by Rick Reed
Sonny’s eyes widened. He tried to speak but was unable to find any words to say.
“Don’t act surprised. You had to know punishment would come for you. Boston or Evansville. You were never out of my sights. Five years, seven months, eleven days. I know you have to remember because I will never forget what was done to her.”
Lights flashed across the windows, bathing the room in light creating a scene right out of a murder mystery play. The sound of tires crunching over ice came from outside, but the vehicle never slowed.
Sonny screamed but it was weak, defeated. The light passed and hope fled with it. Sonny stiffened, preparing for what he knew would come.
Instead, the man said, “I’ll give you that one. It’s human nature to want to live, isn’t it? Tell me something, Sonny. Did she beg? The autopsy report said she still alive when she was set on fire. Did she struggle? Of course she did. Bits of nylon were found melted into her skin. Similar to the nylon bindings you’re tied with right now. You’re helpless. I can do anything I like with you.”
Tears ran from the corners of Sonny’s eyes and froze on his face. His anger was long gone. His certainty that he would die had taken its place.
“Are those tears of remorse, tears of self-pity, or are they tears of relief? Relief that this is going to be over. No more watching over your shoulder.”
He took a small object from a pocket and held in front of Sonny’s eyes. It was less than an inch tall. An ivory figurine of a squatting monkey with arms crossed. He set this on the floor in front of Sonny’s face. Sonny eyes lifted from the figurine to the man. Every muscle in his body tensed as he struggled with his bindings.
The man reached into another pocket. This time his hand came out with what resembled a pair of brass knuckles, only these were made of shiny black material with metal studs protruding from each knuckle. He slipped the weapon over his gloved fingers, holding it next to Sonny’s face. When he tightened his fist the weapon came alive with electricity arcing between the spikes.
The dark man leaned down. His lips touched Sonny’s ear almost lovingly. “These are called Zapper-knucks.” He straightened. “They’re brass knuckles and a stun gun combined.” He drew his fist back and delivered a vicious blow, driving the spikes deep into the flesh on Sonny’s cheek, at the same time squeezing the grip, releasing 950 kilovolts of electricity through Sonny’s head.
“Did you really think you could hide from me?” The spikes pressed into Sonny’s neck, releasing yet another electric charge. Sonny’s body seized. His muscles locked in a spasm as a stuttering sound, “Unh, unh, unnhh, uh, uh,” came from deep inside. Drool and spittle flew from Sonny’s tortured lips.
The fist came down across Sonny’s face again and again, ripping flesh, scraping bone, and infusing each contact with nerve-piercing electricity. When the beating stopped Sonny’s eyelids were clamped tightly shut, his mind unable to appreciate that he now lay in his own urine and feces.
A rough hand lifted his chin, dropped it back to the floor. “I know you’re still in there somewhere, Sonny.” The dark man pulled a folding knife from a clip on his belt. The blade flicked open. The point of the blade dug into Sonny’s scalp just above his left ear and dragged downward, slicing through flesh and cartilage and continuing to the bottom of the jaw, where the blade exited with a gush of warm blood. The realization of what had just happened caught up with the pain. Sonny screamed in agony.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” the dark man said.
Sonny’s scream faded, turning into mewling sounds. His body was too exhausted to even shiver from the damage and the cold.
“Scream all you want,” the dark man said. “I’ve heard it helps. Well—maybe not you so much, but it helps me.” He shook Sonny’s shoulder roughly and slapped the side of his face. “You’re not going into shock, are you? No. You’re a tough guy. You’ll live through this and find me. Won’t you? You’ll kill me for this. You just keep that thought.”
The man stood and took the black bag to a wall, unzipped it completely, and took out coils of thin steel cable, heavy metal eyebolts, and meat hooks whose points had been filed sharp. He busied himself screwing the eyebolts into the wall studs, two of these six feet from the floor and five feet apart, one centered just above these, and two more at knee level.
The dark man said in a mocking tone, “I know what you want to say, Sonny. You don’t have to do this. I don’t know who you are. You’re so very sorry. If I let you go you won’t tell. Honest Injun.” He nudged Sonny’s head with the toe of his boot and said, “But I do have to do this.”
He unrolled wire from the cable and cut several pieces into four-to six-foot lengths. While he did this he said conversationally, “Someone inside the DEA was paid to get you a job here. Do you think they know who you really work for? Are they in on it?”
He clamped one end of each cable to an eyebolt in the wall. “I guess that doesn’t matter now. But I’ll give you a chance to come clean. Tell me who was behind what you did to her? I know who it is, but I want to hear you say it. Who was it, Sonny? Tell me a name, and I’ll make this quick.”
Sonny laid still, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling faster.
“Time’s up. It was Dominic Bertenelli. He’s the one that pulled in a favor from his DEA friend?” The man threaded the remaining cables through the eyebolts, took another tool from a cargo pocket, clamped them tight, and yanked on each to test its strength. “Your partner, Sully—what a piece of work that guy is—resigned about the same time as you from Boston PD. He works for Dom now.”
Sonny was breathing a little harder after hearing the names. The dark man grabbed Sonny’s hair and yanked his face up. “Look at me when I’m talking to you! You’re being impolite, and I don’t think you can take much more from the Zapper. So tell me something I can cripple Bertenelli’s business with.”
Sonny opened his eyes. “They’re gonna kill you, asshole. No matter what you do to me, they’ll do worse to you. I’m not afraid of a piece of shit like you. I spit on your grave,” Sonny said and spit blood on the floor.
The man laughed until he was howling with laughter. He got it under control and said, “I applaud your effort to die like a man, even though you stink of fear. Well, I’m touched by your concern for my welfare, but I don’t think any of them will be a problem for Shizaru. Most of them are already dead. Bertenelli’s wife and kid were the hardest. What with bodyguards and all. But they all get careless. Just like you. I know where everyone is. I know everything about them. I’m saving Bertenelli Senior for last. I want him to suffer like I suffered. I’m taking everything from him. His kid’s dead. His wife’s dead. His little kingdom will crumble before his eyes.”
“You’re insane,” Sonny said through split lips.
“I sometimes wonder,” the dark man said. “I’ll ask your girlfriend what she thinks. Is she a screamer?”
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Photo by George Routt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SERGEANT RICK REED (ret.), author of the Jack Murphy thriller series, is a twenty-plus-year veteran police detective. During his career, he successfully investigated numerous high-profile criminal cases, including a serial killer who claimed thirteen victims before strangling and dismembering his fourteenth and last victim. He recounted that story in his acclaimed true-crime book, Blood Trail.
Rick spent his last three years on the force as the commander of the police department’s Internal Affairs Section. He has two master’s degrees. He currently teaches criminal justice at Volunteer State Community College in Tennessee and writes thrillers. He lives near Nashville with his wife and two furry friends, Lexie and Luthor.
Please visit him on Facebook, Goodreads, or at his website, www.rickreedbooks.com. If you’d like him to speak online for your event, contact him through [email protected].
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