The man in the cage was one of those.
As I opened the folder, the man dropped to his knees in desperation, and he shoved his face between the bars.
“Please,” he sobbed, sounding pathetic. “I have a wife. I have kids.”
I ignored him, skimming the first page of his file.
“Marlow Sutton,” I said, his name tasting rancid on my tongue.
He smashed his face harder against the bars, his cheeks flattening against them. “How … how do you know who I am?”
My lips peeled back as I bared my teeth with each word I read while flipping through the pages.
One page of sins. Two pages. Three.
“You’re a fucking rapist,” I said.
Anger detonated inside me as the words left my mouth. Heat surged through my veins as every word of his file sank into my brain.
None of Paul’s earlier punches had hit this nerve.
Marlow hurt women. According to his file, he hunted them on the streets and at bars near college campuses. He’d follow the women outside when they were too drunk to fight back, then rape and kill them.
The police hadn’t connected the disappearances yet.
But the Sons had.
We always did.
I shut the folder, looking at him like the scum he was, and dropped it onto the ground. Whistling, I walked over to the rack, eyeing my weapon options.
Certain tools would give him a faster death, like a gun, knife,or machete. And then there were ones that’d offer a slower suffering, like the pear of anguish, a rusty tongue tearer, and a chappy chopper. A bottle of cloudy liquid sat with them, most likely poison.
I shoved a few knives into my hoodie pocket, grabbed the tongue tearer and chappy chopper from their hooks, and unlocked the cage.
The metal creaked as the door swung open. Taking one step inside, I waited for Marlow’s reaction.
Would he try to rush me to escape?
Or beg me for his freedom?
Marlow chose the second. He scurried backward on his hands and knees, sobbing loudly. He slid his back down the bars and pulled himself into a tight ball.
I shut the door behind me.
Marlow tucked his head between his knees, shaking, while pleading at the ground.
I didn’t rush, taking my sweet little time, giving everyone a show as I tortured him. I said the names of the women he’d killed with every different device I used on him.
By the time I was finished, blood covered nearly every inch of us both.
He could barely lift his head. I dragged the blade across his throat, stepping away as blood spilled down his neck. His hands clasped around his neck, fingers slick as he tried to stop the bleeding, stop the pain, stop his impending death. But it wouldn’t.
I waited until he took his last breath.
That was it.
I was officially a Sworn Son.
