shivering. Despite the darkness, he looked around himself, waiting . . . listening.
    Nothing. Not a sound. The water had stopped.
    Behind the gag his mouth twisted into a shy smile. A glimmer of hope returned to his eyes, as if it all had been just a bad dream . . . a sick joke. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if thanking God. Tears found their way through his closed eyelids and cascaded down his face.
    ‘Keep on watching, Detective.’ There was a proud ring to the caller’s voice. ‘Because you’re about to get the “Cirque du Soleil” of shows.’ He disconnected.
    On the screen the water level started decreasing.
    ‘He’s draining the container,’ Garcia said.
    Hunter nodded.
    The water drained fast. In a matter of seconds its level had gone back down to the man’s chest.
    Then it stopped.
    ‘What the hell is going on?’ Garcia asked, lifting his palms up.
    Hunter shook his head. His full attention never leaving the screen.
    The camera zoomed out just a little, and all of a sudden the submerged portion of the pipes sprang back into life. Like a Jacuzzi bath, the underwater jets ruffled the water as they spat more liquid into the enclosure. But there was something different this time. As the colorless liquid exited the pipes and mixed with the water, it was producing an odd effect, as if the new liquid was denser than that already inside the enclosure.
    Hunter leaned forward, bringing his face closer to the monitor.
    ‘That’s not water,’ he said.
    ‘What?’ Garcia asked, standing right behind him. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Different density,’ Hunter replied, pointing at his screen. ‘Whatever he’s pumping into that tank, it isn’t water this time.’
    ‘What the hell is it, then?’
    At that moment something started flashing at the top right-hand corner of the picture. Four letters inside parentheses. The first, third and fourth were in capitals.
    (NaOH)
    ‘Is that a chemical formula?’ Garcia pointed to it.
    ‘Yes.’ Hunter breathed out.
    ‘For what?’ Garcia rushed back to his computer and opened a new tab on his web browser.
    ‘No need to search for it, Carlos,’ Hunter said grimly. ‘That’s the chemical formula for sodium hydroxide . . . caustic soda.’

Seven
    Garcia felt a knot tighten in his throat. Years ago, when he was still just a uniformed LAPD cop, he’d responded to a domestic violence incident where a jealous boyfriend had thrown half a pint of caustic soda in his girlfriend’s face. The boyfriend fled the scene but was arrested five days later. Garcia still remembered helping the paramedics strap the girlfriend down to the gurney. Her face was just a mess of raw flesh and burned skin. Her lips looked like they had melted onto her teeth. Her right ear and nose had totally disintegrated, and the solution burned holes into one of her eyeballs.
    Garcia looked at Hunter over his computer. ‘No way. Are you sure?’
    Hunter nodded. ‘I’m sure.’
    ‘Sonofabitch.’
    The phone on Hunter’s desk rang again. It was Dennis Baxter from the Computer Crimes Unit.
    ‘Detective,’ he said in an anxious voice. ‘NaOH is caustic soda. Sodium hydroxide.’
    ‘Yes, I know.’
    ‘Shit, man. That stuff is highly corrosive. Many times worse than acid. If somebody is dumping sodium hydroxide into that much water, for now, the solution will be over-diluted and not very strong, but soon . . .’ He went silent.
    ‘It will turn that whole thing into an alkaline bath,’ Hunter finished the sentence Baxter couldn’t.
    ‘That’s right. And you know what that will do ?’
    ‘Yes, I know.’
    ‘Holy shit, Detective. What’s going on?’
    ‘I’m not sure. Did you manage to trace the transmission?’
    ‘Yes. It’s coming from