The Uprising (GRIT Sector 1 Book 2)

by Rebecca Sherwin

  "Wrong." The heavy swish of air carried my voice and I watched as goosebumps rose to the surface, in both fear and courage. "You will tell me. If you don't, you die. It's quite simple. Why were you out at night?"

  "Why do you think?"

  He was resilient; I'd give him that. Toying with the whip, I paced back and forth in front of him, the click of my shoes echoing around the cell. It pained me that I'd had to change into something respectable instead of stripping everything off and taking Trixie prisoner beneath the bed clothes. But this...the pleasure of torturing this man until his confession became my release, would suffice until my wife and I reconnected.

  "I think—now please tell me if I'm wrong," I said, forcing amusement into my voice when all I wanted was to kill him and hear him scream. "Judging by the knife found in one pocket, a sharpened piece of wood—which wouldn't have done too much damage, actually—that you were out on the prowl."

  "Maybe the weapons were for self-defence."

  Pursing my lips, I nodded. "Maybe. Maybe I’d believe that if you weren't wearing gloves and on the hunt rather than on the run."

  "I was trying to keep out of sight. You can't prove anything."

  "Oh, I think I can. You see, we watched you. We took photos as you broke into houses looking for victims-"

  "Maybe I was looking for food."

  "So sleep for a few more hours until sunrise and head to a shop first thing. Scavenge for something to eat as soon as the sun rises."

  "But-"

  "Now now, I'm not done. We have footage. It would be in your best interest to tell me everything. It may just save your life.”

  I was lying. I was going to kill him; I knew I was. But he didn’t have to know that, although the flash of fear in his eyes gave his suspicions away.

  I cracked the whip again, leather licking over his skin as I continued to pace. He wailed this time; he hadn’t expected the strike and I knew catching him off guard, attacking him by surprise, was the way to beat him.

  “Where are you staying?”

  Another whip. He tugged against his restraints and tried to shake his head as the pain slammed into him. I knew how it felt, to be totally out of control. I knew how it felt to feel pain at the hands of another. I hated that I did, but loved that I could inflict the pain and find my own release.

  “At my house,” he cried through gritted teeth.

  “Where’s that?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  Another whip.

  “Ah!”

  “Tell me where it is.”

  “No!”

  Another whip.

  “There are others, aren’t there?” I asked. “You’re staying with others. You have an agreement that you won't kill each other as long as you keep each other safe.”

  We’d seen this before. It was becoming more common and making our job more difficult. Criminals were banding together to escape justice. They were protecting each other, working side by side and forming organisations that threatened to outnumber ours. But they wouldn’t overpower. They wouldn’t win. I couldn’t allow them to win. If they did, we’d be locked inside hell with no hope for survival.

  “No.”

  “Yes, you do. I killed a man just last week who said the same thing.” I struck him again, not bothering to give him breathing time now. If he wanted to waste my time and protect something I would sacrifice my life hunting down, he didn’t deserve a break from the pain. “He wasn’t so smart. He made me torture him to death.”

  “He didn’t tell.”

  “No, he didn’t.” I stopped in front of him and grabbed his jaw. “But you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”

  He tried to shake his head, but I held him still. When he tried to nod, I let go.

  “Good.”

  “I can't!”

  “You can and you will. You tell me and I let you live, or you don’t and I kill you. It’s really quite simple.”

  “They’ll kill me anyway.”

  “Oh, will they?” I walked away from him, keeping my back to him as I scanned the tool table. I considered what I’d use and thought back to Trixie. “And who are they?”

  What would I use on Trixie? The knife? I shook my head—I’d already cut her. Confession. I needed a confession from my prisoner. I needed him to tell me where he lived so I could shut the house down and kill them all for being sick bastards who threatened our position. I needed Trixie to confess to the thoughts in her head. I couldn’t torture her this way, but I could use my prisoner as a surrogate for the urge to.

  “Have you ever heard of pilliwinks?”

  “No.”

  One word and he conveyed his fear. I knew he was terrified and I would play on it. One of the first lessons Ambrose had taught me was that talking someone through torture made it almost unbearable. Hearing the cool callousness in my voice and knowing I had no hesitation about what I was about to do, would tip them over the edge and provide a chilling soundtrack for their demise.

  “It’s commonly used to extract confessions,” I explained as I picked up the small metal device. “Do you think you can run around the underground and take unsuspecting citizens when you have no toes?”

  I watched his feet flex against the cuffs and he tried to pull free. He was wasting the precious energy he’d need to stay alive. He wasn’t going anywhere. I got to my knees at his feet and slid the thumbscrew into place over his toes.

  “So I’m going to ask you again…who are they?”

  Nothing. He was silent as he prepared to face me with resilience and try to call my bluff. Bad move. Things hadn’t changed; I didn’t like a challenge, I didn’t want to be threatened and I sure as hell didn’t want to be resisted.

  “Okay…”

  I turned the handle, allowing the first fraction of weight to lower onto his toes. It squashed them beneath the two pieces of metal, and I turned a little more, just to trap them in place and ensure they’d soon start to throb with his blood’s need to circulate.

  “No, no, no,” he cried, trying to pull away again. “No.”

  “You won't last five minutes.” I laughed. “You may as well save yourself the pain because you know you’re going to tell me.”

  “No.”

  My least favourite word. I hated it when Trixie said it—tried to deny me what I knew we both wanted. I hated it enough to want to force her to say it again and again and again, so I could drown in the anger it stirred.

  I hated it from this man for entirely different reasons. I hated it because every time he said it, I wanted to rip his fucking tongue out. I hated it because by continuing to refuse to speak, he was keeping me from my wife and I didn’t know what she was doing upstairs.

  “Very well.”

  I turned again, feeling the bones in his big toes grind against the metal. He cried out but stayed still. He’d learned quickly that the pain was worse when you tried to pull away from the force inflicting it. Time for another device.

  “How would you protect yourself—how would you attack—if you had no fingers?” I asked, quickly grabbing another tool from the table. A simple pair of wire cutters.

  I reached above him and grabbed his hand, chuckling when I realised he couldn’t head-butt me, or kick me, or even swing his body to shove me off. He was totally disarmed. Squashing his fingers into a fist, I grabbed his index finger and placed it inside the claws of the wire cutters.

  “Last chance.”

  I twisted, forcing the metal into his flesh and applied pressure until I broke the skin and burned it with brutal friction. I didn’t wait for his answer. I stamped down on the weight at his feet, crushing his toes beneath an unforgiving force. At the same time, I pulled the cutters, broke the bone and twisted to tear it from his hand. He screamed as saliva and snot and tears gargled at the back of his throat.

  He lost consciousness, his body falling limp and lifeless against the restraints. Shoving his severed finger into his pocket, I tossed the wire cutters onto the table, pulled the t
humbscrew off broken toes and leaned against the table to wait for him to wake up.

  GRIT stormed into the centre of the city, dressed in black; we were protected by bulletproof vests beneath our suits, and the guns in holsters were our only friends. We pulled them out in sync, holding them close and ready to fire.

  I’d been given the address. I knew the second he passed out from shock that he didn’t have the balls to stand up against me any longer. I’d known he was going to break, I should have just stuck with the whip until he’d had enough and let the address fall from his lips…but I didn’t. I’d enjoyed torturing him, and laughed when he woke up, searched for his finger, and I told him it was closer than he’d like it to be. He’d cried, like the weak little psycho he was, and told me the address as tears streamed from his eyes and snot dripped onto the floor of the cell. I’d won. Of course I had.

  The city was dark, shrouded in shadows, and silent. It was always the silence that caught me off guard when I emerged at night. I knew a city, the capital of a country no less, should be alive with colour and diversity, not squashed by fear and distrust. I couldn’t think about that now. I would fix this city, but first, I had a job to do.

  “Darius, take the back,” I said into the radio, turning my head to catch the microphone connected to my earpiece. I heard an affirmative and waved my arm out to tell them to get into place. “Colton, cover them and watch for strays. Graham, cover the left. Take your place and wait for instruction.”

  I continued giving orders until the boarded up townhouse in a row of deserted townhouses was surrounded by my men. There were twenty of us waiting to storm the house and take the underground captive. I stood at the front door and tucked my gun in the back of my trousers, confident I was covered from all angles. We wouldn’t burst in uninvited. This was the best part—seeing the look on their faces when they knew they’d been caught. The anticipation got me every time. Were they going to come quietly when they knew they were surrounded with no way out? Or would they invite us in for a blood bath? I cracked my knuckles, nodded my head so the team behind me knew I was ready and I raised my fist to bang on the door.

  No answer.

  I banged again.

  Still no answer.

  I didn’t give third chances. Taking a step back, I grabbed my gun and shouldered the door. It opened on the first attempt and I stumbled into the house, sending dust up to choke me and cloud my vision. There were no gunshots. There was no sound of life besides the footfalls of GRIT men as they took my lead and ambushed the house.

  “Clear!” I heard as I shone my torch around the entrance. “Clear!”

  This was the house. I knew it was. Beer bottles rolled along the rotting wooden floor; there was a distinct aroma of spices that shouldn’t have been in the capital without our knowledge of distribution. I could smell marijuana…Lawson should have been dealing with that. Drugged-up psychopaths made for a catastrophe.

  “Sir?”

  I turned and ran up the first flight of stairs as soon as I heard Darius call for me. I stopped on the landing, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet as dustsheets whirled around me in the breeze from an open window. The previous residents had been decorating before they'd fled. The house was empty, but it hadn't been for long.

  "Sir," Darius said again, bringing my attention to where he stood in the doorway of what I assumed was a bedroom. "I think you should see this."

  "What is it?"

  He didn't say anything, but his eyes flitted to the stairs to make sure we were alone before he nodded his head for me to join him. I did, stopping next to him at the door and looking into the bedroom.

  Blood.

  So much blood; more than I'd ever spilt or seen in one place before.

  Bodies thrown on top of each other in a heap that made counting them and connecting limbs to torsos impossible.

  "Someone got here before we did."

  "It would seem so." I took a step into the room, the squelch of thick blood beneath my shoes sending a fume of copper up my nostrils. "Get them out and call for recovery."

  I wouldn't let my men see that we'd failed. They knew this fell on them; I was blood, so I was safe. The guys on our payroll? They were never safe. Nor would I allow them to lose faith in GRIT. Whatever had happened here, whoever had done this, I would find them before they threatened us again.

  "Yes, sir."

  Darius' shoes shuffled on the dusty floor as he slid away from me and thundered down the stairs, calling for the men to fall back. He told them there was no threat, that we'd been given false information, but he couldn't lie. His voice gave everything away; he was afraid and he was doubtful.

  I was confused. We were the only ones with the power to do this. We were the only ones with the connections and ability to carry out such an act. But we weren't the only ones evil enough to try.

  I took another step into the room, counting the heads before me. Twelve. I could see twelve heads, and their owners had been living here. They were barefoot. They weren't on the hunt, they hadn't been lured here; they'd been comfortable and they'd been murdered in their home—one they lived in so they could commit crimes. So there were three organisations? GRIT, the underground and…who?

  I cocked my head as I looked closer, noticing each one of the dead people laying in front of me were clean. Coloured. Warm. They were dead—there was no doubt about that and checking the pulse of each one confirmed it—but they hadn’t bled out. The blood wasn’t theirs.

  “Darius?” I called into the microphone that connected me to him.

  “Yes, sir?” came his crackled reply as he walked away from the house.

  “Did any of the men find anything…else?”

  A few seconds of silence followed before Darius cleared his throat. “No, sir.”

  “Great.”

  With a sigh, I cut the connection and looked at the chaos around me. Two sheets of parchment paper laid on top of the heap of death, and I reached out and picked them up. Shoving one in my pocket, I unfolded the first and stared at the drawing. Painting. Whatever a piece of art created with blood could be called. It was recent, the latest layer still wet as I left my fingerprint. It was a depiction of what laid before me, complete with expressions of pain and agony on the victims' faces. The room was painted in shadow with the dust and dirt around the house. The artist had taken the opportunity to use his surroundings to create this, and it was chilling. It was a message. It was left here for us to show us how late we were. Not only had we lost our twelve criminals, but another had carried out our work and had enough time to capture the moment. I dropped the paper, watching it flutter to the ground face up as I took the other from my pocket. I expected a letter, a threat or a gloat, or a promise for more blood, but what I found was an angel. A princess painted with blood and grime; a princess in a wedding dress torn down the middle, kneeling at a lake with horse reins in one hand as a black stallion stood to her right; her other hand was cupped and trickling with blood as she drank from the red lake. Trixie. There was no mistaking the cosmos in the eyes of the painting, the high cheekbones of a woman of status; there was no denying the full lips had been painted from intimate memory, and the body was imitated to perfection. Small, round breasts, a torso nipped in at the waist; a small scar on her neck that stood proud and inviting, and hair that fanned out around her, as black as the night sky.

  Tucking my gun away, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, connected it to the earpiece of my radio and turned that off so the others couldn’t hear me. I continued to scour the room for clues as I called Trace.

  “Hello?” he answered, his voice groggy from exhaustion.

  Trafficking, and the aftermath of Katya’s death, was weighing heavy on him. I had to remind myself to take him out somewhere to distract him, like he had with me when Trixie first arrived on the estate.

  “Trace, we have a problem.” Now I felt guilty for calling him into this when he clearly had other things on his mind. “Someone else is onto the circuit.”
/>   “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we have someone who has beaten us to a case.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve called for recovery-”

  “Recovery?”

  “Twelve bodies. I’m going to have them delivered to Sector 2…call Hamish into the Sector, tell him to bring a team and make sure they know what’s expected of them.”

  “Got it. What are you going to do?”

  “Whoever did this knows your sister, so I’m going to find out what she knows.”

  “Trixie wouldn’t have played a part in this.”

  I heard the fear in his voice, the urge to say something with a lot more venom than he had. He didn’t trust the way I felt about his sister. He didn’t trust me not to lose a grasp on the men who loved her, and the ghosts inside me who would easily tear her limb from limb.

  Neither did I.

  “I don’t assume she does, but I think there’s a connection.”

  “Why?” He knew there was something I wasn’t telling him. Something I would refuse to tell him. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. Just worry about Hamish. I’ll deal with the rest.”

  We ended the call as the sound of The Plough racing towards the house drowned out the sound of clattering hooves I’d heard in the background.

  I arrived downstairs in time to see all eight horses standing in the road, side by side. The Plough was parked up, the door propelled open and Jack stood proudly by the kerb before he tossed me the activator. The remote that turned the vehicle from a reinforced Range Rover into a bulletproof, fireproof, tank. The steel armour encased the beast like impenetrable armour. It couldn’t be broken into, or out of; couldn’t be veered off-road, with tyres that could make a full 360-turn with no risk of puncture or collapse. It was something out of the future, when the past so readily dominated the Capital, but GRIT had the best engineers inside the barricades. We worked from concepts created in China and Germany and tested them out where death by dangerous driving was the least of our problems.

  “Jack,” I said, nodding when he did, and closed the door of The Plough. “Take my car and go back to the Estate.”