He leaned over and kissed Strike on top of the head. She remained silent, eyes glued to the camera as if someone might jump out of the lens and save her. But no one was coming. There was no way into this mansion, and certainly no way of negotiating with a psychopath. Doom and dread clung to every particle in the air.
“The show goes on,” Chris barked. He moved to the table covered with all of the tools of torture he planned on using, studying them for a second, lifting a hammer and examining it like an ancient relic. He drummed it softly against his open palm, then did the same thing on Strike’s head to get her full attention. “Now I can taste you, Commander. You’ll be mine forever.”
He knelt down next to Strike’s feet, the rope snug around her ankles strapped to the chair legs. “We’re going to start down here and work our way up,” Chris explained to the camera, as nonchalant and cheery as Bob Ross explaining his next brushstroke.
He raised the hammer, its handle appearing not much wider than Chris’s thin arm, and slammed it down on her right foot with an audible THWACK!
Strike shrieked and jolted within her chair, but Chris kept hammering away like he was crafting a wooden table.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! From the left foot to the right foot. Strike screeched in agony, especially after the final blow shattered her left foot bones into dozens of pieces. She writhed and wiggled, face flushed red as tears ran down her face.
“We’re only getting started, folks,” Chris said to the camera with his devilish grin. “Don’t change the station quite yet.” He returned the hammer to the table and returned empty-handed, starting to take his belt off his pants. “You’ve been a naughty little girl, Commander. All those Revolters you’ve killed. Now you get the belt so you can think about what you’ve done wrong.”
Chris laughed as he snapped the belt in front of Strike’s face, making her wince back and almost tip the chair all the way over.
“Relax, young lady. We’re not moving to your face quite yet. This is a process. Think of it as art—it takes time for a finished product that you’re proud of.”
He stepped a foot back from her and focused his gaze on her shins. They had dressed her in shorts, leaving her legs bare. Chris pulled the belt back and whipped it forward, slapping Strike’s legs with a horrendous CRACK!
A bright red mark instantly appeared across her pasty legs. Chris reared back and let the belt fly six more times, throwing all of his body weight behind each swing. Droplets of blood had formed where the flesh had turned to a dark shade of red, a couple of them dripping to her ankles.
Strike whimpered like a wounded animal, her head slung down once again. Chris could tell her will was gone, and that signaled that he must continue until she was no more than a fraction of herself. Until she stopped breathing.
He dropped the belt back onto the table and reached underneath the black cloth draped over it, pulling out a sledgehammer with blood caked across its handle.
“Now for the knees,” he explained calmly to the camera. “Folks, please know that once I’m through with this phase, our dear commander will never be able to walk again. Never able to chase down a Revolter and end their life. Isn’t that a pleasant thought?”
He returned to Strike, dragging the sledgehammer behind him, tugging the floor covering. “Now, I imagine you’re all at home, watching in shock, gasping in horror,” he said to the camera. “But rest assured, our event will be ending soon enough. Consider this your last call for drinks. I’d hate for any of you to get killed because you drove drunk.” Chris threw his head to the ceiling and let out a howling laughter, then grunted as he lifted the sledgehammer. He lacked the physical strength of his prime, and figured he might only get two swings in before he had to stop. Fortunately, there were only two knees to hit.
He held the sledgehammer above his head, arms wavering from its weight, tongue pinched between his lips as he drew all of his concentration on landing the hammer’s head squarely to the kneecap.
It steamrolled through the air and didn’t miss, connecting like a crisp, home run swing by a baseball player. The sound wasn’t much aside from the cracking of the bone, split down the middle like the Liberty Bell, but Strike had no chance of containing herself with this particular pain.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” she screamed. “PLEASE STOP! I CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE!”
Chris grinned before raising the sledgehammer one more time and connecting again with Strike’s other knee. Her eyes rolled back into her head as it bobbed forward and backward. Both knees already turned purple, the area no longer hard, but appearing jiggly like a bowl of Jell-O.
“Just kill me already,” she moaned, her words barely audible.
“Did you hear that, Road Runners?” Chris asked as he spun around to the camera. “Your dearest commander just begged to be killed. That doesn’t sound courageous. That doesn’t sound like something a brave little Road Runner would say. There are no martyrs in this war – you will all die when I decide it’s time.”
Strike’s head was now leaning back, her throat stretched as she stared to the ceiling, surely praying for it all to end.
“I must say, your pleas are music to my ears,” Chris said as he dragged the sledgehammer back to the table, shifting his attention to the electroshock device. He had to untangle the wires, but continued speaking as he did. “I don’t know. Should we let the electricity be the final stage? Or shall we have it as an encore?” He turned to the camera and shrugged. “I think one more after will be fine. We should probably cook our Road Runner before we feast, right? Oh, and for you watching at home… if you haven’t eaten dinner yet, my apologies! This next bit is sure to make you hungry.”
Chris licked his lips before lugging the wires and box to Strike. He dropped the device on her lap, but she didn’t so much as budge. Surely her entire lower body had turned numb by now. Chris lifted Strike’s shirt enough to feed the wires underneath, pressing their adhesive ends against the flesh on her stomach, sides, and chest. “Don’t worry, Commander, I’m not here to cop a feel. I’m a gentleman, don’t you know?”
Strike mumbled something, but Chris would never know what she was trying to say. He didn’t dwell on it and returned to the camera. “Electricity is a funny thing. At this point in time, we need it to live. But did you know if you have too much of it, it can cause some serious issues? I think we just might be able to turn Commander Strike braindead. Or is that taking it too far? I’m sure she always imagined a peaceful death, and not one where her mind felt like a California wildfire.” He shrugged. “Well, let’s just see what happens!”
He grabbed the control box and turned the dials without any further dramatics. A subtle grunt left Strike’s mouth before her body tensed up as stiff as a board. Her hair stood up in a frazzled mess, her legs and bottom elevated from the chair as she looked like a tethered balloon caught in a windstorm. Her jaw was clenched so tightly the bone protruded crisply beneath the flesh on her face. Smoke started oozing from beneath her shirt, and this made Chris howl with joy. “Kentucky Fried Chickenshit!” he cried out.
Once he decided she had sizzled enough, he turned the electric current off and watched Strike’s body fall back into the seat, limp and unconscious. Electricity was still flowing through her body as it kept twitching randomly, her head jolting back while her tongue flipped and flopped outside of her mouth like a fish out of water.
“It looks like she’s still breathing,” Chris said, pointing to her chest as it rose and fell. “Can you hear me in there, Commander?” He stuck out his bony fingers and snapped them in front of her face, only to receive no reaction. “She’s on her last limb, folks. The end is near for our dear Commander Strike. Now, the real question is, how do we end this? How do we send her home for good?”
Chris approached the table and rubbed his hands together as he made this ultimate decision. He picked up and examined a pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a chef’s knife, promptly putting each back down as he frowned in disappointment and placed his hands on his
hips.
“I know,” he said, leaving the table and crossing the room to his desk that was outside of the camera’s range. He returned into view a few seconds later with a plastic grocery bag. “Suffocation is beautiful,” he said to the audience surely watching in disbelief. “It really allows the body to put up its final attempt at living, until it just gives up. You can literally watch a person lose their will to live.”
He stepped up to Strike, her head cocked upward, eyes still open as they stared blankly at the ceiling.
“It has been an honor getting to know you over these past few days, Commander,” Chris said in a tone as if he were delivering a eulogy. “We’ve gone after each other for the past year, and I’ll admit, you gave me a scare when that Russian man shot me from the trees. What an incredible shot! I wish I had someone of his talent on my team.” Chris turned and stared into the camera. “If you’re out there, Mr. Russian Sharpshooter, give me a call. I can take much better care of you than these people.”
Chris turned back to Strike after delivering his public service announcement. “I’m just sorry that it came to this, Commander. You had a good run, it’s a shame your own people chose to let you die like a forgotten animal on the side of the road. I’ll see you on the other side.”
He whipped open the bag and worked it over Strike’s head, tying the two handles into a bow beneath her chin, pulling them snug so no air could escape. “Your beautiful bonnet, my lady,” Chris said, taking a step back and moving his hand to his chin.
Strike’s head bucked forward, her arms flexing against the rope in a hopeless effort. Chris watched her struggle for another thirty seconds until her tied-up hands stopped moving and her head slumped forward, motionless.
He lowered his head and pressed his ear against her chest, a wide grin spreading across his face. “She’s gone, ladies and gentlemen. That’s all she wrote.” He stood and straightened his shirt before facing the camera one final time. “The ball is in your court, my dear Road Runners. You forced this move. Let this serve as a reminder of what happens when you choose to dance with the Revolution. This war is just about over – it’s been a pleasure dueling with you all.”
Chris stepped closer to the camera, sticking his entire face in front of the lens so that his face filled the screen. “And Martin Briar, I know you’re out there. If you’re watching this, we know you’re in Aruba. My team will not sleep until you are in my possession. Mark my words. Have a good night, everyone.”
He stepped back and blew a kiss to the camera before circling behind his desk and cutting the feed, the final image that of Commander Strike sitting dead in her chair.
18
Chapter 18
“Let’s get the fuck out of here, right now!” Antonio shouted moments after Chris called out Martin’s location on the live broadcast.
“How did he know?” Everett asked, jumping over the couch to start running toward his bedroom.
“He knows everything. He’s always shown up wherever I am. It’s like he can see into my mind,” Martin said.
The two guards dashed around their penthouse suite like mad zombies. Martin wasn’t shaken up by Chris’s direct message; he even half-expected it. Deep down, he knew there was no actual way to hide from Chris. The old man’s death would be the only way to live in true peace.
Everett ran from room to room, cell phone to his ear as he made calls for a car, the plane, and arrangements for wherever they were going next. Martin also overheard a reference to Commander Blair and a decoy jet as he shuffled to his room to grab his suitcase that he hadn’t even opened yet.
Within five minutes the two guards were ready, panting for breath as they dashed to the door with their suitcases rolling behind, loaded guns cocked and ready in their free hand.
“Martin, stay in the middle of us, same routine as earlier,” Antonio commanded.
“You guys know I can work a gun,” Martin said, smirking. “You don’t have to treat me like some incapable princess. I passed my field test, just like you.”
“We know that,” Everett said, exasperation slipping into his voice. “We just have direct orders to not let you get involved in any sort of shootout. If bullets ever start flying, we just need you to get behind us and let us do our jobs.”
“I appreciate that, guys, but I really don’t think Chris is remotely interested in shooting me. He only wants me for my Warm Soul.”
“We know that, but can’t afford to risk anything. This is Chris, after all. He can change his mind in the blink of an eye and decide he wants to wipe you off the planet.”
Martin hadn’t considered this true fact, and after watching the torturous death of Commander Strike, had no interest in seeing what plans Chris had in store for him. They had watched the show in silence, cringing at each act of violence carried out by their enemy. Martin’s blood boiled, his mouth pooling with saliva as he dreamed for the day of Chris’s death.
Antonio pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, pistol first, swinging it from the left to the right. “We’re clear,” he called over his shoulder, waving his arm before grabbing his suitcase and rolling it out.
Martin followed while Everett brought up the rear. They ran down the hallway, the gold and red patterns of the wallpaper zooming by in a blur while their feet rumbled over the carpet.
“Stairs!” Everett shouted from behind, and Antonio ran right past the elevator lobby and its shiny gold doors.
“We’re on the sixth floor,” Martin said.
“It’s a precaution,” Antonio said over his shoulder. “Elevators are a trap. Chris can cut off the power and leave us in the shaft for him to come feast.”
They reached the end of the long hallway where Antonio kicked open the stairwell door. They ran down the six flights, each level feeling longer than the prior one for Martin. He still didn’t feel anxious, no adrenaline rush, and wondered why they were so willing to have a knee-jerk reaction based on Chris’s words. Martin believed the old man was just playing games. What if he was counting on them fleeing the hotel to return to the jet? Surely his people would be waiting there to intercept him and have an easy exit off the island. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a classic Chris maneuver, always a step ahead. Martin debated bringing it up to his guards, but trusted their decisions as they had little earpieces in communication with a private group of Road Runners monitoring the entire world.
They reached the ground level and burst through the exit door like a herd of rhinos. The humidity clung to their skin, bringing the sweat that had already started to form thanks to their sprint down six flights of stairs.
A black car sat idling, waiting for them, and Antonio barreled forward as the trunk opened and their same driver who had brought them jumped out and dashed to the back to help them.
“We need to get back to the hangar right now!” Antonio barked, the driver immediately sensing the urgency. They all tossed their bags into the trunk, Martin and Everett lunging into the backseat, while Antonio took shotgun. “Let’s go!” he shouted, the driver wasting no time flooring the accelerator.
They drove in silence, the only sound that of their heavy panting for breath. The driver kept them moving at a rapid pace for the next couple of minutes until Everett called out, “We’re being followed!”
Martin looked over to see him staring out the back window.
“Are you sure?” Antonio asked, pulling his pistol out and cocking it, the driver’s eyes bulging for a brief second as he took his eyes off the road.
“Who else would be driving this fast right behind us?” Everett replied, also pulling out his gun.
“Keep driving,” Antonio instructed the driver. “Faster, faster!”
“Who the hell are you people?!” the driver shouted, driving faster as his own panic settled in.
“Just go, we can lose them!”
The engine roared as Martin looked out the back window. Headlights glared in the dark of the night, matching their exact pace as they
sped toward the coast.
“I can’t lose them!” the driver screamed, his eyes dashing from the rear view to the road like he was watching a ping pong match.
“Pull over!” Antonio shouted, his hand already moving toward the door’s handle.
The car came to a screeching halt, sending Martin and Everett into the back of the front seats. Antonio dropped his shoulder into the door and tumbled out to the side of the road, stood up, and immediately started blasting at the car.
“Stay in the car, and stay down!” Everett snarled, jumping out to join Antonio.
The car didn’t slow down one bit, its brake lights not even flickering on. The collision into the rear of their town car sounded more like an explosion. Glass and shards of metal exploded into every direction, sticking into Antonio’s and Everett’s arms as they shielded their heads.
The front end of the vehicle flattened like a soda can, making it impossible to see what kind of car it was. A man opened the driver side door and rolled onto the pavement, vomiting as he stumbled to his feet like a drunk. “LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!” he screamed to the sky, reaching into his waistband. He never had a chance of grabbing his pistol before Antonio and Everett each shot a slug through the man’s chest.
They watched as his body collapsed to the ground, skull cracking on the road like an egg on a skillet.
Meanwhile, in the town car, Martin saw stars dancing around his vision that was already blurring in and out of focus.
“Martin!” Antonio shouted, lunging for the car.
Martin pushed himself back in a seated position, his head bobbing from side to side. “What happened?”
Antonio looked to the front seat and saw their driver slouched over the steering wheel, hands limp at his side. “He’s still breathing,” Antonio said. “He’s not dead! How are you, Martin?”
A red mark had spread across Martin’s forehead that he started to rub. “My head hurts, but I’m okay.”
Keeper of Time (Wealth of Time Series, Book 4) Page 10
