Soulburn - The Complete Edition (Frailty)

by Baker, Alex

  Constance, holding the blood stained rag, locked eyes with the ex-wrestler, hoping he would pick up on what she was trying to convey.

  The Russian tensed up some and tried to focus. When he wrestled, it was important for he and his opponent to communicate in many ways, since talking was easily noticed. There were hand signals, head nods, cue words, and, sometimes, a glance. Constance's look had told him everything he needed to know.

  “We're not done yet,” Constance whispered, leaning in close to him.

  “Ms. Kysta,” Laura yelled, “you need to move!”

  Constance did just that. In an instant, she spun around, tossed the towel in the detective's face, and lunged out of the way.

  Laura seeing the girl move and something coming at her face, reflexively, swatted at the cloth with the hand that held the handcuffs. She recovered her composure just in time to see the giant Russian towering over her.

  Roofy did not hesitate, smacking the gun out of her hand with so much force that it bounced off the wall on the opposite side of the room.

  Reacting to the attack, Laura hit the big man, with all of her force, in the face. Having barely turned his head, she swung another punch.

  Roofy, grimacing, caught her by the wrist, in a vice-like grip, with his oversized hand. He jerked her close-in to him and yanked her arm over her head.

  Shaken, Laura's confidence faded abruptly and was replaced by dread. This was the position no police officer wanted to be in. Pain shot through her arm, and her hand started going numb from the tight grip.

  “What are you going to do, Mr. Reiner?” Laura asked the intimidating giant. As hard as she tried to hold a tone of command, her words fell flat.

  Roofy clamped his other hand around her neck and picked her up so that he was looking her in the eyes.

  Panicking and choking, Laura strained to breathe. Her feet had to be dangling almost a foot off the floor, given how much larger he was than her.

  “What to do with her?” Roofy asked Constance.

  The girl was in awe of how little effort it seemed to take for the Russian to hold the woman up off the ground. As to his question, she had already known the answer. “Apocalypse bomb, of course.”

  The conversation that was taking place seemed surreal to the detective. Of all the things that could have happened, this surprised her, which was something that was normally hard to do. The smug smile that the Russian gave her took her from surprise to fear. She knew the wrestling move that the teen was referring to, but she had not thought he would seriously perform it. If he drove her into the floor or through a piece of furniture, she could end up with broken bones, crippled, or worse.

  Detective Stenks did not get a chance to finish her line of thought. Like a ragdoll, she was hoisted up to ceiling level, almost hitting her head.

  With her legs placed on his shoulders, Roofy's face was pressed against her lower abdomen. It was a position he was used to, as he had delivered many of these during his career. His meaty hands held her by the waist line of her skirt, and with all of the force he could muster, he drove her down.

  Laura felt a rush as the ceiling fell away from her, and her stomach sank. She landed with immense impact on the top of the side of one of the double beds. The mattress buckled, as the sounds of springs popping loose and bed supports cracking surrounded her.

  Constance stood amazed in the corner of the room.

  Unnoticed outside, a figure wearing a trench coat and fedora approached the rear of Roofy's car. He hesitated for a moment to observe what had unfolded in the encounter between the parties he had stalked, but it was only a brief pause. Having seen what he needed, the man bent over and attached a small tracking device to the underside of the rear quarter panel of Roofy's car and walked away.

  Inside the room, Laura lay in the collapsed bed. Dazed and disheveled, she struggled to shake the cobwebs from her head. Opening her eyes, she saw the legs of her attacker nearby.

  “Get handcuffs,” Roofy told Constance.

  Woozy, Laura groaned as she rolled out of the destroyed bed and on to the floor. Steadying herself, she started crawling slowly for the door, but she was stopped by a powerful hand grabbing her hair and pulling her head back. Weakly, she reached up to try to stop the giant Russian. “Wait...” Her feeble plea did not help. A large arm closed around her neck in a strangle hold, while her arm was pinned behind her back.

  Increasing the pressure of his choke hold, Roofy turned the detective so that she could see Constance, who held a key in one hand and a set of handcuffs in the other.

  “We leave your key on table,” Roofy said, “for when you wake up.”

  Straining for air, Laura watched the girl give her a nonchalant look. She could feel herself lose the battle to keep conscious. She felt overwhelmed. She felt helpless. Blackness closing in on her, she also felt aroused.

  “She is out,” Roofy said, picking the detective’s limp body up and placing it carefully on the ruined bed.

  “Did you see the look on her face right before she passed out?” Constance asked, grabbing their bags.

  “Niet. Why you ask?”

  The two headed out the door, shutting it behind them.

  “You know, I think she was enjoying it.”

  Roofy pondered the girl's comments quietly as they loaded their bags into the car and left.

  30

  Detective Laura Stenks regained consciousness. It took her a moment to realize where she was and recall what had happened. Looking around at the mess in the Santa Fe hotel room brought her recollections back quickly.

  A broken spring pinched her back, and her arms, handcuffed behind her, ached from having laid on them. Wearily, she sighed and made her way to her feet.

  Her eyes caught sight of the handcuff key and gun sitting on a small table made for doing computer work while traveling; right where they had told her the items would be.

  “How about that,” she said mischievously.

  31

  The red Mustang made its way down the interstate towards Las Vegas.

  “I wonder how she find us?” Roofy pondered out loud.

  “Probably tracked your debit card.” Constance sat sideways in the passenger seat, with her legs pulled up and arms wrapped around them.

  “I noticed you using it. It created an electronic trail that led her straight to us,” the teen said, responding to the inquisitive glance the Russian ex-wrestler was giving her.

  “Why did you not say something?”

  “What fun would that be?”

  “You want us to get caught?” Roofy asked, confused.

  “No,” Constance answered sincerely as she fixed the sock on one of her feet, “I want you to feel alive again.” Before he could ask another question, she stuck her foot right up next to his face. “Now, isn't this a cute foot?”

  Roofy recoiled in disgust. “Argh! Move foot!”

  Constance pulled her foot back. “What? It doesn't smell.”

  “Feet are worst part of body.”

  “So, you wouldn't suck my toes?”

  “Ugh! I would sooner choke on baby's diaper.” Roofy scrunched his nose, “This is not funny.”

  The girl tried to stifle her laugh, but she could not contain it.

  “Okay. Maybe a little funny.”

  A few cars behind them, the figure with the shoulder length, salt and pepper hair followed.

  32

  Laura, hair a mess and not wearing any shoes, stood in front of the mirror, in the shambled hotel room, tucking her shirt in. Her duty belt and cell phone sat on the dresser.

  Satisfied with her blouse, she moved on to combing her hair and, finishing that, pulling a tube of lipstick from her purse. She leaned in close to the mirror and began to apply it; however, seeing the reflection of the demolished carcass of the double bed, she drifted off in thought. Dropping her lipstick, she turned around, mesmerized.

  Leaning back, her butt rested against the dresser and her hands rested on her pelvic region. The earlier
events fresh in her mind, her passion grew with each replay of the memory.

  There had been a distinctive smell of sweat as the large Russian had applied the choke hold. Concentrating, she imagined she could still catch a whiff of it lingering in the air.

  There were no rules given and no bumbling wanna-be ladies men. There had only been strength, aggression, and dominance.

  Entranced, her hands eased down to the bottom of her skirt and began pulling it up.

  Images of his large hands, powerful arms, and thick chest danced through her mind. His accent hung in her ears. The feeling of helplessness, as he bent her arm behind her back, stimulated her.

  Nails dragged against legs as the skirt came up to her waist. One hand holding it there, she pulled the crotch of her panties aside and rubbed two fingers back and forth over her pleasure area.

  The more the intensity of her fantasy grew, the wetter she got.

  The hard wood of the dresser pressed painfully into her back as she leaned, head back and eyes closed. The feeling could not be contained. It was like nothing she had experienced before.

  “Ah...aahh,” she moaned, close to climaxing.

  Dwayne's ringtone played on her cell phone.

  The mood instantly broken, Laura raised her head and stopped rubbing. “Ah…shit,” she finished, disgusted.

  Her panties back in place and skirt straightened, she picked up the phone and pinned it between her ear and shoulder. “This better be important, Dwayne.”

  As she listened, she turned back to the mirror, picked up the duty belt, and strapped it on. “Yes. Kate Reiner. What about when she died?” Laura holstered her police issue firearm while Dwayne spoke.

  “Well, way to go, Micky. Have you told the Chief yet?” Laura sat down on the side of the other bed. “No, I don't have him in custody.” She put her heels on and responded to Dwayne's comments, “Of course, I'm trying to catch him.”

  Sarcastically, she said, “It's not like I'm just standing around fingering myself.”

  33

  The blue, red, and purple glass grandeur of the Rio Hotel and Casino rose up and towered in the Las Vegas skyline. The entrance way was cluttered with the in-season crowd as people made their way in and out of the building. Advertisements for concerts and performances littered every available inch of the front walkway.

  Parked in the valet parking assistance area was Roofy's red Mustang.

  Constance peered out of the passenger window and looked up at the high rise building. “Is this where we're staying?”

  “Da.” Roofy grabbed his cigarette pack and turned off the car.

  “Very nice. Your taste in hotels is improving.”

  Having paid the valet and grabbed the luggage, the two entered the hotel.

  “Look at all of the slot machines. It's almost overwhelming,” Constance beamed in amazement.

  “You are too young for the gambling.”

  “I don't gamble with machines,” Constance replied wryly.

  The two stopped by the front desk, where Roofy checked them in. Keys in hand, he turned to find the teen pointing at a large banner hanging at the entrance of the room labeled Main Ballroom.

  The hard-to-miss sign read: “The Rio Hotel presents Halloween Fest! Vendors! Forums! Sales! And the Annual Costume Party!”.

  “Oh, we have to go to the costume party,” Constance insisted excitedly.

  “I do not have costume.”

  “You have your wrestling gear. Same difference.”

  Roofy picked up the bags and the two started to their room.

  “You do not have costume,” he added.

  “Yes I do.” Constance continued as they stopped to wait at the elevator, “I brought my Lady Angel costume with me. It's the one I was wearing when you drove by that night.” She gave him a wink. “I know you checked it out.”

  “Why bring this costume?”

  “She's a superheroine, and I might have needed it to rescue you.”

  The doors opened, and they entered. A quiet ride took them to the second floor, where they exited and walked down the hall.

  “Fine. We go to party,” Roofy caved. Reaching the door to their room, Roofy sat the bags down and unlocked it. “How come you always get your way?”

  “Because, you want to agree with me.” Constance entered the room, with Roofy close behind her, bags in hand.

  The cream-colored suite was ornate and gave a feeling of lavishness. Two queen beds faced a decorative TV stand, which was topped with a fifty-two inch flat screen. Behind that, a curved window covered almost the entire wall, providing a scenic view over the Las Vegas strip. Off to the left of the glass sat a couch and lamp, topped off with a wall hung painting.

  Roofy sat the bags down, one on each bed. “I do not understand.”

  “I know what you want, so I lead you there.” Constance sat on the end of the bed closest to her and kicked out her feet. “Are you okay?”

  Roofy groaned, dropping to one knee and burying his head in his hands. The pain was unbearable.

  Constance opened her bag and searched it frantically. “I'll get your towel.” Failing to find it, she jumped up from the bed and ran to the bathroom. “Damn! I must have left it in the trunk when we hurried out of Santa Fe. Hold on, I'll find you one.”

  Roofy could no longer hear her over the excruciating pain. Face covered by his fingers and palms, the world seemed to have dropped away. Feeling something warm and wet in his cupped hands, he lifted his head slightly and could see blood pooling, as it continued to run from his nose like a faucet. Quickly, they filled and the warm, red liquid overflowed on to the floor.

  “What is happening?” Roofy asked, scared. His words echoed as if he were in a large empty cavern, yet he was no longer sure of where he was, as everything had gone black. Before he could ponder it any longer, a clamping sensation in his belly dropped him to all fours, and he vomited violently. Black and red blood spewed out, carrying organ tissue and pieces of dying brain matter.

  Roofy screamed out in anguish. Mustering his strength, he lifted to one knee, only to find himself kneeling in two large palms in his own pool of blood. The hands cradling him were boney, covered in skin bearing scorch marks, and ended in long, razor-like fingernails.

  “Chto proiskhodit?” Roofy peered out into the inky darkness, searching for signs of the death he was sure was impending. Craning his head so he could see above, he fell back on one hand and threw the other one up to shield himself from the face staring back at him.

  A warped, demonic reflection, the eyes were totally black, skin pocked with burn marks, mouth full of jagged and crusty teeth, and hair dotted with the appearance of small horns.

  “Kto ty?” Roofy asked, struggling against fright.

  “I am you, of course. I am Apocalypse!” the face answered and followed with a sinister laugh that echoed throughout the darkness.

  Roofy, sitting on his knees, covered his face with his hands and screamed in despair. “Niet...pozhaluysta...,” he stuttered, crumpling over into a fetal position.

  “Roofy?” Constance's voice resonated through the emptiness.

  Forcing himself up on one arm, he noticed a point of light breaching the infinite night.

  “Roofy?” Her voice called out again, energizing the big Russian’s life force with hope.

  Making it to his feet, he peered in the direction of the light, which grew rapidly. It became so bright that he squinted and was forced to shield his eyes.

  “Can you hear me?”

  The brilliance overcame him in a rush, and like going from a dream to instantly awake, he emerged aware and in control again.

  Lying on the floor of the hotel room in a heap, the soft touch of a hand gently stroked his hair. Opening his eyes and straining to see, the hazy site of Constance's face slowly came into focus.

  “Roofy, can you hear me?” she asked, kneeling beside him.

  “Da. I lose much blood,” he replied weakly, referring to the blood soaked hotel towel she held.


  Using all of her strength, she helped the ex-wrestler get up and sit on the edge of the bed. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  Roofy grabbed her arm and pleaded. “Niet. No more doctors.”

  “Okay. Okay.” There was little to his grip, but she conceded the point, firmly believing that, together, they could get through anything. Constance removed his boots and helped him get comfortable. Propping some pillows up against the headboard, she got into the bed and leaned Roofy back into her lap. “Here. Lie down and relax.”

  The big Russian did not hear her, though. He was already drifting into unconsciousness.

  “We'll be okay.”

  Out in the parking lot, a car parked within sight of Roofy's Mustang. The driver, sporting a fedora and sunglasses, made a call on his cell phone.

  “He's here. Proceed as planned.”

  34

  Detective Laura Stenks paced back and forth on the main drag, outside of the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino, talking on her cell phone. Either I'm going to wear a hole in the pavement or my heels are going to be worn down to flats.

  A steady flow of people cascaded around her, adding to her tension and bringing her to the conclusion that there was no privacy in the whole damn city.

  Having opted to carry her badge and firearm in her purse, she now regretted the decision. It was not because the purse was hanging from her shoulder like a bag of bricks; more that leaving the duty belt in the car would help her draw less attention. Laura was fairly certain, though, that any one of the number of people who were practically running her over would think twice about it if her gun was on her hip.

  “I know he's here, Dwayne,” she said, determined, “but, he's stopped using his card, so tracking that is out.”

  Across the country, at the Richmond City Police Department, Dwayne sat at a desk working on evidence while responding to Laura's call. “He uses that phone, we have him. I'll be able to send you his exact coordinates.”

  “Worse comes to worse, I'll try the wrestling event. I'm sure he won't miss that,” Laura reasoned, noticing two men had stopped to ogle her.