9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  Gazing around the room, he found he’d been moved to the cellar. His wife and daughter were nowhere to be seen, and briefly Martin thought he’d been left alone and started to struggle at his bonds.

  “Don’t do that, little policeman,” growled a heavily accented voice from the shadows. “If you do that I will be extinguishing you too soon, and you miss out on all our fun.” A darkly clad man moved into Martin’s view.

  “Not so tough now, eh? You pretty tough when talking to FBI, why not so tough now?”

  “Where’s my family?” demanded Martin.

  “Don’t worry, little policeman. Pretty girls join us soon.”

  The words echoed with a quiet menace. Martin’s stomach tightened in fear. He still pondered their meaning, when the man leaning over him hit him square in the mouth.

  “That one is for poor Vladimir. You killed him dead, you stupid pig.”

  “Enough, Viktor,” a second voice called from the doorway. “You don’t want to kill him too quickly.”

  A second Russian entered the room dragging a naked woman behind him. It took a moment before Martin recognized the wounded face beneath the mop of blood soaked hair. Catherine. Thrown roughly to the cement floor, her captor began to undo his pants.

  “DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!!” screamed Martin. “If you touch her I’ll –”

  His words were cut off mid sentence by another blow to the face.

  “Look, policeman, I do touch her,” the Russian said, roughly grabbing Catherine’s breast and squeezing. She let out a feeble moan and weakly tried to fight off her assailant. He simply grinned maliciously and slapped her hands away as if she were a misbehaving child. “Now what you going to do about it, eh?”

  Martin lunged forward in the chair, but succeeded in nothing more than knocking himself to the ground. The Russian named Viktor laughed loudly, and kicked him in the chest before setting the chair upright again.

  “Yes, I thought so. You do nothing to help your wife, just like you do nothing to help your partner. That is why he is dead I think,” grunted the Russian, who had now succeeded in removing his pants and positioning himself between Catherine’s legs.

  “Now watch, policeman, while I show your wife what a real man, a Russian, is like.” Catherine’s screams echoed through the empty house and into the street. Various windows closed around the neighborhood and television volumes steadily increased until the blaring sound smothered anything that might impinge on their closeted lives.

  Viktor gripped Martin’s jaw and forced him to watch. Eventually Martin’s roars of anger turned to sobs for her pain with both Russians laughing malevolently in the background. He begged the men to stop, to kill him and let Catherine go, but that only made them howl more.

  Finally the second Russian, the one he now knew as Piotre, finished with his wife. Something inside her seemed to have broken. She lay limp on the cold cement, staring blankly up at the bound figure of her husband while the two Russians swapped positions.

  Viktor’s treatment of Catherine was much more violent. Her lack of reaction seemed to spur the Russian to even greater effort. This brought enough response to excite him further and he began to hit her viciously as he continued to violate her. By the time he finished, there remained no doubt that she was dead.

  “You… bastards, I’ll... I’ll kill... you... all…,” Martin gasped between his heart-torn sobs.

  “Not today, little policeman,” whispered Viktor.

  “Just kill me then.”

  “Oh no, not yet,” giggled Piotre. “We are only half the way through.”

  Fear unlike anything he’d ever felt before gripped Martin. He prayed they were talking about him and not whom he thought.

  Viktor answered this unspoken question by leaving the room and returning with a bound and gagged Angelique. Untying the gag, Viktor pointed Angelique toward the dead body of her mother and laughed louder than ever at the child’s screams.

  “Now, little policeman’s daughter, Viktor is going to do the same to you as he did to mommy there,” Viktor whispered into her ear.

  With superhuman strength, Martin broke free from Piotre’s hold, and fell toward his daughter.

  “DADDY!” screamed Angelique. “Daddy, don’t let them hurt me!! Daddy, stop them!”

  Piotre grabbed Martin and hauled him upright. Pinning his arm more securely in place around Martin’s neck he murmured, “I will not do her. I do not like children. But Viktor enjoys it very much!”

  The Russian’s mirth mingled with Angelique’s screams when Viktor threw her to the ground amid the hysteria of both father and daughter. What happened next unfolded unlike anything Martin had ever envisioned, even in his worst nightmares. Each cry from his daughter tore strips from his sanity until he seemed to hear the sound of breaking glass somewhere off in the distance. A sense of unreality enveloped him and he felt blood and saliva dripping from his torn lips while he was forced to watch.

  Martin stopped screaming. It did no good. Nothing did any good.

  You can be so vain!

  Blood flowed everywhere. Someone crying. Such an annoying sound.

  Vain.

  More blood flowing. A black handled knife. The glint of a wickedly sharp blade.

  Vain.

  Of course I am vain. Why should I care about anybody else? What have they ever done for me?

  Vain!

  The cries were mercifully muffled now. Something warm and sticky splashed across his face and into his slack and drooling mouth. Tasted coppery.

  VAIN!!!

  * * * *

  “Poor little policeman is gone, I think,” said Piotre after slapping the man in the face a few times. “Oh well. Time to clean up.”

  He stood and moved to the second room of the cellar, returning with a large container of gasoline. Unscrewing the cap, he proceeded to pour the contents around the timber-paneled walls of the room. He ignored the cement floor, certain the bodies would burn once the rooms above collapsed.

  Once finished, he moved to the stairs and called for his brother to go. Viktor walked over to the senseless Martin and punched him one last time, knocking him backward before following his brother up the stairs.

  The match they dropped ignited the gasoline and the flames were already licking the walls as they walked out hooting with amusement.

  * * * *

  Get up, barked the voice.

  “I can’t. I’m dead,” answered Martin.

  Not yet, you’re not. But you will be soon, you spineless bastard.

  “I don’t care.”

  Well I do. If your body dies, so do I.

  “Who are you?” asked Martin.

  I’m you, you gutless shit. The better part of you; the part that doesn’t want to die before I get the assholes who did this. But to do that I need you to GET UP NOW!

  The roaring voice almost compelled Martin to move, but the pain felt too great and his burden too heavy. He craved death. He had failed them all and wanted an end to it. He welcomed his demise.

  “Kill me. Please, if you can, just kill me.”

  Silence. And finally:

  As you wish, said the voice softly, almost sadly.

  And just like that, Martin Roberts faded away. His vanity surged into control, erasing memories, fueling a vengeance he could not recall, but one he could easily name.

  Romolov. He had promised they would all die. And in time they would. He did not know why, he only knew that they had to. He must kill them all to ease this nameless pain.

  Vain had no qualms tearing loose the knife from the dead girl’s neck, managing to drag his still bound body across the floor to where she lay bloodied and battered. He cut himself loose and stood in the blazing room staring at the unfamiliar bodies and wondering what exactly had happened. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned and moved up the burning stairs, exiting like a wraith from a rear window, and into the dark.

  * * * *

  Vain became known in the underworld as the Dark Man. It took many years
to perfect his killing skills, but from the start he displayed a seemingly paranormal ability to appear and disappear from the scenes of his slayings undetected. Not even the high-tech surveillance equipment that Markus Romolov installed throughout his home had caught more than a shadow of the man. Markus was discovered hanging from his balcony railing, strung up by the throat with his own intestines.

  Markus’s death, the third in as many months, caused the crime family to get nervous. The Dark Man made no move to contact them with demands, and they had no idea who had employed him, so they couldn’t retaliate or use anyone to find out information. The only thing they knew for certain was that when the Dark Man came, death never lingered far behind.

  It took Vain eight years to destroy the Romolov syndicate. In between his personal kills Vain undertook contracts for money. He managed to feed and equip himself with everything he needed, from a place to live, to the tools of his trade. Plenty of money remained, but he simply put it away and gave it no further thought.

  He’d left Viktor Romolov until last. He did not know why, it simply felt appropriate to make this man fear his arrival the longest. Viktor tried to run, but the Dark Man tracked him to Chicago in a flea-bitten motel, living on heroin and sandwiches. When he arrived, the Russian had been doped to the gills, on the verge of dying from an overdose. Vain calmly revived him with a shot of adrenaline and stayed in the room with the man tied to the bed for two days before he began his work. He wanted his victim clear of anything that would inhibit pain.

  Pain was what he deserved, and pain was what he would receive.

  Vain moved more slowly with his torture of Viktor. Perhaps because he didn’t need any information, or simply from boredom – he never really knew. He did know that Viktor suffered in tremendous agony for the entire time and that felt exquisite.

  During those hours – or perhaps days? – Vain tried to think of a suitable way for Viktor Romolov to die. He knew the man couldn’t take much more punishment and he wanted him to die by his hand and not from shock like Piotre had done when he’d gone slightly overboard. A most disappointing outcome, but at least it had provided the information that had brought him here.

  Eventually it came to him. Vain went to the motel’s pool and searched the pump room, finally locating the chlorine he needed beneath a large bucket. Next, the assassin went to Viktor’s car and found a half-full bottle of brake fluid and a funnel. Satisfied, he returned to the room and checked the Russian’s pulse to ensure he was still alive. Finding a weak heartbeat and the man still breathing, Vain satisfied himself that the Russian merely slept and had not died. Slapping him awake, he whispered into his ear, “Wake up, little Russian, or you’ll miss out on all the fun.”

  First, he ripped the stitches that had held Viktor’s lips together, leaving them bloody and raw. Before the Russian could yell for help, Vain forced the funnel into his mouth and began to pour cup-fulls of chlorine down his throat. The Russian began to gag and vomit, but enough of the powder still got through. Removing the funnel, Vain made to pour the brake fluid down his victim’s throat.

  “Why?” Viktor managed to gasp.

  The Dark Man paused momentarily before shrugging. “I don’t know,” he murmured casually, emptying the brake fluid into Viktor’s mouth.

  At first there appeared to be no reaction. Suddenly Viktor convulsed into spasms and opened his mouth to scream. Instead of sound, however, a great plume of smoke poured forth and his eyes bulged in pain. Intense heat spewed from the dying man before deep crimson froth dribbled out of his mouth. Several minutes passed before Viktor Romolov died. Once finished, the Dark Man calmly collected his things and vanished into the night.

  * * * *

  The man on the bed sobbed for the first time in many years. The memories returned to him in a torrent and the pain proved almost too much to bear. His strength had always laid in his immunity to emotions; now he knew he had been wrong.

  He adored Angelique. Again he pictured the callous way he had wrenched the knife from her dead body and his spirit wailed with grief. His beloved Catherine, who had died in anguish because of his vanity.

  After several moments he managed to regain his composure and glare with undisguised malice at the black man who had rekindled his torments so long locked away.

  “Martin –” Priest began, but Vain quickly and maliciously cut him short.

  “Wrong, black man, there is no Martin here.”

  For the first time since the ordeal had begun, Priest looked flustered. “But, you remember now. There’s no point in denying who you are.”

  “Your powers aren’t as strong as you think, Priest. If they were, you would have known all along that Martin is gone forever. All you have done is remind me of the pain I erased along with his death. All you have done is fuel my rage.”

  Suddenly Priest understood what the Dark Man meant, and he cursed himself for a fool. Tobias had been right; they couldn’t save this one. To save a person something good had to remain within them.

  At first, Priest had thought Vain simply a shield Martin Roberts hid behind. Now he realized the Dark Man existed as a completely altered personality, almost a separate person who lacked any memory of the man he used to be. Priest had reminded him, however, and the world’s most lethal assassin was now very, very pissed off.

  Priest felt no fear for himself. He worried the Dark Man would become so enraged he wouldn’t listen to his appeal. If Vain refused to help them in their quest, all would be lost. Death at the assassin’s hand would seem merciful compared to the alternate finale.

  Priest had hoped that in reminding the Dark Man of his past, the good part of Martin Roberts would resurface. Unfortunately, he’d greatly misjudged the situation. Martin Roberts had indeed died, though his body still walked and breathed. He had been the first victim of the assassin named Vain and possibly the most tragic. If Priest had succeeded in resurrecting Martin as he’d hoped there might have been a chance in the coming battle. Now there seemed none.

  Priest collapsed into a chair beside the bed. He placed his head into his hands and wept.

  “Why do you cry, black man?” whispered Vain malevolently. “Do you envision your death at the hands of the Dark Man?”

  “No, Dark Man. I cry for the boy who will die because I have failed.”

  A hint of emotion flickered across the Dark Man’s face, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.

  “What boy?” asked Vain strangely.

  “What do you care, assassin? After I am dead I’m sure there will be hundreds more innocent victims for you. Consider them instead.”

  “Who is the boy?” Vain repeated.

  Priest conceded defeat and appeared to crumple in on himself even further.

  “The boy is the one I have devoted my existence to. He is the next golden light to arise from the darkness. I have searched for him my entire life and now that I’ve found him I am too weak to save him. He is the Avun-Riah: the child of rebirth – the one who would make things true. With the turning season he will die by the hand of evil and you – or rather Martin Roberts reborn with your skills – were to be my last chance to save him.”

  Vain contemplated the words. Most of what the man had said made no sense to him, but he understood enough to know that a child would die. Little Angelique still seemed to be calling him, had been calling throughout the long empty years of death; her cries were all the more clear now.

  “Who plans to kill the boy?” asked Vain.

  Priest peered at him with teary and bloodshot eyes. A look of utter amazement lit his face like an explosion of fireworks and he smiled.

  “You’re going to save him,” he said in disbelief. Not a question so much as a statement.

  “Do not make the mistake of reading my thoughts too deeply, black man. I still plan to kill you before I’m finished, and the images of that will burn your fragile little mind to cinders. Now answer my question.”

  Priest quickly sobered and closed his mind to the Dar
k Man’s thoughts. Though his death seemed imminent, the knowledge did not frighten him. Without knowing the exact time or method, it felt more like a dull aching he had come to relate with pain and mortality, rather than a definitive incident or time.

  The talents Priest possessed were far from precise. He could not predict the winning lotto numbers, nor could he determine the exact actions required to ensure the future might unfold the way he hoped. He likened his talent to steering a boat through thick fog during a hurricane, lacking compass or radar to guide his way. All he had was a single light in the distance winking in and out of view. His current predicament made these limits all too obvious, with the only light he could see, held by a merciless assassin. He took a deep breath before beginning.

  “The people after the boy call themselves the Souls of Sordarrah. An ancient cult from the Babylonian era, they believe that if they sacrifice the Avun-Riah on a certain night of the year in the middle of a lunar eclipse, darkness will cover the Earth and death will stalk the planet in the guise of the demigod known as Sordarrah.

  “Sordarrah was a fallen angel thrown down with Lucifer after the Great War in Heaven. Essentially he was Lucifer’s lieutenant, and from all reports an extremely nasty character. After the original war, it’s believed a second war occurred, this time between the forces of Sordarrah, and the armies of Lucifer for control of Hell. The second war has continued for thousands of years with no victor thus far. The Souls of Sordarrah hope to tip the balance in favor of their Lord by winning over the mortal realm for him, a feat Lucifer has never managed.”

  Vain stared blankly at Priest from the bed where he still lay shackled.

  “What-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about?” He mouthed the words slowly, scorn dripping from every syllable. “Wars with gods in Heaven and Hell. Are you an idiot, or do you simply take me for one? Undo these straps now so I can choke you to death and piss in your mouth for talking such crap.” Vain looked away disdainfully.

  “Whether you believe in Heaven or Hell is irrelevant, Dark Man,” continued Priest with a note of irritation. “The result is the same. The Souls of Sordarrah will kill the boy with the coming of autumn unless you save him.”