“Well, we began our interrogations,” I take in the specks of blood on their clothes as Lev speaks. Good. I want to move through this part expeditiously. Lev continues, “And as expected, they aren’t saying anything related to who hired them. They keep mumbling ‘our time will come.’”
Well, that’s not ominous.
I roll my eyes and ask, “Our time for what exactly?”
Wes slams his bruised fist against the table, interrupting whatever Lev is going to say next. “They won’t fucking say.”
He’s under more pressure than we are. The bruises he tries to hide are evidence of his dad’s growing frustration with his inability to find answers.
Donald Edgewood doesn’t like failure, and right now, in his cold dead eyes, Wes is failing with a capital F.
He doesn’t care that they are the leaders of the Fraternitas. He expects us to have answers and complete assigned tasks by any means necessary.
Gauging where we are in the interrogation process, I query, “So are we calling this another dead end, or are we going to try again?”
“You wanted the delivery person, and Lev will question the driver.” My auburn eyebrows shoot up, surprised at Wes’s announcement.
I was certain Owen would want the driver for himself.
“Lev wants to try a different tactic, so we all figured you, Owen, and I could work on the delivery person and let Lev have a go at the driver.”
I almost feel bad for the driver. Lev doesn’t usually participate in the interrogations, preferring to remain behind the keyboard. Let’s just say the driver will be praying to meet his maker in the first twenty seconds.
A cruel smile lines my face, reveling in the hurt both of these dead shits are in for. Cracking my knuckles, I rise from the table to prepare my tools.
Let the screams begin.
36
LEV
The man strapped to the chair in front of me is mottled with bruises. I know he thinks I’m here to be his executioner, and offer him martyrdom for his cause.
He’ll die by my hand, but not before I’ve extracted all the information he and his partner have withheld. I’m almost at my wit’s end with this damn group constantly being one step ahead ofus and having people more scared of whoever’s behind the iron curtain than they are of us. That’s where they always fuck up. We’re the big bad in this world. It’s almost too bad he won’t live to truly understand that.
“Our time will come. Our time will come. Our time will come,” he mutters. It sounds almost like a credence. A really fucking annoying one at that. The only time coming for him is death. I’ll reap answers and then his soul subjecting him to an afterlife of restlessness.
I say nothing, letting him continue his muttering. Instead, I walk to the large oak closet door and open it. Everything I’ll need is inside. I grab one of my kits, but I’ll need a few more things for what I have in mind.
Pulling the cage off the shelf, I place it and my kit on the metal utility cart. I still need acid, bamboo, and the blowtorch.
Wyatt and Owen love their whips and knives. I like to fuck with your mind, body, and soul. It’s why I'm here now. Sometimes the direct approach doesn't garner the desired effect. Pain is a useful tactic in extracting information. But there are levels to how you inflict pain. Physical violence is one way. Psychological is a whole different animal and I’m the apex predator in that domain.
The man is still babbling when I return, rolling the cart to the covered machine off to the side of the room. Each squeak of the wheel leads him to mumble a little less. I can feel his eyes tracking me, trying to figure out what I will do next.
He won’t have to wonder much longer.
Once I reach the device, I flick on the light. The gasp from across the room tells me he recognizes some of what’s in store for him.
I still don’t say a word, and he begins his chant again. This time he’s whispering faster, like a prayer. But there are no gods in this room that can save him. Not from me or his fate.
Opening my kit, I pull out the syringe, prepping it, and holding it up to the light to ensure I’ve measured the proper dose. Can’t have him dying before I can have a little fun. And still, I say nothing. Speak too much and you can reveal answers, say nothing and they’re almost driven to speak out of fear of the unknown. But I don’t care about his fear, that’s Owen’s and sometimes Wyatt’s shit. I want something far greater.
Labored breathing mixes with the dumbass’s ramblings. After the injection, I’ll have silence. At least until I’ve strapped him down.
Before walking over to the whimpering man, I turn the machine on, laying it flat.
I finally say, “You should’ve just talked, but I’m glad you didn’t, or you and I wouldn’t be getting so well acquainted, and that would be a tragedy of epic proportions.” There’s no anger in my voice. While I’m pissed about the lack of answers, wrath won’t serve me here.
