Rocks

by M. J. Lawless

  Chapter Eleven: Hayden

  He was still seething when Karla returned into the bedroom. From her fingers dangled a pair of electronic keys. Hayden was not so much staring at those as switching his gaze from her brightly shining eyes and her perfect breasts, which still glistened with a sheen of perspiration.

  “Well lookee here,” she said in triumph. “I recognise this one—so sweet of you to keep it as a memento of our time together.” She lifted the second key instead. “Now, where’s this one for?”

  “Untie me and I’ll tell you.” As he looked at her glorious body, his cock twitched again. Seeing this, Karla laughed.

  “No. Here’s what happens. You like the card table—I know that—so let’s just say that you’ve been dealt a bum hand of cards, I hold all the aces, and you’ve just taken your best shot which leaves you with nothing.”

  “Thank you for the mixed metaphors,” Hayden replied sarcastically. “Now what exactly is your point?”

  She came across to the bedroom. That swaying of her hips and the gentle movement of her breasts made Hayden feel as though he were a small mammal about to be devoured by a serpent. She sat down beside him on the bed. Despite his anger, all he could think about was the smell of her perfume mixed with the strong, pheromonal scents of her body.

  Leaning forward, she moved his empty gun to the bedside table before placing an arm on either side of him, her face inches from his, her nipples—stiff again, he couldn’t help but notice—brushing his chest lightly.

  “You and I won’t ever see each other again after today, so I need you to tell me what I want.”

  “I realise my technique today left something to be desired,” he retorted, “but I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

  She smiled, a vulpine expression with hunger in her eyes. “Oh no, sweetheart. You were perfect—and that’s the problem. I’m a girl with a one-track mind, and that track is fixed very much on the Wallenstein diamond. You’re a distraction. Too much of you, and I’ll forget what I came into this business for.”

  Pulling back, she looked down at his crotch. With an ironic expression on her face, she reached across and lazily plucked the condom from his half-burgeoning erection, an utterly demeaning motion that caused Hayden to fall back on the bed. She had no intention of fucking him again.

  “I like you, Charles, or Hayden—or whatever your name is. Ah ah!” She raised one hand as he lifted his head to look at her. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Really, I don’t. The less I know about you the better. When I look in your eyes, I see too much of myself.” She shook her head, averting her gaze from his and talking quietly, as though to someone else in the room.

  “Sex has always been easy for me, a way to get what I want.” The expression on her face was peculiar now, but she shook her head again and stared at him fiercely.

  “Just tell me what I want to know.”

  With a sigh he looked at her. He understood entirely what she said—and what was unspoken. This woman was worth a hundred Wallensteins. A thousand.

  “It’s at Euston, locker 114.”

  She frowned at this. “Euston? Why there?”

  He shrugged. “I had my reasons. I don’t need to tell you that. You’ll find what you want there. Now let me go.”

  She stared down at him thoughtfully, rotating the key around her fingers like prayer beads. “Please,” he said, pitifully.

  Without saying anything, she turned, giving him an eyeful of her perfect rear as she bent over to scoop up her clothes. Letting out a yell of frustration, he began to hit the back of his head against the mattress savagely. She didn’t look back as she walked out of the room, but to Hayden’s surprise he heard the sound of running water from the bathroom as the shower was turned on.

  When she returned, he was pulling at his hands, attempting to free himself but instead merely chafing his skin. She smiled at him, not entirely unkindly, and he stared at her: she had washed off most of her makeup and looked even more gorgeous now, the red dress clinging to her figure. His cock gave another twitch.

  Coming to the bed, his heart leaped up as he thought that she was about to free him. Instead, she kissed his forehead.

  “You know,” she told him quietly, “there’s a moral to this. You should stop sleeping with hookers.”

  “Thank you very much, Mother Theresa. Now, can I get out of these bloody handcuffs?”

  Not replying, she patted his cheek and he stared incredulously as he watched those astonishing buttocks and hips sashay away from him for what he felt was going to be the last time. His anger was suddenly mixed with something much more painful. She must have felt something similar because, before she left, she paused in the doorway, looking back at him.

  “Thanks,” she said, quietly. “I’m sorry it can’t work out. Who knows—perhaps in another life.”

  The regret in her eyes was plain for him to see, and when she left he howled despairingly. That howl became a roar as he heard the door to his apartment close, and he writhed and yanked at his bonds, not caring how much he hurt himself.

  His despair gave way to anger, and then to despair again. How long would he have to remain here, tied up like this? It was humiliating! His cleaner, a fussy, busy woman by the name of Misses Melrose, would arrive in the morning, but Karla would be long gone by then. Still, he had the means to find her again. All he had to do was get out of these bloody handcuffs!

  He was still fulminating about his predicament when, to his surprise, he heard the front door close—very quietly. Had she had a change of heart? Had she come back?

  “Karla!” he called out. “Is that you?”

  His initial surprise was as nothing compared to his astonishment when, a few moments later, a man walked into the bedroom. The man was tall and thin, though Hayden had the suspicion that beneath his long, dark coat he was wiry and muscular rather than reedy. His face was very pale, any colour remaining in it drained away by his closely-cropped, dirty blond hair. A pair of grey eyes regarded Hayden from above a twisted nose. It was hard to tell his age from his angular features, but the lines there indicated some seniority. What troubled Hayden most, however, was the fact that although it was summer the man wore a pair of black, leather gloves.

  The man’s face registered surprise for a moment when he saw Hayden bound to the bed, but he quickly mastered this, his grey eyes registering amusement for a second before even that was hidden behind the mask of his features.

  “Who the hell are you?” Hayden asked, indignant and furious. “How the hell did you get in?”

  The man made no response but instead crossed to the bed. Straining his head sideways, Hayden saw him pick up the gun.

  “Answer me!” he demanded. Still the man didn’t respond to him, but instead clicked the safety latch on the side of the pistol and, with a swift, sure motion, slipped out the empty magazine.

  “Taurus 700 slim,” he remarked. His voice was foreign—Scandinavian by the sound of it, a slightly hollow sound as though he was a man used to speaking in whispers. “9 millimetre calibre. Looks as though it’s never been fired.”

  “That’s… that’s very interesting,” Hayden remarked, attempting to crawl sideways across the bed as far as the cuffs and ropes would allow him.

  “It’s not much of a gun, to be honest,” the man continued in his quiet, matter-of-fact voice. “The slide tends to jam when you have a bullet in it. That’s not what you need when you’re facing someone who’s armed. Now this,” he reached into his pocket and drew out a black, evil-looking pistol, “this is a gun. A Walther PPK, .38. Not as flashy as some of your other guns, but very, very reliable. And this one, I can assure you, has been fired.”

  “I’m… I’m fascinated.” Hayden was sweating now and gulped. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So that you will tell me what I need to know, Mister Robeson. I am right in assuming you’re Mister Robeson, aren’t I? Though of course, that’s not your real name, is it.”

  Sitting down slowly, the
stranger placed his gun on the sheets so that the cold tip of the barrel touched Hayden’s ribs.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he gasped. “What do you want? Why are you looking for me?”

  The man looked back over his shoulder at Hayden’s naked lower half. “Actually, I wasn’t looking for you—not just yet. I was going to come for you later. I was searching for someone else. A Karla Pietersen. I see that she got here first.” A thin, cruel smile spread across his lips.

  “I—I don’t know what you’re t-talking about.”

  The stranger raised a gloved finger to his lips. “Tut tut,” he said. “That’s not true at all. Now, I can do something very, very nasty with this gun, or we can start being honest with each other.” He patted Hayden on the shoulder, his smile coldly patronising now. “And to show our… mutual respect, I’ll answer your question. You asked who I am. My name is Lars Torkelsen. Now, why don’t you show me some respect back, Mister…” Lars’s voice trailed away and his eyes glittered with a hard light.

  “Charles Peace!” came the reply, a little too quickly. Lars tightened his hand on Hayden’s shoulder.

  “Now that’s a lie, isn’t it. Why don’t we try again.”

  “Carter,” Hayden gasped. “Hayden Carter.”

  “Very good, Mister Carter!” Lars said, slapping the bound man’s chest in a comradely fashion. “And you know what’s so good about this conversation? I can see immediately from your eyes that you’re telling the truth. Excellent!”

  He stood up, pocketing both the Walther and Hayden’s pistol. For a few seconds he looked around the room before returning his attention to Hayden in a cursory manner.

  “I can see you have been busy,” he remarked. “And I’m sure that Ms Pietersen found what she was looking for, but I need to ascertain some facts—and I need to ascertain them very quickly.” He frowned and raised a finger to his cheek, tapping it thoughtfully. With a brief smile, he glanced back down at Hayden. “I don’t need to tell you not to move.”

  When he left the bedroom, Hayden struggled frantically with his handcuffs but it was no use. He could hear the stranger moving around somewhere else in his apartment.

  “You see,” said Lars, re-entering the room with a large, very sharp knife in his hand, “the problem with Ms Pietersen is that she used pleasure to try and extract the information she required from you.” The knife was a long, curved kitchen blade that Hayden frequently used to prepare food. He liked the way it sliced through vegetables and diced meat so easily. It had always been his favourite. Until now.

  Hayden was sweating profusely and the bed, once a scene of some of his sweetest nights, now felt like an iron maiden beneath his naked back.

  Tapping the flat of the blade against his gloved fingertips, Lars gave Hayden a thin smile, as sharp as the steel he held in his hand. “I’m sure that the exploitation of pleasure has always been a very effective one for Ms Pietersen before. By the way, do you know that she’s not Danish?”

  Without thinking Hayden nodded. “When she has an orgasm, it’s with an Irish accent.”

  Despite himself, Lars laughed at this. “Does she indeed?” he said softly. For some reason, when he spoke even more quietly than usual this made Hayden more afraid rather than less. “She speaks the language quite well, and I’m sure she’s a woman of many talents—evidently, by the sight before me—but extracting information is not her speciality.” Suddenly his smile dropped away and his face took on a stony blankness that was utterly terrifying. He was no longer tapping the knife in his hands, but holding it with a purposefulness that made Hayden sweat even more.

  “For me, on the other hand, it’s a matter of professional pride.”

  Without warning, he smiled again, waving the knife negligently in his hands so that it swung near Hayden’s foot, causing him to flinch.

  “I knew immediately when I heard her voice on Maarten’s phone that she wasn’t Danish. I’m from Norway, you see. It’s not that I spend a lot of time with Danes—frankly, I can’t stand them, though that’s not so very special. There aren’t many people I can stand.”

  “Yeah,” Hayden murmured. “I bet you’re the real life and soul of the party.”

  Lars frowned at this but decided to ignore it, sweeping the knife up so that it brushed against one of Hayden’s toes. The bound man almost squealed at this but clamped his mouth shut instead.

  “However, I stray from the point, Mister Carter. As I was saying before, this woman may have found pleasure a useful means of discovering what she wants, but I have always felt that pain is much more efficient.” As he spoke, he held the knife in front of him and moved up the bed, standing at the halfway point. To Hayden’s horror, he then reached out and patted the bare cock that was flopped sideways on Hayden’s lap. The scrotum was shrivelling up as fast as it could but was not retracting anywhere near as quickly as Hayden would have liked.

  “I am sure that this gave Ms Pietersen, as you know her, a great deal of pleasure—and that she returned that pleasure with great gusto. Unfortunately for us both, Mister Carter, I am not one given to homosexuality, and so my own interest in your private parts will take a very different form.”

  He paused and looked away from Hayden for a moment, rolling his eyes upwards as though trying to remember something. “There was a song that you British used to sing,” he said quietly as though speaking to himself but loud enough for Hayden to hear. “It was on the radio sometimes when I was very young, though I think it was old even then. Something to do with the war.”

  He began to whistle, and Hayden stared at him in confusion and terror, wondering what on earth he was talking about. Then a cold, sick feeling began to spread over him as he recognised the tune.

  “Yes, that was it,” Lars continued, still pretending to ignore the naked man beside him. “A funny little song, don’t you think?” He began to sing—a tuneless, flat noise. “‘Hitler, has only got one ball, the other, is in the Albert hall. His mother, the silly bugger, cut it off when he was only small.’”

  Lars whistled a few more bars of the tune and then his face become stony once more as he turned to Hayden. “Now, Mister Carter,” he said at last. “Why don’t you tell me what I want to know before I go Nazi on your balls?”

  “She took two keys! Keys to lockers!”

  “Ah, very good Mister Carter. Now we are getting somewhere.” Lars’s smile was thin and cruel, but was replaced almost immediately by a frown. “Two?” he asked.

  “The first was where she hid the Wallenstein, but the second was mine.”

  Lars smiled again. Hayden almost preferred it when he frowned. “Now, where are these keys for?”

  “You don’t have to hurt me, I’ll tell you.”

  The other man let his hand rest on Hayden’s thigh, an almost gentle gesture. “You’re right. I don’t have to hurt you. I’ve never had to hurt anyone, but that’s not stopped me. Now, please, just answer my question.”

  “One was for a locker at Heathrow—that was hers. Mine was at Euston.”

  “Very good. You see how easy it is? Now, my next question. When you met Maarten, you took something from him. A phone. I hope that you still have it.”

  “What?” Hayden was utterly confused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Oh dear.” Lars looked very grave and moved his other hand, the one holding the knife, closer to Hayden’s crotch. “You were doing so well, but now you slip back into this... resistance again. It won’t do you any good.” He drew the edge of the blade across Hayden’s thigh, causing a thin line of blood to appear.

  “In the spare bedroom!” Hayden yelled, the muscles in his arm straining as he yanked his head up away from the mattress. “There’s a jacket hanging in the wardrobe there—dark grey. You’ll find it in the inside pocket!”

  A slow smile spread across Lars’s face, in its own way even more dreadful than when he looked at Hayden with that dead, stony expression. He patted Hayden on the thigh, an almost paternal gesture, as though
to congratulate a wayward child. “There,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Bending forward, he came close to Hayden’s face, causing the other man to turn away his head in fear. “Mind you,” he whispered, “if I find you’re lying to me, I’ll come back in here and unlike Misses Hitler I won’t stop at just the one.”

  Hayden did not look around when Lars left the bedroom, but instead began to yank hard at the cuffs which locked him in place. His wrist was burning with pain but the adrenaline in his body meant that he barely felt it any more. He was still struggling when Lars returned, a broad grin on his face. In his hand he held up Maarten’s mobile phone.

  “Very good, Mister Carter, very good indeed. You see, we’re making excellent progress here. Who knows, maybe I won’t even need to hurt you.”

  Hope flared in Hayden’s chest and he looked desperately at the other man who sat down on a chair at the foot of the bed.

  “You’ll let me go?”

  Lars glanced up from where he was sitting, pausing as he jabbed the phone’s screen. “I didn’t say that. But I might let you get dressed before I kill you, just to allow you to die with some dignity.” As though he had just answered some passing remark about the weather, he returned his attention to the mobile.

  “Ah! Very good!” Without looking at Hayden he continued: “You have some very interesting materials in your apartment. If time was not of the essence, Mister Carter, I would be happy for you to explain me the purpose of some of them. But, unfortunately, we do not have time—such is the lot of men, I’m afraid. We are placed on this earth but a short period before we pass on to a better place.” His eyes flashed up at Hayden and he smiled evilly. “For some of us, our time is shorter than for others.”

  Hayden said nothing but turned his face towards the ceiling. Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me! he repeated silently. When Lars came and sat on the bed it made him jump.

  “I know very little about you, Mister Carter, unlike Ms Pietersen. However, I do know enough to realise that you are the type of man who would be able to hack something as simple as this phone.”