by Matt Hilton
‘Man,’ Po laughed after Dom’s latest assault, a punch to the back of his head that admittedly left his skull tolling like a bell, ‘is that all you’ve got? My grandma used to whup me worse when I was a boy.’
Dom laughed in response, evidently enjoying his victim’s macho bullshit. ‘Buddy, I haven’t even broken a sweat yet. You wait, you’ll see. Tempe, gimme that from over there.’
‘Get it yourself, asshole.’
‘Watch him then.’
‘Why? He isn’t going anywhere.’
‘Fuckin’ watch him, bitch. Don’t want him wrigglin’ outta those bonds and spoilin’ our fun.’
‘Our fun?’ Temperance’s voice was brimful of disbelief. ‘You gonna kill him, Dom, just kill him and have done. Where’s the fun in any of this?’
‘You need to ask?’ Dom laughed again. Po heard a swishing noise and wondered what fresh torture he must endure.
Dom exploded a hand grenade alongside Po’s left knee. Despite himself Po croaked in agony and tried to draw his legs up defensively. The pain in his knee was white hot. Po could visualize the raw agony washing through his brain. He could taste it. No, it was the shock playing havoc with his senses. The sharpest, most intense hot pain subsided quickly, replaced by a different kind: this a cold burning sensation that shot down his shin bone, and almost all the way up his thigh to his groin. It was a second or more later before Po understood what had happened. No grenade had been detonated; Dom had rapped Po on the outside of his knee with a sap. He could bear the punches to his head and torso, but this had come out of left field, unexpected and direct to a cluster of exposed nerves, bone and cartilage. ‘You yellow son of a bitch,’ Po growled at his tormentor, ‘for that, when I get loose, I’m gonna bring you a world of hurt.’
‘Is that right? You hear him, Tempe?’ Dom chuckled. ‘We’d best make sure he doesn’t get loose, eh?’
‘I didn’t hear him cursing me, Dom,’ said Temperance, ‘it’s you he’s carrying a boner for.’
‘You positive about that, girl? I’m sure I heard him say somethin’ about a yeller bitch?’ Dom moved fast. The sap landed on Po’s right elbow, eliciting another shout of agony. ‘Hey you,’ Dom chided, ‘let’s have less of the racist and sexist bullshit from now on.’
Po had no idea what went on between the two next, except he heard Temperance snort and exclaim, ‘My fucking hero.’ Dom laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
‘Get that bucket, will ya?’ Dom said, once his laughter was under control.
This time Temperance didn’t rebel against his command. Po heard her lift the bucket, a metallic squeaking and slopping of water accompanying the action as she lugged it closer. It clunked down heavily alongside the chair. Before he could consider it any longer, Dom had moved in behind him. Fistfuls of the hood were dragged tightly backwards, and the rough cloth scraped his facial wounds raw again. Po fought the hood for a moment, but his neck muscles were no match for Dom’s arms and shoulders. His head was craned backwards over the headrest.
‘Come around here,’ Dom told Temperance, ‘and take over for me. C’mon, Tempe. You’ve seen me do this plenty times.’
The material of the hood cut into Po’s throat. He could still breathe, and he suspected there was reason, rather than mercy, behind the way Dom had pulled it. There was some fumbling, and a momentary lessening in the pressure as Temperance took charge of it. After tugging it tight, she pushed her weight against the back of the chair in order to control him. Dom bent and grasped the bucket, and Po knew what was coming. He held his breath. Prepared to tolerate hell. Prayed, Tess, I hope you’re not far away.
Dom sloshed water over the hood.
The cloth was sodden, and icy water poured over Po’s features. He had his lips tight, but water invaded his nostrils and earholes. That was tolerable, but not for long. Po couldn’t hold his breath forever.
Dom upended the bucket further.
More water flooded between the cloth and Po’s skin. He exhaled sharply to clear his nostrils, but that compounded his fight to hold his breath. As the icy tide ran down over his chin, he chanced taking a quick gulp of air, but Dom must’ve been watching closely for such a response. He dashed more water directly over Po’s mouth. Po inhaled water. He gasped, spluttered, and a rarely experienced panic engulfed him. He squirmed against his bindings, and when he found no space for movement, his body wrenched forcefully.
‘Now that’s what I’m talking about!’ Dom crowed. ‘Hold him, Tempe. Here I come again.’
More water flooded inside the hood. A ragged moan escaped Po as he fought to expel water from his throat. Pressure built behind his swollen eyelids, as if his head would explode. His feet drummed on the floor.
For a reason unknown to Po, Dom dropped the bucket and it clattered about his feet. Water sloshed over the floorboards. Po’s drumming soles now splashed droplets everywhere.
‘What?’ Temperance wondered.
Dom had moved aside.
‘Where’s the fucking fun in watching him drown in a sack?’ Dom responded. ‘I want to see the fear in his eyes, I want him to beg for mercy, I want him to watch as I take every last one of his fingers and toes. You hear me, Villere? I’m gonna fucking leave you with nothing but bleeding stumps.’
Temperance took Dom’s words as a fresh instruction. She pulled the hood off him. Po ignored her, craning his neck so he could glare directly at Dom. He could feel the heat of hatred emanating from his eyes. Dom grinned back at him. He held aloft a pair of gardener’s shears. He snipped the air a couple of times in malevolent promise.
‘Come near me with those, and I swear to God …’ Po grated out. Blood-flecked frothy water spilled from between his lips and he hacked out a cough.
‘Take off his boots,’ Dom said.
‘You take them off.’ Temperance moved aside. Po knew by now that the woman had a vicious streak, but what Dom planned for him repulsed her. He wondered what she’d witnessed in the past – perhaps an act by her own hand – that made the blood rush from her features and leave her dusky features a few shades lighter.
Taking off Po’s high-top boots wasn’t the simplest of tasks for Dom. When Temperance secured his legs she’d wound the duct tape around his ankles and the chair legs; to get at the laces, Dom had to first negotiate the tape. He took the easiest path. Kneeling, he jammed the blades of the shears under the laces and began cutting, and when he reached the tape, he sheared through it as well, then the last few remaining loops of lace. He wrenched the boot sideways, loosening it and then yanked it free. He tore off Po’s sock. He spied up at Po, ‘Ready for your pedicure, Villere?’
Po curled back his toes, squirmed his ankle to free it from Dom’s grasp.
‘Quit moving,’ Dom warned, ‘or I might accidentally nick you.’
Temperance looked as if she was ready to run. Her head snapped around like a startled bird. She said, ‘Where did Arlen get to?’
She elicited a grunt of scorn from Dom. ‘Told you, he hasn’t the stomach for this stuff. By the looks of things you haven’t either. Get over here, girl, toughen yourself up, why don’tcha?’
Ignoring him, Temperance paced towards the hall. She gave it a cursory check, and her gaze alighted on the bathroom door.
‘Probably chucking up again,’ Dom said. ‘Forget him, after today I doubt he’ll be one of the gang. Tempe, get the fuck over here and hold this asshole’s leg, will ya!’
Out of Po’s sight the woman must have shaken her head.
‘Fuck you then,’ Dom snarled at her, ‘I’ll do it myself.’
He snatched Po’s foot into the crook of his bent thigh, grabbing and twisting his toes apart, choosing the smallest. He grinned maliciously at his victim as he forced the steel blades either side of the digit. ‘You stole my wallet, from me, now I’m gonna take somethin’ of yours, Villere.’
He began to close the shears, taking his time, relishing the tremor of anticipation that flooded through him.
&nb
sp; From below the explosion was terrific. A shudder went through the entire building, the corrugated tin roof warping and flexing. The room rocked and the floor shifted, and Dom toppled backwards onto his butt. The floor slanted away from him, he tumbled, and Po slid after him, until his chair twisted around, toppled and he crumpled backwards.
You couldn’t have timed things better, Tess, he thought.
THIRTY-FIVE
It wasn’t solely Tess that Po had to thank for saving him from amputation, Pinky had also played his part. And in his fashion, Mike Toner had too. He’d supplied the means for the distraction when handing over the keys of his pickup truck to Pinky.
‘You do have insurance on your truck, right?’ said Pinky.
‘Yeah, it’s covered.’
‘Legitimately?’
‘Use your freakin’ Volvo if you prefer.’
‘Nah, this’ll do nicely,’ said Pinky as he’d settled his weight in the truck’s driving seat. He adjusted the seat’s position, clearing more legroom. He started the engine, gunning it a few times and feeling the surges of power. ‘You’d best get going, Tess, I shouldn’t waste any more time, me.’
Jittery with anxiety, Tess nodded at him and set off at a jog, his CZ-75 held down by her right thigh. Pinky waited until she’d made it past the front of the building and had disappeared into the service yard. He hit the gas a third time and the exhaust belched smoke. There was no hint that those inside were aware of him revving the truck.
Mike Toner waited alongside him, one hand grasping the window ledge. Pinky looked at him, this time with mutual respect. ‘Follow me inside,’ Pinky said, ‘but not before you pick up a weapon, you.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Toner. He dipped his arms over the raised sides of the flatbed and came up clutching a steel wrench as long as his forearm. ‘This should do, huh?’ He took a few test swings.
‘OK, Tess has had enough time to get inside,’ Pinky announced with a wink. Toner stepped aside, hefting his makeshift weapon.
‘You’re positive you were held upstairs?’ Pinky asked.
Toner only shook his head. He’d already told Pinky how he’d been manhandled up and down the stairs inside; it hadn’t been a figment of his imagination.
‘It’s just I’d hate to make a foolish mistake, me,’ said Pinky as he gunned the engine again. The truck came with a stick shift and clutch. Pinky rammed the first into gear, and lifted his foot off the other. The truck bucked as it launched forward. Pinky aimed it up the incline towards the abandoned restaurant, his mouth clenched in a grimace. ‘You’d better not be loafing around on the ground floor, Nicolas,’ he whispered behind his teeth.
Pinky avoided the near corner of the building where it would be at its most structurally sound, instead directing the hood of the pickup a few feet to its left, where part of the wall was weakened already by the inclusion of a window. The plyboard covering didn’t add much strength or integrity against a speeding truck. It smashed to shards, the wood around it to splinters, and the truck kept on going, ramming completely through the wall and inside.
Surprisingly the windshield survived the impact, although the hood and fenders buckled up, and parts of them tore away. Pinky kept his foot on the gas, slewing the steering wheel to the left. The back of the truck clipped the corner support even as the front hurtled through an upright column supporting the floor overhead. Finally the truck came to a bruising halt and Pinky shook lucidity back into his head. A quick check showed a gaping hole in the building, and an unnatural tilt to the ceiling, but it wasn’t enough for him. Pinky threw the stick into reverse, and felt the tires judder and skid as they found traction on splintered planks. Then the truck rocketed backwards and again he swung the steering, this time angling the flatbed for the back wall. The wall exploded outward, casting broken boards and glass out over the surging tide. Luckily he halted the truck before it took a similar plunge into the cove. It teetered, held in place by jagged remnants of the wall. Pinky piled out of the truck, and into the dust clouds and falling detritus he’d caused. He checked around for a weapon, but couldn’t see anything that hadn’t been shattered by the truck, and then recalled Toner had tools in the back. He rooted around, had to throw aside handfuls of splinters and chunks of wood, but came up with a prize: a weighty claw hammer. He turned with it clutched in hand, just as Toner was silhouetted in the brand-new doorway Pinky had opened for him.
‘Let’s go,’ he said and moved across the empty dining room. He had to avoid broken planks and some stacked furniture the crash had disturbed; chairs had toppled across his path. Toner came forward at an oblique angle to him, seeking an exit from the room. He used his wrench as a pointer to indicate a door, beyond which Pinky supposed they’d find the stairs.
Tess had had a feeling that when he abandoned ship, Arlen Sampson had left open the outer door, and Toner had added to the supposition saying he believed the staircase was accessible from it. By now Tess should already be upstairs and Po’s captors reeling from experiencing the building buckle under their feet. It had to be assumed that Dom and Temperance were armed, and with more potent weapons than a handyman’s tools, but at least Tess’s gun should level the field. Pinky didn’t slow as he rushed for the stairs, the hammer clutched as though he was a vengeful god of thunder.
The building creaked ominously.
Something shifted, cracked loudly and the upper floor dipped towards the demolished corner. Shouts rang out from above, male and female voices, and some that were hard to define. Already Tess had engaged the enemy. Pinky flashed his eyes at Toner, jerking his head, urging speed. He plunged into a short vestibule, found the stairs and went up, his broad frame filling the space, elbows brushing the walls. Behind him Toner followed at pace: in protection of his daughter the man showed a complete turnaround from the bullied and brutalized man who’d last spent time here.
A gun fired.
Feet drummed. A woman yelped, before gathering herself for a fight and her next vocalizations were angry shouts of challenge.
More shouts erupted, and feet scuffled. Something crashed and something heavier hit the floor. The shouts were a combination of curses and counter curses.
Pinky spilled out from the top of the stairs into a hallway. Doors to either side were resolutely shut. He ignored them, rushing forward, trying to define friend from foe as several figures jostled in the half-light. The room hadn’t survived the collapsing of the building. The floor tilted away from Pinky, one part of it having fully collapsed in the short time since he’d left the dining room. Dust swirled everywhere.
Pinky took stock in little more than an instant.
Tess was upright, in a catfight with Temperance. Both women had a fist locked in the other’s hair, while their free hands punched and ripped. Tess kneed her opponent between the legs. Temperance returned the favor, aiming for Tess’s abdomen to wind her. There was no sign of the CZ-75, but so too had Temperance’s knife been lost in the scuffle. Deeper in the room, Po grappled with Dom. Po was hindered by the remnants of a chair clinging to him on ribbons of duct tape. He was encumbered by the backrest of the chair that drooped from a loose band of tape around his chest: it got under his feet and almost tripped him. Po had to take a second to kick free, but there was a broken chair leg attached to his left ankle and it got caught. Dom capitalized on Po’s lack of motion, swinging a clubbing right hook at Po’s head. Po staggered under the blow. Even in the dusty twilight, Pinky saw the glint of metal on Dom’s knuckles and he chose his move.
Over his shoulder he hollered at Toner – ‘Get her the hell off Tess!’ – and then he charged forward swinging the hammer overhead. Dom saw him coming, and the trajectory of his next punch was disturbed as he flung out his hand to grasp at the haft of the hammer. Pinky took delight in the way the hand missed and the blunt steel head buried itself an inch in the soft flesh of Dom’s forearm. It was only a pity the hammer hadn’t landed between the son of a bitch’s eyes. As Dom backed away, cradling his injured arm, Pinky met
his friend’s eyes and was shocked at Po’s bloodshot sclera and the dazzle of shock in them. Po, he thought, was only upright and moving on instinct.
But no, that wasn’t true.
Po’s mouth curled in a lopsided smile, and he took the moment’s respite to wrench the chair leg free of his ankle, then shucked out of the tape looped around his chest. The other parts of the broken chair fell away. Po said, ‘I’ve got this from here, Pinky.’
Po carried gaping wounds on his face, his left elbow looked swollen and he favored his right leg. He was drenched and grimy. Just then, Pinky thought a strong wind would knock him over.
‘You sure you don’t want me to kick his ass, you?’
‘Thanks, but I owe the bastard big time.’
Po moved towards Dom, limping discernibly, but undeterred, and it was only then that Pinky noted Po’s other foot was bare.
He had no idea the extent of what punishment Dom had put Po through, but he sure was going to pay for it.
THIRTY-SIX
As she’d hoped, Arlen Sampson had left the service door unlocked. She only fleetingly wondered where he’d gotten to, and if this was some elaborate trap in order to catch her, and in the next space was thankful to him for giving her clear access to Po’s prison. She’d earlier warned that he’d get no grace from her, but just then she would’ve kissed him fully on the lips for the opportunity to save her loved one.
With the pistol before her, she ducked inside the building, heading quickly for the foot of a set of stairs. Toner had been adamant she’d find Po upstairs, and he was right judging by the voices that filtered down to her.
She heard Dom’s gruff request. ‘Tempe, get the fuck over here and hold this asshole’s leg, will ya!’ He quickly followed up by cussing the woman out and claiming he’d do it himself.
With no idea of Po’s predicament, other than it could be anything but good, Tess quickly stole up the stairs. She advanced down a hallway, her eyes on Po, who was bound to a chair, his back to her. Initially she couldn’t see Dom, or Temperance who must have been lurking to one side of the doorway or the other. Then she spotted movement, and understood that Dom was kneeling directly in front of Po. ‘You stole my wallet, from me,’ he crowed, ‘now I’m gonna take somethin’ of yours, Villere.’