by J. B. Havens
“It’s not a terrible idea,” Jones replied. “He’s locked down there with no idea who we are or what we want. We could easily be working someone else over. It’s not about reality, only what he perceives is reality.” As usual, he pulled his hat down low after he finished speaking.
“Okay, say this works.” I began poking at a frozen and floating steak. “What then? We can’t just let him go.”
“Now you’re having second thoughts? It’s a little late for that.” Pierce pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge, pausing to guzzle some of it before continuing. “Rook, do you think Nickoli will want him?”
“No. Nickoli didn’t want anything further to do with him. If you don’t want to kill him, we can leave him tied up here and call Interpol to come get him.”
“Let’s try Jordon’s plan first. Cover me in gore and add some screams for spice, stir and bake for a perfect squealing pig.”
“That’s not funny. I was about to eat.” Flynn had a loaf of bread and a block of cheese in his hands.
“Bon appètit.”
I went to change. A black shirt covered in blood wasn’t very dramatic. I needed something a little more fun.
Chapter 20
The cloth itched against his face. He knew what they were about. Blindfold the prisoner and leave him in a dark room alone—isolated—to make him anxious and scared. Little did these people know, he’d done this dance before. Time passed slowly; he could feel each second tick by like heartbeats. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d not had dinner.
He enjoyed these games, though he was usually on the other side. Inflicting pain was always something that had brought him great pleasure.
He’d found his calling early on, doing the wet work for the mob and their associates. Prison had hastened the degradation of what character he had remaining. And isolation was nothing new to him. He had spent most of his ten-year sentence alone, deemed too much of a danger to guards and other prisoners. If this was the best they had, they would need to up their game considerably.
His sight was gone for the moment, but his ears were working fine. Terror filled screams reached his ears, back-dropped by the ear-splitting noise of an electric saw. He could hear the screech and whine of the blade rising over the screams.
Sweat beaded on his brow, trailing slowly down his cheeks. Shouts of “Tell me!” followed by screams that rose the hair on his arms in a ball-shriveling rush. He shook his head, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t scared. Loud thuds shook the ceiling above him.
“Dammit, she’s dead. Clean this mess up, then bring me the other one.” The woman’s calm voice had terror rising like bile up his throat. He swallowed convulsively, attempting to rid himself of the unfamiliar and bitter taste.
What was she doing? Killing the girls? Who were these people?
The questions assaulted his brain, speeding his heart and dampening his palms. Uncertainty gripped him as the sounds began anew. The unmistakable meaty thunk of a hammer striking muscle and bone, followed quickly by ear-splitting wails of agony.
“Answer me and this will all stop.” The words drifted down, followed by more screams until his head was pounding with the noise. A normally enjoyable pastime for him was being turned against him. Oh, to be the one delivering those blows, causing those screams to pour from that girl until her breath was gone. Forcing himself to focus on that, he refused to allow himself to think that it would soon be his turn. Instead, his mind twisted terror into pleasure.
Tilting his head in an attempt to hear better, he took in the sounds of pain and despair as if they were a fine wine. The bouquet of sounds was a delicate balance of fear, pain, and anguish. He longed to sip from the glass.
He ignored his sweaty palms, attributing them to his own body heat. He also refused to admit the tingle in his spine was anything more than anticipation; it couldn’t possibly be his own fear.
****
I smeared a few more streaks of blood on my face from the little remaining in the bag. Jordon had used a basting brush from the kitchen to flick droplets onto my white shirt. Tiny red round dots covered me in arches. Surveying my handiwork in the mirror, I looked exactly as I had wanted. I was sweaty and spattered in blood from head-to-toe, the white of my shirt contrasting wonderfully with the red cow’s blood.
Satisfied with my appearance, I made my way downstairs. Savory cooking smells came from the kitchen where Rook and one of the girls were standing near the stove. The two girls had impressed me with their acting skills; their terror-filled screams had been perfect.
Glancing at my watch, I decided we’d kept Anton waiting long enough. “It’s been an hour, let’s do this.”
“Want me to bring this down?” Flynn held up the small woodworking saw we’d found in the garage.
“Yup. A bucket too.” I grabbed the hammer I’d found in the garage off the counter with a blood soaked hand, appreciating the image. The machete strapped to my thigh was my only other weapon. “Jones, Pierce, you’re at my back. Flynn, you’re my ‘assistant.’ Rook, let her take over dinner. I need you to translate.”
“What about me?” Jordon stood from where he’d been sitting at the table.
A few ideas came to mind, none of which were appropriate. “Get some blood on you, stand next to me, and be fucking terrifying.”
“That’s going to be hard for boy-o with his all-American good looks. He looks like a fucking boy scout.” Flynn elbowed Jordon in the side, earning a fist to the stomach for his trouble.
“For fucks sake, knock it off. Jordon, smear some blood on your face and meet us down there. Make a late entrance. The point is to scare this guy into talking. We always have actual torture as an option if this doesn’t work.” Shrugging my shoulders and trying to relax, I opened the basement door.
Walking down the stairs, I made sure each step was loud and deliberate. There was a dim bare bulb hanging over Anton’s head. He was still, not struggling, but the trickle of blood down his wrists was evidence enough.
“Good evening,” I said, keeping my voice calm and civil. Rook repeated the translation behind me.
“No need, I have English.” Anton’s heavily accented voice was firm. He didn’t sound scared, but his body language told its own tale.
“Good. That makes this easier. Do you know who we are?”
“Nyet.”
“Well, that’s to be expected.” My snide tone had him curling his lip. My hand clenched the wooden handle of the hammer harder, the desire to bury it in his head strong.
“You have no idea what you have done.” He spat in my direction, narrowly missing my boot.
“Oh really? And what makes you think I care?”
“I have powerful friends. You would be wise to let me go.” Licking his lips, he turned his head, trying to track my movement as I walked around behind him.
Grabbing a fistful of his dark, greasy hair, I jerked his head back sharply. Russian spilled from his mouth; the tone alone translated it for me.
“Tsk-tsk, it’s not polite to swear at a lady.”
“Fuck you!” He thrashed from side-to-side, his face red with anger.
I placed the hammer against his cheek, the cold metal silencing him. “Do you know what this is?”
I jerked harder on his hair when he didn’t answer, tapping the hammer against his cheekbone.
“It is hammer.”
“You know what a hammer can do to the human body, don’t you? It makes a heck of a mess, don’t you think?”
Releasing him, I stood in front of him. With a gesture, I told Pierce to turn on the light. I pulled my machete free from its sheath, holding it loosely by my side. “Take off his blindfold; let him see who he’s dealing with.” Jones ripped the cloth from Anton’s face. I stood back far enough in the shadows that he couldn’t see me clearly. He blinked against the harsh light, straining to focus.
I stepped forward into the circle of yellow light and gave him a moment. Hammer in one hand, machete in the other, with blo
od splattered across my bright, white shirt and face, I looked like I’d just stepped off the set of a horror film. Anton clenched his jaw and bravely glared for all he was worth.
Flynn held the small, but bloody saw in front of his stomach casually, cradling it with both hands like he would his rifle.
“So, fucker, are you going to answer my questions or do I have to make a mess?” I tilted my head to the side, aiming for my best serial killer impression. His chest was rising and falling faster as his breathing sped up. Sweat was popping out on his brow and he kept licking his lips nervously. “My shirt is already ruined, what’s a little more blood?”
“Depends on question.” He twisted his upper body, struggling as his stress level rose.
“Let’s keep this simple. I know who you are. I know all kinds of things about you. From the fact that you are a kidnapping rapist, to what prison you spent ten years in. What I need to know now, is who you were delivering the girls to.” I stepped forward until I was only a few feet from him. Well within striking distance with either tool in my hand.
“I have nothing to say.”
Footsteps coming down the stairs drew my gaze. Jordon descended, casually wiping his hands on a towel. “All cleaned up, boss. No one will ever find their bodies.” He slung the bloody towel over his shoulder like a chef and stopped next to Flynn. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels, observing the room as if he was at a party and not in a dank basement. A wide grin flashing his white teeth, the sheer inappropriateness of it making it terrifying.
“Good.” I returned my attention to Anton. “I’m very tired. It’s been a long day. You know how exhausting this can be.” I gestured to myself with the hammer. “Answer my questions while I still have a small degree of patience left.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Anton spat blood at my feet and tilted his head to the ceiling, the wound on his nose seeping down his cheeks.
“Boys. See if you can change his mind.” I stepped back as Pierce and Rook stepped forward. Rook wore a smile of pure, unadulterated delight—it was almost horrifying.
The strike of a fist to the Russian’s face echoed through the basement. They took turns pummeling Anton. One hitting his face, the other his stomach and ribs. Anton was gasping for air, choking on blood and spit. I heard a rib snap, followed by a grunt of pain. He wasn’t crying out or making much noise beyond involuntary wheezes as his now broken ribs were punished some more.
“Okay guys. Give him a minute.” I waved them back. Anton’s head slumped to his chest, passed out cold. “Back upstairs, give him some time to come to and stew.” Blood ran down his face onto his suit, adding to the stains already there. His face was swelling rapidly. One eye was nearly closed already with a cut on the brow seeping blood, covering the left side of his face in a dark red mask. His broken nose was grotesque now that it had been smashed in some more. He looked like someone had flattened his face with a frying pan. Messy as hell and painful, but not life-threatening.
I followed my team up the steps, tapping the hammer lightly against my leg as I climbed, turning off the light on my way. Anton might force my hand and not take the bait. If I had to go through with my threats, then what? Dump his body somewhere? I couldn’t remember ever being this indecisive before.
The first light of dawn was breaking through the kitchen curtains. The winter sun was pale and weak, not lending any warmth, with minimal light. Placing the hammer and machete softly on the counter, I gripped the sink in my hands and stared out at the frozen landscape.
“Mic, I’ll do this. I have no issue with it.” Rook picked up the hammer, tucking it into his belt.
I grabbed it back. “No. If it needs to be done, I’ll do it.”
“We’re all exhausted. Let’s divide up watches and get a few hours of sleep. He’s not going anywhere.” Jordon gripped my shoulder, turning me to face him. “We have a little time.”
“No, we don’t. The longer we’re here, the greater our chance of discovery,” Pierce said, shutting the fridge door, handing out bottles of water. “I vote we do it. Smash his fucking face in with the hammer, break his knees. Whatever it takes. I get that you’re second guessing yourself here, Mic, but it’s not like you. We’re already traitors and fugitives, what’s a little torture on top of that? We don’t have anything to lose.”
“No…” Jordon began, but I cut him off.
“Pierce is right. Rook, when is Nickoli going to be here to get the girls?” Totally exhausted, they were in a bedroom sleeping, safe for the first time in months. Fed and clothed, they had thanked us and stumbled upstairs to crash.
“Tonight. He couldn’t get away until then.”
“Copy that. Here’s what we do. We take shifts keeping him awake. Sleep deprivation coupled with cold. It’s tried and true, no reason to change that method. We’ve got an abundance of snow. Take his shoes off and put his feet into buckets filled with it. Alternate with hot water. Shock his system.”
“How long do we do this?” Jordon asked.
“Rook? Your thoughts?” I was hoping his medical background would be of help right now.
“Every fifteen minutes switch them out. Do that for two or three hours. Then another beating, maybe. See what he says, then go from there.”
“That’s our plan. Let’s get started. Cold first.” I jerked open the cabinets under the sink and found what I was looking for. A basin for washing dishes and a plastic mop bucket. “Fill these with snow and ice.” I handed them off to Pierce and Flynn.
I kept pulling open cabinets, looking for stock pots or something similar.
“The feet alone being in the snow won’t make him cold enough,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?” Jordon asked.
“Sorry, talking to myself. His feet being submerged will make him cold, but not cold enough. Can you find some blankets? Let’s soak them in ice cold water and drape them around his shoulders. Drops the body temp quicker than just the feet.” Jordon left the kitchen and rummaged around in the living room, quickly returning with an arm full of lightweight blankets.
“I’ll fill the sink.” Jordon began prepping the blankets just as Flynn and Pierce came back inside, each holding a container filled with snow.
“Fill a bucket with water too. We’ll soak him to the skin first. I want his whole body involved.”
Carrying our supplies, I led the way to the basement. Flicking the light back on, I saw Anton that was awake. Confusion crossed his face before he quickly schooled his features back into his arrogant mask.
“I’ve got something for you.” I nodded at Jones, who poured the freezing water over Anton’s head. He gasped in shock as the water washed his wounds out and the ice puddled in his lap. Bloody water dripped from his chin. The cuts on his face seeped anew. “Now the rest.” Jordon draped a wet and freezing blanket around his shoulders as I helped Jones take Anton’s shoes off. He kicked and struggled, but it didn’t help him much. I threw the expensive boots in the corner and stepped back.
Flynn and Pierce forced his feet into the snow. His lips were already blue and he was shivering uncontrollably. His teeth chattered together, which from the look of his bloody and swollen mouth, had to be painful.
“Rook, you know what to do.” He stepped around behind Anton and holding him still by his hair, took his pulse.
“His heart rate is slowing. But we’re still green.”
“See you in a bit, Anton.” His shoulders were hunched down, his body fighting to stay warm. As hypothermia set in, his arms and legs would go numb, and his heart would slow even more. We needed to warm him up before that point, or the hot water could cause him to have a heart attack. I wanted him hurt, not dead. Dead men don’t speak much.
****
Jordon held a steaming bucket of water, ready to dump it over Anton’s head as soon as Mic gave the command. Rook stood by, ready to assess his “patient.” Glancing down, Jordon noticed he was standing in a puddle of cold, bloody water. The edges of his boot
s were turning a faint red.
“Ready?” At their nods, Mic gave the order.
Anton jumped and shrieked as hot water poured over his freezing body. The melted buckets of snow were replaced with pots of steaming water. Jordon also ached in sympathy. He remembered coming inside from playing in the snow as a kid and how badly his hands hurt as they slowly warmed up. This fucker was feeling that multiplied by a thousand.
He was thrashing and screaming in pain. He could see the captive’s pulse racing in his neck as his heart fought to control his body temperature.
Rook placed two fingers on the pulse at Anton’s neck, keeping time with his watch. “Borderline levels. Still green, though.”
Mic was casually swinging her hammer by its handle, carefree in appearance, but Jordon knew this was eating her up inside. He wished she’d let him or Rook so this for her, but the stubborn ass wouldn’t relent in her determination to see it through personally.
“Are you ready to talk or do we need to cool you off?” She smirked and walked closer to the bound man.
He was still gasping and shaking, his body struggling with the shock. He turned his head to the side and vomited loudly, pouring foulness onto the floor. Mic calmly stepped back out of the way.
“Done yet?” She taunted him, expertly pushing him where she wanted him to go.
He was spitting and hacking, attempting to rid his mouth of the bile. “F-fuck off.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. We’re just starting to have fun.”
Catching Jordon’s eye, Mic nodded at him. He stepped forward with Jones, taking his turn with his fists.
Deep meaty thuds filled the room. Jordon’s hands ached from the abuse he was dealing out. Blood flew out in an arch, along with a tooth from a devastating right cross from Jones.
“Enough.”
They both stopped, standing together and breathing hard from their exertion. Jordon flexed his hands, testing his knuckles. He took note of a few cuts on the swelling joints. He felt apart from himself, as if he was just observing, floating above the room. He watched himself step forward and deliver a few more blows at Mic’s command. Her words were fuzzy in his ears, just a low-level buzzing in the background.
