He looks around as if in a panic. Raoul turns to his men and jerks his head. They back off at once, leaving the two of us standing before them. They’re not going anytime soon, but the further they are from him, the less threatened he’ll feel.
“We’re here to help, Dr. Gabriel,” I say soothingly. “We’ve come for Whitlock.” I glance back at the man we’ve come for. The sound he makes around the cloth gag isn’t even human. The beeping of the machine amps up a notch then levels again. The surgeon’s keeping him sedated. Alive but helpless.
Is it wrong of me to see the irony here?
“You…you can’t take him!” the doctor chokes out. “He has to pay. Has to pay!” The gun wavers, and I try not to flinch. He’s clearly not accustomed to being armed, but he might let a round loose any moment. There’s no accounting for dumb luck. And these fucking vests won’t stop an actual bullet.
“You’re right, Doctor,” I agree. “He has to pay. That’s why we’re here.”
“No!” he screams. “You don’t understand.” Why is it that this man always gets that reaction from people? “You… He…” He spins hate-filled eyes back to Whitlock. “My…my little girl…” he groans. “You took my little girl!” he suddenly screams. A slash of his hand opens a fresh slice of flesh over Whitlock’s chest, and he convulses.
Jesus.He can feel it all. The heat of nausea switches to a cold sweat and then back again. My flesh crawls.
“Idounderstand, Dr. Gabriel,” I say as calmly as I can, considering what I’m looking at. I still have my weapon over my head. Raoul has followed my lead and done the same. “He did it to my girl too. My woman.” I aim a stare at Whitlock, who now has tears streaming down his cheeks. His nostrils flare as he sucks in a breath.
“Did he kill her too? Did he? Did he fucking kill her?” the doctor hisses. “Because that’s what he did to my baby. My little girl. Sneaking out to that big house for a party. A fucking party!” He’s turned back to Whitlock. “We should have been going to her graduation this year, and instead…instead… We were viewing her in the morgue.” He makes a choking sound.
There’s another noise from the helpless man on the table. He’s trying to get words past the gag, trying to cry out to us. I should feel pity. I should. It would be the humane thing to feel right now. But the doctor rounds on Whitlock, brandishing the scalpel in front of his face.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? You fucking cunt!” he screams. “We live in the same fucking neighborhood! I’ve done work for your fucking sick friends!”
I look over at Raoul again. His skin is pale. I’m sure mine is too. But we’re starting to piece this together. The house in the Hamptons. The parties where girls barely made it out. Or don’t make it at all. I think of Maya and Kiki – the pair of terrified women who came forward begging for justice, their lives shattered. But it’s too late for this man’s daughter.
Poor old Mark’s past has just caught up with him. In search of salvation, he put his life in the hands of a man who had reason to wish him dead, and in the worst possible way. Going to a surgeon in a town where he’s been running rampant with his sick games.
He really has been his own worst enemy.
I hear a slight sound beside me and look up to see Raoul backing away.
What the hell?
He lifts an eyebrow at me, then slants his eyes to the door. He takes another step back.
He’s walking out of this?
I turn back to the doctor and his “patient.” He’s consumed by the man in front of him once more, oblivious to us as grief and rage blind him. Whitlock locks his eyes with me again. His face twists, contorting as he finally manages to spit the gag out his mouth.
“Help me…please…” he gasps out.
“Shut up!” the doctor roars at him. “You…! Shut the fuck up!” His hand slashes again, and I see the skin peeling open across Whitlock’s throat. Whitlock’s body jerks into an arc against the bonds holding his wrists and legs. He starts gurgling and choking, twisting his head.
I turn away and walk out the door. The sound of a hissing death rattle tells me all I need to know. Mark Whitlock isn’t going to be hurting anyone ever again. He’s met his final justice.
Somehow, it feels right.
When I get outside, Raoul is leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette.
“I thought you only smoked cigars.” I look at his hand. It’s shaking.
“You calling Reed?” he asks, ignoring my question. I nod, reaching for my phone.
“Need us to come in?” Reed’s voice answers immediately.
“No,” I say, looking up at Raoul. “There’s nothing here. Looks like bad intel.”
“Motherfucker,” he mutters. “I could’ve sworn this was the one. It sounded legit.”
“Never know. Maybe he had a change of heart,” I reply. Reed huffs out a breath.
