No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  “It’s our land, our right!” Billy snarled as he stepped forward, fist raised to strike Shaw again.

  Jim Morgan held up his hand and regarded Shaw with a shrewd stare. “So you do know what’s there. You know what that ranch is sitting on, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Shaw stared at Jim Morgan. “You stole the information, killed people to get it, I bet. That’s your style isn’t it?”

  “I did what I needed to do to protect my family, my family name. Something this size is too important to leave in the hands of some family of rednecks. There are other people involved now, there’s too much at stake. I’m not going to let a little pissant like you spoil things.”

  “And Daisy? What will happen to her?” Shaw asked.

  Jim Morgan didn’t have to say anything, he just smiled and glanced at his three sons. “When I run out of patience with her, I’ll let my boys do what needs to be done.” Jim Morgan stepped forward, only a foot away from Shaw. “And I’ve run out of patience with you.”

  Morgan turned to his sons. “We had other plans for tonight’s entertainment, but I think our guest will be a better and more exciting option than the girl.”

  He turned back to Shaw, a cruel twinkle in his eye. “We need to show our guests how we Morgans treat our enemies. Take him to the Pit.”

  38

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your patience.” Jim Morgan stood at the podium under a huge open loading bay, his three sons by his side. A long banquet table stood nearby covered with grilled meats, roasted fowl and sweet delicacies. A crowd of around sixty guests had gathered, men and women, in evening dress, drinks and food in hand.

  Police officers, county officials, prominent local business owners and out of state dignitaries, all made fat and wealthy from being on the Morgan family payroll. They were the Morgan community, a network of ambitious and influential devotees who had made the Morgan family rich, and in return Jim Morgan had paid them handsomely, money that would never see the eyes of the IRS or grace a US bank account. The elected county officials had helped him get planning permission for dubious property deals and developments. The police officers present had allowed Billy, Jed and Rory Morgan to dish out their own kind of justice in the county without so much as a parking citation. The officials from the Mayor’s office had levied fines and cessation orders against business owners who competed with the Morgans, driving them eventually broke. It was a gathering of the corrupt, tainted and dishonest who had fed off the public purse so as to line their pockets with Morgan money.

  Jim Morgan looked out on the sea of smiling faces. He was in his element, a preacher in the pulpit, about to deliver another sermon, his sermon, better than God’s own words.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long, but I’m sure you’ve been enjoying my hospitality in the meantime.” He waved at the banquet spread. Laughter rippled through the gathering, glasses raised, nods of appreciation. He patted his hands downwards, making a show of suppressing the praise. Truth was he loved every ounce of attention and praise, and he greedily sought it out at every opportunity.

  “I apologize for the delay, but I have had to attend to a small disturbance.”

  A slight murmur of concern went up around the guests.

  Jim Morgan raised his hands to hush the guests again. “It’s quite alright. There’s nothing to be alarmed about.” Jim Morgan paused for effect, relishing this part of the gathering as he had done for all previous ones. “In fact, it has presented itself as an opportunity, not a burden. I have something very special for you this evening. Something I know you will all enjoy.”

  Nods went around the crowd of guests. Knowing smiles from what they had witnessed before at other gatherings.

  “I have some very special entertainment planned for you all, as a special thank you for your continued support.”

  Jim Morgan turned to his three sons and nodded. It was a family affair. “I want to show you how we Morgans deal with disturbances. How we deal with our enemies, those who go against us, those who stand in our way and not by our sides.”

  A hush descended over the gathering.

  The crowd parted as a tight-knit group of security guards pushed through the mass of people. In the middle they held firmly onto Shaw. His hands were now chained in front to a thick leather collar around his neck like a dog. He shuffled along, his feet manacled as well. He was naked from the waist up, stripped down to just his pants and boots.

  They brought Shaw up to the podium and pivoted him around to face the guests. He stood under the harsh lights, paraded like a prized bull.

  And he was for sale.

  The women in the audience gasped at his bare muscled chest, powerful shoulders, defined arms and sculpted torso. Some women licked their lips, lust in their eyes, while others felt heat and wetness grace their loins as their eyes lingered over such a fine young specimen. The men were different though, jealous at the sight of one so young and virile, wishing they had looked like that when they were Shaw’s age.

  It was going to be a public display of the Morgan wrath, and a warning to them all. Shaw was going to be made an example.

  “Now, who would be a worthy opponent for this fine young man?” Jim Morgan shouted. He raised one hand, pointing above the heads of the guests.

  There was movement again at the back of the gathering. A monstrous shape pushed through, huge and menacing.

  Shaw watched as men and woman stepped back, giving the lumbering figure a wide berth.

  The Ox appeared, a towering mass of ugliness, dwarfing all. He too was bare-chested, and for the first time Shaw could see his full shocking physique. His torso embroidered with scar-tissue and pockmarks, a history of pain and suffering both inflicted and endured, painted on a canvas of deformed flesh. He walked upright, but as Shaw watched it was like the man had missed a vital step along the evolutionary chain. Under the bright industrial lighting, his full features came into clear view. His shoulders and arms were bloated and grotesque from a lifetime of steroid abuse, veins curled like massive earthworms under his skin. His chest was a slab of concrete, thick and glistening, a fan of back muscle, forearms bowed like tree trunks, hands and fingers like the claws of an excavator, strings of saliva dripped from a twisted smile on a bludgeoned face.

  The crowd roared with blood-lust as the Ox stood beside Shaw, the size comparison laughable, Shaw’s head didn’t even reach his shoulder. He stank of sweat, blood and fecal matter.

  Jim Morgan raised his hands to calm the crowd again. “For you new but loyal newcomers to the gathering, you are in for a rare treat tonight. The bank is now live, place your bets, the odds have been set. A reserve price has also been set for those amongst you who wish to purchase our contender outright to do with him as you wish.”

  Smart phones were brought out, screens were tapped, money was wagered on the fight using a private app designed for such occasions, one of many private apps the community used to conduct its shadowy business.

  Jim Morgan had set the reserve deliberately high for Shaw. He wanted the man dead in the most grotesque manner, not to be sold as a sex or torture plaything for one of the wives of the community. He wanted to put on a show tonight and not disappoint his guests.

  Minutes later the guests moved out from under the covered area to a wide flat expanse. The rain had stopped, the ground was damp, but a path of timber walkways had been laid out, lit with rows torches.

  Shaw was pushed forward by the guards, his chains clinking with each step, the Ox lumbering along by his side.

  Finally they arrived at the edge of a large circular hole in the ground, twenty feet deep, with a concrete floor and smooth curved walls, perfectly round.

  They had arrived at the Pit. In the middle was a massive pile of hewn logs coated with fuel. A guard lit a torch then tossed it on to the pile of wood. It caught straight away and soon roared with flames. Red-hot cinders burst then curled into the cold night sky. A handrail ran around the edge of the
Pit so the guests could safely stand and watch. It was ringed with lit torches evenly spaced that cast light down into the pit. There was a ladder placed at each end, one for each contestant to descend into the Pit. Once they were pulled up, there would be no escaping.

  A video camera sat on a tripod, behind it stood Rory Morgan. He pivoted the camera, filming the entourage as they approached, Shaw flanked by guards, the Ox, towering beside him. When they arrived they were separated and Shaw was taken to the opposite side. The guests quickly lined up along the rail, the women at the front, wanting the best view of the raw violence to come, some of them hoping a spray of blood from below would stain their dress.

  The Ox descended his ladder. It bowed and flexed under his weight, he had been into the Pit many times and had never lost.

  The guards pulled Shaw to a standstill. One guard drew his handgun and placed the muzzle in the center of Shaw's forehead. “You decide to run, you’ll be running with half your head gone.” Another guard pulled a key out and removed the chains. “Move,” the guard with the gun said, and pushed Shaw towards the ladder. “Try and last longer than the last person,” he laughed. The other guards snickered. “Hell, we hardly had the ladder up before the Ox had smashed the poor guy's brains out against the wall. Took a day to scrub it off!” More laughter broke out amongst the guards.

  Shaw paused at the top of the ladder and looked around. The guests jeered and screamed at him with lust in their eyes, faces twisted in the torch-light, heinous and wild.

  Shaw looked down into the Pit and, one foot at a time, he began his descent into hell.

  39

  Daisy walked back across the yard, rifle in one hand. She checked on the horses one more time just to make sure they were settled and safe after the previous night's trauma. She cleared some space in the equipment shed and rigged up harnesses for them. She spread some hay as well on the ground, but it was a poor substitute for the stables.

  She tried not to think of the dead horses, her eyes avoiding the mound of freshly turned dirt where they were buried.

  She wanted to kill Billy Morgan. His entire family was the bane of her existence. She was beginning to hate this town. It was vile, corrupt, polluted. On the surface it appeared fine. Yes, it had its problems, its small town bullies, but the events of the last few days made Daisy realize the true depth of the evil surrounding her.

  She didn’t know whom to trust anymore. The next time she drove through town, when faces turned to look at her, would they be spies for the Morgans? Part of the community? Watching her, working against her? For the first time Daisy felt like an outsider. Even the police, like Taylor Giles, were in Jim Morgan’s pocket. She loved her ranch, but she now hated the town, the people, everyone.

  As she walked up the porch steps she looked out into the dark, over the shadowy hills towards the Morgan compound, wondering what Shaw was doing. She feared for his safety. He could take care of himself, she knew that, but he was going up against the whole Morgan clan and their followers. He was brave, the bravest person she had even known, braver than her father. No one had stood up for her as Shaw had done.

  She went to the tap in the kitchen and poured a glass of water, then went down into the basement. Taylor Giles sat against the wall and she placed the glass of water next to his bound feet.

  “I’m going to give you the water. If you so much as move or lash out at me, I’ll kick you in the balls. Do you understand?”

  Giles gave a nod.

  Daisy placed her rifle out of his reach, squatted down and ripped off the tape. She lifted the glass to his lips and he drank it greedily. When he had finished he said nothing, just closed his eyes.

  Daisy stood and gathered up her rifle. “What happened to you, Taylor? I know you were an ass in school, hanging around the Morgans and all, but I thought you would grow up, see the harm their family has done.”

  Giles opened his eyes. They were rimmed red and the skin around his mouth was raw. “The money,” he said, his voice low. “They took an interest in me. Treated me like I was a man, part of their group.”

  Daisy shook her head. He was a pitiful sight, but she didn’t feel one bit of sorrow for him. He was on the Morgan's side. “They used you, Taylor. Plain and simple. They knew you were weak. They knew you were training to be in law enforcement, and they saw you as another one of their implants, a spy to do their bidding.”

  “That’s okay for you to say. I had no money. My family is poor. We don’t have a big ranch like this,” Giles retorted.

  Daisy squatted down again, her rifle laid across her knees. “Taylor, you idiot, don’t you see? The Morgans have ruined my family, sabotaged this ranch. I’m broke, I have no money. I haven’t been able to pay the bills for the last three months. All thanks to the Morgans.” Daisy looked away, tears in her eyes. “They’re evil, evil to the core. They’ve driven away my workers, spied on me and now they burned down my stables and killed my horses. Why do they want my land so badly? I’m no threat to them.”

  “I don’t know,” Giles shook his head. “I didn’t think they would go that far. They just wanted me to keep an eye on you and drive off any workers who came by.”

  “So they paid you for that? You took their money, like everyone else in this town?”

  Giles just nodded, feeling ashamed.

  Daisy took a deep breath.

  Greed. It was always the same. It was a poison that flowed through the veins of the Morgans and they had slowly spread that same poison through the town, polluting it and its people.

  Daisy’s phone pinged. She stood and slipped it out of her back pocket.

  Daisy, it’s me, Callie. In trouble. Please help me.

  Daisy typed back. WRU?

  Moments passed, but no reply came. She looked at Giles handcuffed to the wall-pipe, and brought her gun up and leveled the muzzle at his head. “What have you done with Callie? Where is she?” she said coldly.

  Giles shifted himself upright, his eyes fixed on the gun. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “Honest, I don’t know.”

  Daisy stepped closer, Giles backed himself hard against the wall, turning his head away from the barrel that Daisy now pushed against his temple. “Where is she? Who has her?” she asked again, her teeth gritted.

  “I don’t know!” Giles screamed. “Please don’t kill me,” he sobbed, tears streaming down his face.

  “Not good enough,” Daisy hissed.

  “There’s a place,” Giles muttered, between sobs.

  Daisy’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

  “A place on their property, a shed.”

  “What shed? Where is this shed?” Daisy’s grip tightened on the rifle.

  “It’s a few miles inside their boundary, on the southern side, near your property,” he sniveled.

  “How do I find it?” Daisy replied.

  “There’s a gate along the boundary fence, near the road that runs on your side. The Morgans use the gate to drive onto your land.”

  “They drive onto my land? When?” Daisy was astonished.

  Giles shifted his eyes sideways and looked up at Daisy, his head flat against the wall. “Whenever they want to. They told me they use it mainly at night, sometimes during the day, when you’re not here.”

  Daisy’s finger came inside the trigger guard and rested on the trigger. “What’s in the shed? What happens there?” It took every ounce of effort for her not to pull the trigger and cover the wall with his brains.

  “Tell me!” she shouted.

  “They’ll kill me, if I do!” Giles started sobbing again.

  “I’ll kill you, if you don’t.”

  “Things. Bad things. Things they do to women. They take women there, at night.”

  “How do you know this?” Daisy asked, pressing the barrel of the Winchester harder against his head, willing herself to pull the trigger.

  “Because I’ve been there,” he cried. “It’s a reward. A reward for being loyal.”

  40

  It was a ga
me of cat and mouse.

  If the Ox came around the bonfire one way, Shaw would circle away, keeping the distance the same. Shaw needed time to devise a plan, otherwise the contest would be over in seconds and he would be pummeled to death by the cannonball fists on the Ox.

  The guests above yelled and jeered at Shaw’s evasive tactics. They wanted blood and they wanted it now, but he wasn’t going to oblige. The stifling heat radiated from the bonfire and bounced back off the walls, the air distorted by the flames.

  Rory Morgan stood on the lip of the Pit, the video camera angled downwards, recording everything, another to add to the collection. The video would be professionally edited then made available to the guests for their own private viewing on the secure website.

  Shaw moved away again, his weight on the balls of his feet. The heat shimmered and for a moment he lost sight of the Ox behind the towering flames, and mild panic set in.

  Then the unthinkable happened.

  The flames parted and a massive shape hurtled through them.

  The Ox took a running leap through the edge of the bonfire, where the timber was piled not so high. He landed in a flurry of smoke, ash and cinders right in front of Shaw and lashed out. Shaw ducked as the huge arm grazed the top of his head, the air swooshed like a tree trunk had been swung at him.

  Shaw stepped forward and drove his fist into the mass of scarred flesh and ribs in the side of the Ox. It was like hitting a massive carcass of beef; dead, hard and cold. Pain ripped up Shaw’s arm and shoulder. He grimaced and quickly retreated, clutching his hand and wrist in pain. The Ox was made of iron and stone. A punch that would have broken the ribs of any normal man had no effect.