Bitcoin Bandits

by Chris Kale

  “Fuck it,” he said, as he flicked the safety off, but keeping his fingers clear of the trigger—for now.

  The backside of the building looked like the front—cold and stagnant, but the door on the backside had a cement stoop, and the curtain that covered the inside of the door seemed to have a slit in between the two drapes. Thomas took a deep breath, removed his overshirt, resting it on the ground after wiping his face with it.

  “Here we go.”

  He made careful steps straight at the door, aiming the gun at the windows as he did so. He made a strong effort to check the sides of the building as well, just in case someone were to try to attack from behind. With the grassy backyard so short, he found his way to the door quickly. He flattened himself to the side of the door on his back. Not hearing or seeing anything yet, he took another deep breath, trying to control his slow breathing and rapid pulse. His heart felt as if it were about to burst from the thick, pumping of warm blood.

  Thomas left the wall and slowly, carefully moved his head to peer into the slit that formed between the two curtains. It was dark inside, dimly lit by a light source to the right he couldn’t see. To the right of the door was the kitchen he could see that much, and beyond that looked to the rest of the interior. Light flickered against the walls from a TV he couldn’t see. Clothes and other random things were strewn on the floor and on the one chair he could see.

  Something caught his eye—something important—very important to him. Just around the right wall, leading toward the still flickering TV, and only barely visible, was the barrel of a gun—a black handgun.

  Thomas flew back to the safety of the wall.

  “Shit, this is it. He lives here.”

  But he didn’t see him. And he didn’t see Freyja, but he had to be sure. And he didn’t have much more time. Wyatt had given him some, but not that much. His wet hand cupped the round, brass handle to the door and squeezing it tightly, he turned it, expected it to resist, but it didn’t. The latch popped and the door released outward with a click.

  That’s lucky I suppose, but when does a world-renowned killer really need to lock his doors? Who would be stupid enough to enter a killer’s house? Me. I guess.

  His chest tightened, and he noticed he wasn’t breathing. He’d been holding his breath for longer than he thought and took another deep breath.

  “You can do this. You can do this.”

  He pulled the door open with a long, dull screech of the unlubricated hinges. Dragging it open only wide enough for him to squeeze his body through, he quickly found himself inside the building. It was dark, humid and the air was stagnant. The room smelled of sweat, like the sweat after working out after a long night of scotch and cigarettes. Thomas took slow steps forward, squeezing the grip of the Beretta so tight that sweat was dripping from it now.

  First the kitchen, no one there. Next, he had to creep around that right corner where the gun lay, the yellowish glow of the light source and the blue-flickering TV.

  His finger found the trigger now.

  Taking sidesteps slowly—very slowly—around the corner, he eyed each new inch revealed to him cautiously. First, he saw a pair of heavy kettlebells on the floor, then the edge of a bed with the blankets tossed in a lazy fashion on the bed. No one. There was no one there, and he didn’t see any closets to have to check. But he realized then that he hadn’t checked behind him. In the square structure there shouldn’t be a part of the room that stuck out as the interior did.

  He snapped around, gun in hand, drawn and ready to fire. Thomas half expected to see someone jumping out at him from a closet or hidden alcove. But instead he saw, next to a large target on its right side with many, thick notches in it—a door.

  If there was anywhere left for Freyja—and possibly Niklas to be—it was there.

  OK, here we go. Be brave, for Freyja, and Sarah.

  He walked toward the door, a tan, blank door with a cheap, golden handle. Placing his hand around the cool handle, he began to turn it slowly. Again, unlocked, opening outward as he attempted to mute the lock with the palm of his hand. Moving to the side of the door, he aimed the gun into the darkness through the two-inch crack. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw that the door didn’t lead to a closet but led down.

  This door led to the depths of the house—a basement.

  Thomas opened the door wide enough to fit through, and his shoe made its way onto a wooden stair, luckily not creaking.

  If they’re down here, I’ve got to be ready. I can’t hesitate. I’ve got to move fast, I’m in his world now.

  Thomas didn’t know what to expect, and what he was about to find would tear at his heartstrings. . .

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Her blood cooled as it trickled down her arm. Freyja was in a complete sense of shock. At that moment she felt little pain, only what felt like the sharp prick of perhaps a paper cut. But looking down at her severed thumb, the panic of the situation had become so much that she found herself unable to speak.

  Wiping the blood off his knife, the predator stood with his back to her. The dark, fully-filled tattoos on his back looked like a Rorschach test to her then. She couldn’t make out what they were, but in her mind they were demons—demons at play, feasting on what looked like children to her.

  “This will all end,” Niklas hissed. “One way or the other, and all you have to do is say one word. . . just one word, Freyja.”

  She still couldn’t find the composure to answer, too terrified to move, watching him as his fingers glided over the hammer on the table, then the screwdriver, and then the mirror. His fingers then went back to the screwdriver, wrapping themselves around it.

  Holding it up to the lamplight, he inspected it. “You’d be surprised how much pain can be inflicted with such a simple tool. It makes you wonder if the person who invented it ever thought of this as a use case for it? What do you think?”

  Freyja’s eyes were wet with tears, and as she blinked, heavy streams rolled down her cheeks.

  He stared at her with his crocodile eyes.

  “One word,” he said. “Just tell me the missing word, and you can go.”

  Strength came to Freyja, a strength from deep down inside. It was as if a spirit welled up from her mother, deep down inside her. Her mother’s voice said something like, ‘Be strong, if you’re going to go into the night, hold your chest out, be brave, and be strong.’

  “Even if I did tell you,” Freyja then said with a collected voice, “you wouldn’t let me go. You’re nothing but a coward. Tying young women up in your basement. What are you afraid that I’d kick your ass if I wasn’t bound? Even if I did know the word, I wouldn’t tell you. If Joon held out, I can too.”

  He looked coldly at her, with the slightest of a furrowed brow. “If you’re trying to get me to untie you,” he said, “you’d better think of another way. Calling me a coward isn’t going to cut it.” He pointed the tip of the flathead screwdriver to the place on her hand where a thumb should be. “Maybe you don’t know the word, that’s fine. But you’re going to tell me how to get it, and if you don’t know how, it's not going to be a happy ending to your story. You are right about one thing; I do like tying young women up in my basement. You can call it. . . an old past time of mine. . . a hobby.

  “You’re a monster,” she said, her voice like daggers.

  “I’ve been called worse.” He grabbed her wrist, and as she squirmed to break free from his grasp, he angled the tip of the screwdriver toward the still-bleeding wound.

  “No!” she yelled, as she fought, and she could feel the cold steel creeping toward her injury. He is going to drive that into my hand, she thought, no, no, no!

  Niklas stopped, turning his crocodile eyes back to the stairwell he’d come down. He paused there, like a snake eying a mouse. Freyja couldn’t tell what had piqued his sudden interest, but she was slightly relieved, but knew she was still in a massive amount of danger.

  What happened next shocked Freyja so much she thought her he
art was about to explode.

  In a flash of mere seconds, Freyja’s spirits soared as Thomas rushed down the stairs, gun in hand, and Niklas shot forward like a cannonball barreling at its target.

  The loud boom of a bullet flying from the chamber echoed throughout the basement, as Thomas ran down the stairs, aiming the gun at the monster in the room. The explosion from the gun was so loud her ears instantly rang, and she felt as if she was in the middle of a battle, happening right there, in that very room.

  She couldn’t see where the bullet went, but as Niklas ran at Thomas, he threw the screwdriver end over end at him, then another boom of the gun blasted out in the room. Thomas reacted to knock away the screwdriver, and Freyja still couldn’t tell if Niklas had been shot yet or not, but she could see he was still running at great speed in those few seconds, and he was almost to Thomas. She knew she had to do something.

  Niklas was then at the break in between the L-shaped staircase, and as his hand gripped like a vise around Thomas’ arm, the gun let out another two loud booms as the gun went off, sending the bullets lodging into the wooden frame above. Niklas had Thomas in his grasp now, and he heaved his large body onto Thomas’. He had one hand now on Thomas’ arm, and the other around his neck. He squeezed with an intensity that was determined to kill.

  Thomas couldn’t breathe, and trying to resist the power of the killer on his was proving futile. Niklas brought one of his knees up and shoved it into Thomas’ stomach, sending a crushing pain into him. His back was upon the jagged staircase, and as the fingers wrapped tighter around his arm and neck, he began to grow pale. The veins in his eyes reddened and deepened. He was dying.

  Niklas’ eyes sparkled as the lights in Thomas’ diminished.

  Thomas’ grip on the gun relaxed, as his face was now turning blue.

  In a flash of the light from the kerosene lamp flickering off dark metal, a spat of fresh blood flowed down the side of Niklas’ head as a dull thud was heard. Niklas, in a state of bewilderment, turned his head back to look past the bloody hammer, to the green eyes of the young Scandinavian woman, holding the base of the hammer in her two hands, minus one digit.

  Niklas’ eyes rolled back into his head like a great white shark about to take a bite, he released his grip from Thomas and fell to his back, down the remaining stairwell, blood pooling from the wound on the side of his head onto the ground.

  “Thomas!” she said as she moved over the mercenary’s motionless body. Her hand first found the gun, putting her back to the corner of the stairwell. Thomas’ eyes were closed, and he was pale. From her vantage point she could see that Niklas indeed had one bloodstained bullet hole in his side, and still lay still.

  She grabbed Thomas’ shirt and shook. “Wake up, hey, Thomas, wake up. You need to wake up! You can’t die like this.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Don’t leave me alone in this hell. You’ve got to wake up, don’t die on me. . .”

  As she finished saying that, Thomas’ eyes shot open and he took a forced, long deep breath. He coughed wildly, sitting up, she put her hand on his shoulder to calm him.

  “Breathe easy,” she said in a soothing voice. The panic faded as Thomas was brought back to the real world. His eyes stared into hers, a deep, connected stare. Then his eyes went down the stairwell to the motionless attacker on the ground.

  “You. . . you saved me,” he said, with his mouth agape.

  “Actually, I think we saved each other. . .” She smiled and wrapped her arms around him, and he put his arms around her. They stayed there for several seconds.

  Thomas pulled away. “Freyja, they’re coming, they’re coming right now, you’ve got to go.”

  “Who? Thomas, who’s coming?”

  “The police,” he said, “you’ve got to get out of here or you’re not going to be able to hide anymore.”

  “What about him?” she asked, looking down at Niklas.

  He took the gun from her hand. “I’ll stay. Now go! I’ll meet you later.”

  She held a warm feeling inside her then, he’d done all this to save her. “Thank you,” she said, as she quickly ran over Niklas, back toward the chair she’d been tied to, now on its side next to the shattered mirror that she’d knocked off the table. Leaning down she grabbed her bloody thumb off the cold ground and ran back toward the staircase.

  Freyja left Thomas with a wink and a smile, which he returned, and then she moved past him, out the door to the cellar, out of the murderer's house and out into the woods. Minutes later she heard sirens in the distance.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  As the pain in his stomach dulled, the aching in his neck waned, and Niklas’ blood began to dry on his shirt, Thomas aimed the gun dead center at the killer’s head. The pool of blood grew ever slowly on the cold, stone floor as his body lay motionless, but Thomas wouldn’t risk it. In fact, every part of him wanted to empty the fucking clip into him. But he knew better, Ron was most likely on his way now, and if Niklas was in fact dead by the hammer-strike by Freyja, he didn’t need to be shooting a dead corpse—although he did think nobody would really blame him if he did.

  A blurriness fought its way into Thomas’ eyes, and deep fatigue rested in his soul. He’d almost been murdered only minutes ago, and now he had to fight to stay conscious. He wanted Freyja right then, someone to help him, someone to be by his side, but she had to leave. He wanted her to leave, and in his delirium he pulled the cell from his pocket.

  Thank you, he sent to her; below the long string of unanswered texts he’d sent prior.

  He was about to slip into that deep, dark sleep, with its fuzzy fingers clawing at him, he heard a loud boom from upstairs—the front door had been burst open. He heard a voice above—it was Ron’s voice.

  “Thomas? Thomas?” he called out.

  Thomas coughed and cleared his throat. “Down here. I’m down here!”

  Bright sunlight peaked through the darkness as the cellar door opened inward. Thomas began to cry when he saw Ron’s face. The only face I’ve been happier to see was Freyja’s when I saw she was still alive. Thank you, Ron. Thank you.

  “Good lord.” Ron hurried down the stairs, his gun held out in front of him, quickly finding its sights focused on the large man on the ground. “What the fuck happened here?”

  Thomas laughed a single laugh, sitting up from laying on the stairs, holding his stomach and wincing in pain. “I take it you heard from Wyatt?”

  Ron clasped his hand around Thomas’ shoulder, harder than a supportive touch. “You lied to me, asshole. What were you thinking? You could have died! What happened here?” He didn’t wait for a response as Thomas dipped in and out of that foggy place between warm slumber and the cold, stale air of the basement. Instead Ron, still aiming his pistol at Niklas’ motionless body, called someone, gave them the address, asking for backup and put the cell back in his pocket. “You’re safe now, I’ve got you.”

  Those words meant an incredible deal to Thomas then. Being well over forty, Thomas was a proud, self-sufficient man who liked to build model rockets in his spare time—but now—he felt as if there was someone protecting him from the darkness. It was similar to a child being scared of the dark, and their mother walking in, sitting on the side of the bed and scattering the monsters away. There was someone to tell him that everything was going to be OK. This feeling was coupled by the fact that Freyja was out there somewhere—safe. Somewhere outside of this nightmare of a structure, she was running under the warm sunlight, still breathing, still feeling.

  “I’m sorry I lied,” Thomas said, with his throat scratchy and his voice raspy. “I know it was wrong of me, but I had to do it.”

  Ron looked at him with an astonished looked, but then frowning. “Yeah, you fucked up. I’m gonna beat your ass for this, after you've recovered. Are you injured?”

  “Not too bad,” Thomas said, feeling the ache in his gut. “I’ll survive.”

  “Who was in the chair?” Ron asked, catching Thomas off-guard, and springing him
back to full attention. Ron, still with his gun aimed at Niklas, was looking at the chair on its side, with the cut zip ties next to it and the broken mirror.

  Thomas looked up at him with troubled eyes, not wanting to answer.

  “Thomas?” Ron asked. “Who was in the chair?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Thomas lied.

  “I’m going to point this gun at you,” Ron said. “Don’t you lie to me anymore. Who was in the chair? Where are they? That’s fresh blood on the ground. What happened here?”

  “It was a friend.” Thomas sighed. “That’s all I can say, and they’re safe now. He was going to kill them. Ron, please don’t ask me who they were, they can’t be known. Do me this favor.”

  “I’m done doing you favors,” Ron said, but then paused.

  “I came to help my friend,” Thomas said. “I didn’t know they’d be here, but I needed the gun anyway. Glad I had it; I’ll say that much. He was fast. He almost got me, had his hand around my neck.”

  “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” Ron said, his dark eyes gazing down at Niklas, the light glowing from the open door above glistening on his dark skin—a shimmer of relief in his eyes.

  Thomas heard faint sirens in the distance, and his gaze shot to Niklas on the ground as he groaned and stirred. His bloody hand lifted from the floor and moved to the gunshot in his torso.

  “Don’t you fucking move,” Ron said, gripping his gun tightly, aiming it at Niklas’ head. “Does he have any weapons on him?”

  Thomas shook his head, and said, “I’m not sure. His knife is over there, I don’t think he has a gun, or he would’ve used it.”

  “Stay where you are,” Ron said as Niklas slumped back to his deep sleep, nearing death, but not quite within its reach.

  The sirens got louder, and Thomas waned in and out of that deep, dark grasp of sleep himself.

  Ron seemed to notice the wear on Thomas’ face, and he simply said. “I got you, you can rest if you need.”

  The time that followed flickered in an instant, and for what felt like a single blink, Thomas then found himself under the bright, white lights of a summer cloud colored ceiling. Moving his head back, he saw a nurse wheeling him down a long hallway. The first thing that shot into his mind was Freyja.