I was supposed to be putting men like him in jail, not meting out punishment in a dingy, bloodstained cabin deep enough into the woods that nobody would think to look for it. I can see the series of choices that brought me here, and while I wouldn’t have done anything differently, I don’t like where I’ve ended up.
Trips opens the front door for me, perhaps to look like a gentleman, or perhaps because he trained to be one. Or maybe he sees I need a minute to gather myself. Either way, I take that moment, my fingers tapping against my thigh like they could bring me peace through movement, even when I know the rest of the night will be well beyond the capacity of a simple fidget to manage.
The stench hits me first—copper and sour sweat, piss and shit, and I can’t help but gag. Falk hands me a handkerchief, like a little old man, but when he presses another to his face, I figure this must be something he plans for. I tie it around my face, while Trips pulls the neck of his t-shirt over his nose, both of us dressed in casual clothes that they’ll burn once we’re done.
After we kill a man.
A small, sagging lump strapped to a chair waits for us, whatever vitriol he had last visit long gone from a combination of hunger, dehydration, and lost hope. He’s not getting out of here. He knows it. And rage needs fuel. He’s all out of that.
Instead, he stares at me with glassy eyes in the single overhead light, his skin slack against his frame. “I liked you better when you were weeping pretty tears,” he states, his voice hoarse and broken.
“And I hate you saw that, but here we are,” I reply, wishing I were better at snappy comebacks.
“Your man should have kept you on a shorter leash. Bryce was always a soft hand,” he says.
“Coming from the man who organizes pedo video exchanges from the comfort of his mom’s basement,” Trips replies, and I’m glad at least one of us can bring the snark to this miserable meeting.
I’m hardly holding the contents of my stomach back, so I’m not really up to it.
“You’re here to kill me?” he asks.
This is where I’ve got to play my part, Trevor’s pet guard having followed us in and shut the door behind him, his face pressed into the fabric of his jacket.
“Eventually,” I say, taking a few steps forward and tilting my head, like I’m inspecting a bug. I have no idea how to be a torturer. But I’ve watched more than enough movies to make it look like I do. Hopefully.
He coughs out a laugh, so dry it cracks in the chilled cabin air. “Taking your pound of flesh first? I’d hate to have youdirty those clothes you’ve got on. Feel free to take themalloff. No need to stay modest on my behalf.”
I don’t have time to respond before Trips snatches the man’s hair in one hand while his fist digs into his stomach with the other. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head,” he warns.
The man laughs. “I’m dying either way. It can’t hurt to ask. Let a man go out with a good view at least. A little long in the tooth now, but better than nothing.”
Three more swift punches land on the man’s guts before he dry heaves, his stomach too empty to even spit bile onto the floor. But he’s quiet, so Trips steps back, his eyes dark in the dim light of the cabin as he glances at me.
“Do I get tools?” I ask Falk, hoping I don’t have to beat this man to death. I might have some training now, but I can’t imagine it would be a quick way to go with the limited muscle behind my hits. Let alone what it would do to my humanity to feel someone die under my fingers. I already want to vomit, cry, and run away, and I can’t see that getting any better with what I have in front of me.
Falk hands me a thick length of rope, and I’m both grateful and annoyed. It’s not like I know what I’m doing here, and I couldn’t even get a tool I know how to use? But I take it, Trips catching my eye as I slide the coarse fibers through my fingers, planning. He tugs me close, his breath washing over my ear, goosebumps pebbling my skin through the combination of the marginally heated cabin and the sensation.
“You need to find that fury, Crash. Can I help you?”
“I don’t think your dad would let you do this for me without consequences.”
“No, let me help you find your fury.”
I force out a breath, trying to keep my fear from my brow for the sake of the guard by the door. “Please.” I tug Trips closer, like this situation is making me horny instead of terrified.
He gets the memo, wrapping his arms around me, sharing his heat with me, his voice harder than the chest I’m pressed against. “This man isn’t a man. He’s a disgusting worm. Not only has he watched videos of you, got off on your worst moments, he’s traded and bartered for other videos, for girls younger than you, girls who are still caught up in this mess. He admitted he organized meets, Clara. Led girls farther into this net. And he’s okay with that. Happy for it. He’s not human; he’s not even a worm. He’s something lower, something that you’d squish with nothing but a wave of your hand, unbothered. Squish him, Crash. It’s what he deserves. And if you can’t make the last move, I can.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, just for a moment, letting his words cover me. This man isn’t a good one. I know that. But the rage is buried deep, flickering, but muted by my terror. I realize I’m going to have to do this my way.
Control. It’s the only thing keeping me upright. So I make a list, wishing, as always, that I could write it down.
1 - Tell Trips the signal
2 - Bundle up the soft parts of me and bury them deep where they can’t be touched by what I’m going to do
3 - Hurt this man
4 - Hurt him badly enough that I look as psycho as I’m pretending I am
