Yet once the screaming starts, why aren’t I horrified?
Why am I…glad?
Because my father is fighting a losing battle for his life and that man could have been the one who pulled the trigger.
15
HAVOC
What a fucking mess.
Who would have figured the guy was a bleeder?
Breaking this motherfucker has been a challenge. Slightly irritating. Still not a problem. I’ve learned that nothing worth doing is easy. And this prick is making me put my back into it. Shit, I even broke a sweat. I wipe beads of perspiration from my brow as I give credit where credit is due.
This asshole hasn’t cracked yet.
He pissed himself, though, when I pulled out a molar. And now I’m forced to stand in the puddle because torture is a close contact sport.
People usually give in by the second toenail once I begin ripping them off. My theory is either this guy is a pro with no immediate plans to wear open-toed shoes, or he’s ridiculously loyal to his employer. I mean, shit, he withstood the agony of me tearing away five nails.
And he’s done it while hanging like bloody meat, secured by his wrists to a metal hook drilled into a ceiling beam.
It’s truly a thing of beauty.
Every Unholy safe house comes complete with a few standard features.
1.State-of-the-art security system because the whole point of these havens is safety.
2.First aid supplies because we’re usually arriving in a hurry, and more often than not, we’re in rough shape.
3.Torture room because sometimes you need to hurt a motherfucker—or occasionally ‘question’ someone to death.
4.Toiletries, and if the location allows (the Death Star doesn’t since it’s run on a generator and the least used) food.
Wait, what’s this asshole saying? He’s still blathering about how he doesn’t know who sent him. I call bullshit.
He’s already screamed himself hoarse, but that’s my fault. I let emotions get the better of me because this is personal. He came for Kerri. He came onto my property and tried to killmyduchess. I got all worked up over that and had some fun with his torso with my knife. Now, there has to be more blood on the plastic sheeting covering the basement’s cement floor than what’s left in his body.
And to think, we’ve been at this for, what, two hours?
Imagine what I’ll do to him in three if he doesn’t answer my fucking questions.
I’m excellent at my job. When I’m done with him, there won’t be anything left of this prick but bits of unidentifiable meat. Then I’ll dump his corpse in a plastic barrel, cover it with lye, and in a few hours, I’ll grind the remaining calcium phosphate and sprinkle it across the mountain.
All evidence of him will disappear.
Like he was never here.
This future corpse is muttering something. I lift a brow and step closer to catch what he’s saying. If this is his epiphany moment, now would be the perfect time for a confession.
“Big, bad Havoc.” He spits a mouthful of blood at my feet. “The mad Viking. That’s what they call you, right?”
Disappointing but cute.
“Never to my face, no.” I stroll behind him. Poke the small of his back with the tip of the knife. “Until today.” And speaking of names… I had to grind salt into his wounds to get him to give up his.George. How tragically banal for a hitman. I run the blade up, stopping at a midway point on his spine, careful not to break the skin. “Ever see the movieWolf Creek?”
“Fuck you.”
