by Luis Samways
“Hello?” the voice said.
“Hey, I’ve decided. I want to kill her. Change of plan. Don’t shoot her. Bring her back here, and we’ll play a game.”
The phone went dead. He put it back down, slotting the receiver in place. He sat back in his office chair and looked up at the ceiling. The wallpaper was peeling. He watched as a minuscule bit of paint fleck dropped off the ceiling and gently made its way toward him. He smiled.
“One by one, they all peel.”
Eight
The driver put his cell phone back in his pocket and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He smiled and looked at his partner, who was sitting next to him in the passenger seat, still holding an axe.
“Change of plans. Looks as if the boss wants us to let him do her in,” he said, taking the first left on a roundabout.
They were planning on taking her to some layby somewhere, popping three bullets into the back of her head, and rolling her down a ditch. She wouldn’t have been found for a few days. Maybe even weeks. But plans change. And when they change, they must still respect them.
“I’m okay with letting The Hat kill her. He’ll come up with some great way to do it. You know how he is. He’ll see a movie, usually a horror movie of some sort, and question the factual validity of the death scenes. He’s like that. All factual,” the passenger said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a pouch of rolling tobacco. He started to roll himself a cigarette, but then gauged that his partner would want one, too, so he flicked the rolled cigarette into the driver’s lap.
“What do you think?” the driver said, momentarily craning his head toward Demi Reynolds, who was sitting in the back seat, looking pale and flustered.
“What?” was all she could muster.
“What do you think he’s going to do to you?” the driver said, moving his head forward, back to looking out the windshield as he drove at a reasonable speed.
“I don’t know,” Demi replied. She could feel her lungs inflating as panic began to settle within her.
“You ought to know, Demi,” the passenger said. This time he was the one craning his neck and looking at her. “You work for him. He’s a cold-blooded killer. He hires people like you to kill the people he can’t. If that doesn’t strike you as interesting, then I don’t know what does.”
“What do you mean? You expect me to be relishing the idea of dying?” she asked, her hands trembling a little.
“No, not at all. But there must be a little part of you, a tiny part, that is interested in how he’ll do it. I mean, you and him are tight. Well, you used to be close until you killed his brother. I know accidents happen, but I’m afraid some things can’t be forgiven. No matter how much you want them to be forgiven, some wounds don’t heal,” the driver said, taking a left.
It seemed as if both men were enjoying themselves. Demi wasn’t. Her heart was racing at a million beats per second. Her head felt sweaty, and her hands seemed to be expanding, as if her skin was becoming tighter. It seemed as if that tight feeling she was experiencing was rising up her arms, neck, and face. She felt trapped. Her breathing was off centre, and her legs were shaking. She was coming to the realization that she was about to die. She’d thought that she’d handle it a lot better than she was. After all, she was a contract killer. She should have nerves of steel. But knowing that her boss, Donny the Hat, was going to be the one to kill her was really making her feel the strain.
She’d give an arm and a leg for it to be anybody else. Anybody at all.
“You reckon he’s going to make you suffer, Demi?” the passenger asked, lighting up his rolled cigarette. The driver followed suit and lit his. The windows were closed, so the smoke began to make the air a little thick.
“I don’t know!” Demi shouted.
The driver and passenger began to laugh. They were trying to wind her up, and it was working. Demi knew what they were doing, but part of her couldn’t help playing along, because deep down she was petrified.
“I reckon he’ll behead you with a butter knife. He’s like that now. I mean, he watches a lot of those videos those Muslims release. He’s fascinated with the process. So much so he made us go out and look for a guy or gal to behead a few months ago. He said he didn’t care who it was. Just to bring them to him. We asked if he wanted somebody from a rival firm, but he declined. He just wanted anybody. So we put our heads together and came to the conclusion that we’d go to the local smack house and lure a smack head out of hiding,” the driver said.
Demi swallowed.
“When we got the smack head to get in our car, we drove him to the pub, and Donny was there waiting. He looked at the homeless guy, and his eyes lit up. I tell you what, I’ve never seen a guy look so happy. I mean, he was really happy. I’ve seen some guys get close to that kind of elation, but boy, oh boy, he was happy,” the passenger butted in.
Demi blinked a few times. Her eyelids were nearly sticking together.
“We ushered the homeless guy forward and made him sit down. We teased him a little, and then Donny started smashing him in. He broke all the guy’s rotted teeth. He snapped all the fingers on the guy’s right hand. Then he decided to beat him some more. The smack head finally conked out and was unconscious. That’s when Donny got his blunt blade and began carving at the guy’s neck. At first we thought the smack head wouldn’t wake up. In fact, I know I was hoping he wouldn’t, for his sake. I didn’t fancy seeing such a thing,” the driver said, taking another left.
“But he did wake up,” the passenger interjected, taking another drag on his cigarette. “And he was screaming and screaming. But as Donny cut at the guy’s throat like it was a Christmas turkey, the screams turned into gargling and then whistling, and finally nothing. He was dead. His flesh was white, and his head was hanging off the spinal stem. Donny couldn’t quite manage to sever the cord. It was too tough, especially with that blade. So he ripped the head off, twisting it, and it popped off. There was so much blood. I felt a little sorry for the druggy guy, but he shouldn’t have agreed to come along.”
“Yeah, drugs will cloud your judgment when it comes to who you get in a car with,” the driver said.
“Exactly,” the passenger reiterated.
Then they both turned their heads to face Demi. She was a mess. Her hair was covered in sweat, and her face was aching from her clenched jaw. The two men staring at her had smiles on their faces.
“So what we’re saying is, if he did that to a guy he didn’t know, who for all intents and purposes hadn’t done anything to him, what do you think he’s going to do to you? The woman who killed his own fucking brother?” the driver asked, turning around again and parking up on a curb.
“Rather you than me,” the passenger offered up as the engine died and both the passenger and the driver got out of the vehicle. They were at their destination. And Demi was expecting the worst.
The door next to her opened, and the driver grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her out of the car.
“I think it’s best if we don’t let Donny stew any longer. I’d rather keep my head, thanks,” he said, slamming the door shut and dragging her off to her demise.
Nine
They had put something over her head. Whatever it was, it felt rough against her skin. She couldn’t see anything. Everything around her was pitch black. Not one glimmer of light was able to make its way through the fabric. She came to the conclusion that she was wearing a bag of some sorts. Maybe a knapsack. Possibly something else. But whatever it was, it wasn’t comfortable. She was attempting to feel her way about as she walked, but both the driver and the passenger of the car were escorting her someplace. They had her arms firmly interlocked between theirs. It was a strange sensation, but it certainly worked. They were able to overpower and maneuver her easily. She didn’t have any freedom of movement. Every stride she took was planned and acted out for her. The only thing she had control of was her thoughts; the rest of her was under siege by fear and panic.
Sweat
was dripping down her face. Her chin was getting dabs of the stuff as it dripped off her eyebrows and coated her nose and lips under the tight and stuffy knapsack she was wearing on her head. The sound of footsteps echoed under her. She was sure that they belonged to her and her captives. Two of them. For now.
After a couple of minutes of walking and turning, which to her mind must have occurred in some sort of hallway, they came to a halt. The man on her left, whom she guessed to be the driver of the car, put his arm out in front of her. She crashed into it, chest first. Her breasts pressed up against his bony elbow and forearm. He held his arm out for a long while, as if he was attempting to get a feel of her chest or something. She didn’t say anything. She just breathed. Everything sounded raspy under her knapsack blindfold. She heard a faint giggle from the man on her right. He was the passenger. She recognized his smell. She could smell it from under her hood. They stood there for a while, and then suddenly the sound of an opening door and footsteps filled the room. The feet were heading their way. A slight tinge of anticipation surrounded all three of them. Even her captives were stunned into silence.
She knew it could only mean one thing. Her boss, Donny the Hat, was there, and he was heading her way. She felt a cold rush of air hit her, and then milliseconds later, her hood was ripped off her head. The first thing she saw was a golden watch. It belonged to the man who’d ripped her hood off. And that was Donny. She blinked a few times and noticed him smiling. Her vision was a little off center, but she focused some more, and his smile became brighter. The creases around his eyes were deep, and his teeth were gleaming with happiness.
She had never seen him like this.
“It’s good to see you, kid,” he managed through his smile.
He always referred to her as “kid” for some reason. It wasn’t like she was that young or he was that much older. She guessed it was more to do with respect. It was a “respect your elders” thing. Maybe even a “respect your don” thing.
“Hi, Donny,” she managed to say, to her boss’s delight.
“Oh, it speaks,” he said, moving closer to her and caressing her hair. “You know, if I’d known you were such a cold-blooded cunt, then I wouldn’t have slept with you all those years ago,” he said, taking a few steps back and turning on his heels. He then seemed to disappear into the darkness and seconds later reappear with some bolt cutters. He stepped back up to her and waved the cutters around, trying to intimidate her, which wasn’t hard, seeing that she was in what seemed to be some sort of abandoned building, in the dark, surrounded by three men who could easily snap her neck. Bolt cutters or not, she knew she wasn’t getting out of there.
“I use the word ‘cunt’ a lot, don’t you think, Demi?” he said, running his left hand across the cold surface of the bolt cutters.
“I wouldn’t know, Donny. I guess everyone uses it a little,” she replied. She was at a loss as to what to say.
What do you exactly say to somebody who’s about to use bolt cutters for something other than chains?
“You can be honest, Demi. If you think I use the word ‘cunt’ a lot, then just tell me. I’m a big boy. I wouldn’t want to offend a woman in my presence.”
She stood there and blinked. The two guys stood beside her, still holding her arms on either side. One of them jabbed her in the rib with his elbow, as if to make her reply to her boss.
“I’m not offended,” she gasped, trying to suck up some air, but it was futile. Air wasn’t going into her lungs. It was as if air didn’t exist, and she had to dig deep to find some other way to stay alive. But she was still there, still breathing, if not struggling.
“Well, I suppose a woman like you wouldn’t be offended by such language. I mean, you kill men for money,” he said, still stroking the bolt cutters.
“I kill people for money,” she reiterated.
“Ah, I see,” Donny said abruptly, waving her off with his free hand. “You don’t like it when I say that you kill men for money.”
“I have no problem with that — it’s just not true,” she said.
“Oh, but it is,” Donny replied. “You’ve only ever killed men for money. All the other victims, the women, have been for other reasons. I’ve never hired you to kill a woman, have I?”
“No, but I don’t just work for you,” she said.
“I thought you did, Demi. I was under the impression that you were loyal. But I guess I was wrong about you. I guess I was wrong about women like you.”
He began to pace. The two men beside her gripped her tighter, as if they were aware that something was going to happen. They could tell when their boss was seething. They’d seen this routine many times before, so they were acclimated to his mannerisms, and they knew when he was about ready to crush whoever was in front of him.
“Women like you,” he continued, still pacing, still stroking. “Women like you are the reason men like me go bald at twenty-something. It’s women like you, Demi, who make men fat. It’s women like you who drive a man to drink. Drive a man to abusing you. Beating you.” He took a deep breath. “Killing you.”
Demi stood there and closed her eyes. She thought her time was running out and figured that at any second she’d be dead. But seconds turned into tens of seconds, which soon turned into a minute, and then she reopened her eyes and was met by another smile.
“But not yet,” Donny said, dropping the bolt cutters with a clang as they hit the floor. “Not yet,” he repeated.
He then turned to the man on her right and said, “Take her to the room. Keep her there. Let her stew. And when I’m ready, we’ll get this thing started.”
They did as he asked. They dragged her off. She watched as Donny carried on smiling. The farther they dragged her, the dimmer his teeth became, until they melted into the darkness.
She was kicking and screaming by then. Her will was finally broken. But she didn’t have much time to resist. The room they were talking about was only a thirty-second walk. If she knew how, she would have done something, anything, to get the upper hand. But before she knew it, she was being pushed into a dark room, eight by ten across, and the door was being slammed on her. It made a metal ringing sound as the vibrations from the force of the door echoed off the walls. She felt as if she was on a submarine. But she wasn’t.
She had no idea where she was.
Ten
Darkness is a horrible thing to endure. It surrounds you and suffocates you. It chokes you. It haunts you. And for Demi Reynolds, darkness was beating her. It was abusing her. It was messing with her head, turning her consciousness against her, mocking her, ridiculing her. Their plan was working. She was breaking. She was weak.
She didn’t know how long she’d been in there, but her best guess was ten to fifteen hours. At first she didn’t know why they were keeping her locked away. It hardly made any sense to her. She’d thought that Donny would just kill her and get it over and done with. There wasn’t any point in prolonging it. But what if there was a point? What then?
Those were the sort of thoughts that were crashing around within the confines of her skull. She was trying to work out what was going on. The formula for her captivity, as if there was some sort of equation that would give her the answers. But with all her rational thinking and logical thought processes, she couldn’t come to a conclusion that made sense.
Donny was either trying to scare her, or he was really planning on killing her. But neither of those two alternatives made sense to Demi. The man was all about power and abusing it until it couldn’t be abused any more. And for a man like that, when the day came that his power was no more, the world would have frozen over half a dozen times.
So for a man like him to play mind games with the person who killed his own brother was far from logical. Donny was known to be a loose cannon. He’d stab a guy over a spilt drink. He’d murder a hooker for grazing her teeth on his dick. He’d cut a man’s heart out for looking at his wife, let alone touching her. So for a man like him to be beating around the bush
didn’t make sense.
Demi’s thought processes soon quietened down. Fifteen hours soon turned into twenty. Then twenty-four. She’d been falling in and out of consciousness. Sleep was beckoning her. It was pulling her into a deep trance of repeated sounds and echoing drips. The room she was in had its own character. It growled a certain way. Its hum was constant on her eardrums. Its personality was making itself known, forcing her to question what was real and what wasn’t. She could have sworn that the door to the room she was in was opened once or twice. A bowl of water was dropped on the floor and then taken away a few hours later. Footsteps could be heard making their way up to the door and then away from the door every twenty to thirty minutes.
They were guarding her, like a prisoner in solitary confinement. It certainly felt like the shoe, not that she had ever been to prison. It was dark and lonely. Her mind was escaping her, and she grew tired of trying to guess how long she had been in there. Sleep was all she did. At first when she awoke, she’d ignore the bowl next to her. She could smell the damp coming off it. The heat in the dark room was palpable. The water in the bowl was starting to evaporate. She attempted to deny them the satisfaction of drinking their water. But she soon succumbed. The human body does that often. It’s usually the first to fail. The brain and spirit are next, in that order. But Demi, she was different. It would take a lot to make her brain or spirit fail.
But she found herself drinking out of that bowl and feeling as if she was closer to failing altogether. They’d bring her another bowl after a while, and she’d drink that. Part of her was hoping that they laced it with poison so it could all be over with. But her wish didn’t come true, and after a while, the doors opened again and a new bowl was placed on the ground. It had two compartments, one with water and one with food.
They were keeping her alive. But she didn’t know why. She attempted to speak to the mysterious person who kept leaving her bowls of food and water, but her vocal chords were strained and paralyzed after not being used for such a long time.
