by Linzi Basset
Pamela was shaken by the admittance. She blinked as she watched the storm that brewed in the depths of his gaze. She didn’t have to ask. She knew.
“The day I allowed the subs to fuck me in the dungeon with a strap on.” Her voice sounded hollow. It was a memory she hated but it had been a well-planned scene. For Alex’s benefit. To make him stop pursuing her. She’d induced her own arousal with an aphrodisiac and had acted like a filly in heat … openly, for everyone at the club to see. She couldn’t stop climaxing and had spurred one after the other female sub to pound her pussy into oblivion. Afterward, she’d felt hollow, sickened, and like a cheap whore when she’d seen the look on his face. She’d never realized until now, just how much he’d given up and suffered during that first year.
“Yes, I see you remember every little detail. I have to admit, I never realized just how much of a slut you had in you.”
Crack!
“Fuck!”
Crack! His reaction was immediate as he slapped her back, induced by the pain of her palm connecting with his still healing wound.
“Oh god! Alex, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … please! Let me—” Pamela stumbled back as he flung her away from him. Her hand covered her throbbing cheek. She stared at him, too horrified that she’d slapped him on the wound to worry about him hitting her in return. She knew it had been a reflex action from the pain she could see flashing in his eyes.
“Get out.”
She took a step closer. “No. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Let me take you to the doctor. He needs to check—”
His sharp gaze cut through her protest. “Get out before I throw you out.”
“I’ll leave, but only if you promise to go and see your doctor. Please, Alex.”
“You don’t need to concern yourself with my disfigurement, Mrs. Seeger. Now get the FUCK OUT of my house!”
Alex watched her leave. His hands balled into tight fists as he followed the gentle sway of her hips. He had never lifted his hand to another human being in anger. Least of all a woman. It shook him to the core that he had done so now. The dark red bruise on her cheek when she’d turned to leave had left him with no doubt that the slap had been much harder than he realized.
“Jesus.” His hand lifted to tentatively probe his own cheek. The stabbing pain was as excruciating as it had been that first week after the explosion. He’d chosen not to float on a cloud of narcotic-induced euphoria, rather pushed his own recovery faster, albeit in a more painful manner.
“I hate to say it, my boy but you brought that on yourself.”
Alex didn’t bother to dispute his mother’s soft reprimand. His comment had been harsh and uncalled for. He had looked for a reaction from Pamela and he’d gotten one. He picked up his keys. “I’ll be home around four, Mother.”
“Alex.”
He stopped and turned to face her.
“Go and see the doctor. There are spots of blood seeping through the dressing which means the wound has split open. Please, my son, don’t be your usual hard-headed self.”
Alex nodded briefly and walked through the inter-leading door into the garage. He kept his mind blank as he eased the powerful BMW i8 Roadster through the heavy iron gate. He cleared his throat.
“Call Nate Parker.”
“Calling Nate Parker,” responded the hollow voice from the built-in phone system. The discussion with Nate was brief and he turned the car in the direction of the clinic. The constant throb in his cheek kept Pamela on his mind all the way there. His voice sounded grim in the confines of the car.
“Let that be a lesson, Alex. Pamela Seeger is still as feisty as ever.”
Chapter Five
Twenty steps. Stop. Turn left. Thirty steps. Stop. Turn to the left. Twenty steps. Stop. Turn to the left. Thirty steps. Stop.
“Fuck!” The sound of his skull thudding against the wall sounded hollow in the windowless room. “I’m so tired of trotting the same square dance over and over!”
He now knew why a tiger in captivity always paced his enclosure. He felt trapped, his feline and wild nature to be out in the open, to roam free, contained to a four-wall prison. Like William Seely had been for the past five weeks.
“And it’s all that fucking bastard, Jack Blackmore’s fault.” His low growl echoed back at him. He sighed and dropped on his back to the floor. He grunted as he began to do two leg drops. His movements were slow, the focus contained to build up his strength. He could hardly put all the blame on Blackmore’s head. Not with the kind of life he’d led. At some point, his cruel nature had to catch up with him.
He cringed as he recalled the time he’d spent under Blackmore’s systematic torture. The beatings that had started with soft and playful taps but turned into pummeling of those huge fists of his. He could still feel every internal organ suffering under the blows. His skin began to crawl as visions of his electrocution flashed through his mind. That had been the worst. He had no doubt had he not been saved, he’d be pushing up daisies already in some forgotten field … if he was lucky. For all he knew, Blackmore would have fed his corpse to the sharks.
“Yeah, I can count my lucky ass stars that the Don concerned himself to save me.” At least, he thought it was the Don. Who else would’ve bothered?
He sat up and stared around the room. The walls were painted a soothing peach color and decorated with furniture in shades of rusty autumn colors. There were even potted plants in each corner with nothing but artificial air as his companion, apart from the doctor and a healthcare worker that had attended to him for the first three weeks. If not for their constant attention to nurse him back from tipping into the forever after, he’d have thought he was in heaven.
“Ha! As if you’d ever end up in any other place than burning in hell, Seely,” he scoffed at his own thoughts.
He was slowly going out of his mind with boredom. Over the past week, he'd been working on building up his strength by doing light exercises and stretches. The area he was contained in was spacious enough and constituted an open room with a lounge and dining room area, kitchen, and in one corner, a bedroom with a separate bathroom. But he didn't have freedom to move around. No one ever spent time with him. He was kept locked up and the four walls were closing in on him. The place was neat, well ventilated, but he hadn't seen or felt the warm strokes of the sun on his skin for five weeks.
Fresh produce, bread, meat, and drinks were delivered every other day since the doctor had declared him well enough to get out of bed. He didn't mind, preparing his own meals kept him from going out of his mind. He had no idea what was going on in the world out there, seeing as there was no television or radio to listen to. There was a shelf, filled with books to keep him entertained, but he was refused the request for daily newspapers.
Seely began to doubt his belief that he’d been rescued by the Occhipinti Don. He wouldn't have kept him in the dark for so long. Someone was fucking with his mind and succeeding.
He turned onto his stomach and soon closed his mind to concentrate on the smooth and rhythmic pumping of his arms as he counted off the push-ups. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and forehead. Soon it ran into his eyes but he kept pushing himself, through the lactic burn that threatened to break his resolve to stop. He continued until he was grunting with every heave. His arms trembled but he forced himself to ignore it.
A loud buzz penetrated his concentration. He finished the final heave and slowly got to his feet. His chest lifted with each labored breath as he watched the dark figure that appeared in the door. He was big and filled the entire space with his broad shoulders.
“Well, it’s about time,” he mumbled. He didn’t move, waiting with eager anticipation as the man took a step closer.
William's breath got stuck in his throat when the man moved into the light. Fear owned him in that moment. He shook his head and looked around wildly, but he knew it served no purpose. He had nowhere to go.
“You! But ... but ... I don't understand. Why would you of all people—”
“Why is of no importance to you, Seely. All you need to know is that you've been given a chance at redemption. The question is, are you clever enough to take it?”
The hills that appeared friendly not so long ago, like the pillows of the stretch of land, were now darkly ominous. The paths that had been illuminated just hours before, became lost in a blackness that even moonlight couldn’t split asunder. The trees that had appeared magnificent in the sunshine when he’d arrived earlier, now towered over him as he stepped across the borderline between the moonlight and the never-ending darkness of the forest surrounding the farmhouse.
His movements through the dense trees were confident and without hesitation. He had access to all the latest technology and the scrambler he wore on his arm allowed him to slip undetected past all the security beams that he knew were planted all around. He stopped behind a large bush and hunched low, staring with unflinching regard across the open space at the sturdy barn a couple of yards ahead. His gaze drifted to the farmhouse on his left. It was quiet and dark. Everyone had gone to sleep. He glanced at his watch. 2:00 illuminated brightly.
“It’s time.”
Eyes as dark as the night around him, flashed with anticipation. The team that had been interrogating Will Glover was long gone. He'd watched the man he’d overheard the other's call Jim, get into a black SUV, together with two of his guards and drive off just before sunset. It left three down in the bunker by his estimation and another three asleep in the house. If they followed usual security protocol, two would be asleep down below while one stood guard.
He systematically checked the short knives in the strategically stitched pockets on the side of his pants, his sleeves, and on the thick crisscross belts he wore across his chest. All in all, he carried twenty blades in those pockets and additional four tactical survival hunting knives with stainless steel serrated blades. Chosen for their excellent edge performance and razor sharpness. He preferred stainless steel above carbon steel because the blades maintained a sharper length. Two were stuck in his boots and two slipped into protective cases attached to his belt. His weapon of choice and the only one he carried.
Blade Runner. A name he had earned very early on in his career as a paid assassin. First, for a covert CIA team and when he couldn’t achieve the satisfaction with his kills in such a controlled environment, he moved on to bigger pastures. More lucrative ones. Crime syndicates paid handsomely for death.
The Sixth Order leaders wanted Will Glover eliminated. Fast and lethal. Blade Runner had realized just how much urgency there was in the mission when he was paid a million dollars in cash up front with another million waiting for him once the job was done. He had been surprised. The usual rate for eliminating a high-level operative in the organization ran to a couple of hundred thousand at best. Glover wasn’t on such a qualifying level, which meant he could sink the leaders with information he had access to.
His sharp gaze homed in on the CCTV cameras aimed at the area surrounding the barn. The scrambler wouldn’t protect him from that. His fingers curled around the familiar edges of one of the steel Japanese death stars hidden in the belt across his chest. The flick of his wrist was so quick, it would deceive the sharpest of eyes. It ripped through the camera lens above the side entrance door, breaking the circuit. Blade Runner was on the run within seconds. He slipped inside, snorting as he found the door unlocked. He stood quietly for a moment, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the dim shadows surrounding him.
“Bunker door is to the left,” he said sotto voce, running the blueprints that Mr. Zee had provided and he’d studied the day before, through his mind. His entry down the stairs was silent and fast. His footsteps as he approached the guard room were light from years of learning to walk on the balls of his feet when he was on the hunt.
Music blared from a small television screen in the corner. The guard slumped in a chair, reading a newspaper, blissfully unaware of the danger creeping up behind him.
The knife met flesh, soft and pudgy. It made a satisfying squish as the tip of the blade sank deep enough to make the large man cry out in pain. Blade Runner’s hand covering his mouth broke it off at its inception. He tried to stand but Blade Runner twisted the blade, all the while sinking it deeper and deeper. His smirk was wide as he watched the skin tear to shreds as he rotated the knife, exulting in the sickening sound of his brutal gouging.
“Let this be a lesson, bucko.” Without warning, he jerked the serrated blade all the way into his back until the shiny metal disappeared inside his large body, leaving only the white ivory handle pushing against broken skin. “Never let your guard down.”
His desperate and broken sobs were sounds of brilliance in Blade Runner’s ears. Guttural chokes mixed with a soft agonized roar. He smiled as he slowly pulled out the blade. The guard slumped weakly over the desk in front of him, his skin deathly white. He continued to moan, convulsing and trembling like a rabid animal as thick streams of blood flowed freely from the gaping hole in his back. Blade Runner watched dispassionately as the cascade of the man’s life source dripped onto the floor.
“I’ll do the throat on the next one,” he murmured as he cleaned the blade on the dying man’s shirt. He turned away as the gasps for breath stopped. He dragged in a deep breath. “Ah, such sweet pleasure,” he crowed as he exulted in the sweet tang of blood tingling in his nostrils.
The smile was still on his lips when he turned away from the dying man to scrutinize the small security monitors on a table against the wall.
“Could’ve given me a better fight, my man. If you had paid attention, you would've seen me coming down the stairs.”
One monitor showed a split screen of the hallway leading to three doors and the room where two guards were sleeping soundly. The second room was an empty interrogation room and the third was occupied by his target.
“There you are, Will Glover, my dear man.” He leaned closer to look at the picture. He was tied to a chair, bloodied and bruised as he hung limply in the bindings, asleep. “Barely alive but still. They wouldn’t have kept at you if you hadn’t given them something already.” He turned toward the door, and his gaze swept over the dead guard. He slashed a quick cross in the air with his fingers and mocked, "Rest in peace, motherfucker. Now … it’s Glover’s turn.”
He moved down the hallway toward the interrogation room. His footsteps slowed as he walked past the room where the other two guards were sleeping.
“What the hell ... I might just as well make the trip worth my while.”
His entry into the bedroom was just as quiet. The two knives flashed almost in simultaneous harmony in the dim light shining from the hallway as he slashed them down. Each man received four lethal jabs into the stomach and chest. Their eyes shot open, but before either could scream in terror, their throats were slit, ending with an elaborate arch of his arms over his head.
“Now, that's more like it,” Blade Runner grinned as he wiped both blades clean. He sniffed in the air, and his eyes gleamed with pleasure as he watched the dark pool of blood spreading wider and further on the floor, inching closer to his black boots.
“Nothing beats the smell of freshly spilled blood.”
He walked down the hallway with a swagger to his step. This was almost a joke as easy as it was. It was evident that the Precision Secure team believed this interrogation location was secure and had become slack in guarding the place.
Will Glover didn't move when he walked through the door, although the weak man’s heavy breathing sounded labored in the quiet night. The poor man had been put through a wringer, that much was clear.
“Good job, Glover,” he growled in a deep voice next to his ear. Will stirred and opened his eyes with a groan. He lifted his head and stared with bleak eyes at the figure moving around him to stand a couple of feet from him.
“Jesus, can't you leave me alone to sleep for one fucking night?” Glover stuttered in a weak voice. He blinked as the man flicked the light switch and flooded the room
with brightness.
“Now, is that a way to greet a comrade, Glover?”
Will's eyes lifted. His breathing turned even more labored. Fear shone brightly in the dullness of his gaze.
“Now, now, Willie, my mate, none of that. It's either you or your family. Which do you choose?”
An uncontrolled sob broke through Will's last resolve. Precision Secure had promised that his family had been placed under protective custody, but if Blade Runner found him in this godforsaken bunker, what chance did they have of survival?
“My family has nothing to do with this. For god's sake, they don’t even know who I work for!” he croaked in desperation. “I haven’t given them anything. I swear! They haven’t been able to decrypt any of the files. Not with my help!”
He could only pray Mr. Zee would be satisfied with his death to leave his family be. The assassin showed no compassion for his plea. He smirked as he noticed Will’s acceptance of his fate in the hunch of his shoulders.
“I knew you'd make the right decision, Willie.”
He ran the sharp edge of the knife around Will's jawline. Will hissed at the stinging pain from the pencil-thin cut that followed its course.
“Don't worry, comrade. I'll make it quick.”
The last word was still echoing in Will's ear when he felt the warmth of his own blood soak his chest. He felt no pain as the surge of endorphins flooded his mind. With his hands tied, he was helpless but knew even if he could move, it would be fruitless. Blade Runner used knives as an art form, a lethal one. With one brutal slash, the razor-sharp blade had cut through his larynx, severing the carotid artery and jugular veins. A second pass tore open the skin tissue and cartilage to penetrate his windpipe. He choked as his ability to breathe and the blood circulation to his brain was compromised. He felt it set in—exsanguination. His eyes bulged wide as he gasped one final time. His head slumped onto his chest.
