by Karl Hill
“You’ve caused me no end of trouble. Caused us trouble. Look where it got you. We can’t have someone like you running around, like a mad berserker. You create chaos, Black. Chaos in a neat world.”
“Not so neat for the kids.”
“They’re here for our pleasure. My pleasure. I only do what was done to me. The world has to balance.”
“Your world needs to be fucking destroyed.”
Reith put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a small object, which he placed on the desktop. “Do you know what this is?”
Black gave Reith a stony stare. This had to play out. If anything, it bought him time.
“You have my attention.”
“It’s a Crusader Prince. The detail is exquisite. I can’t remember how I got it. But I do remember playing with it when I was a little boy. I call it the Grey Prince. We played together, Boyd and I. We go way back. We met in a children’s home, over fifty-five years ago. We left, and Boyd went to America with his aunt. She married an American. I stayed in Scotland. But we stayed close. Ever so close. Bonded by our experience. It was always me they picked on. Sometimes Boyd. But I was the smallest. I was sodomised every night, passed about, gang-banged, shared by different men. Countless men. Performed fellatio. They fucked and fucked and fucked.” He leaned in closer. “Now I do the same. I fuck and fuck and fuck. I am the Grey Prince, Mr Black. And I want my revenge. On you. On fucking everything.”
His seat had little plastic wheels. He pushed it across the tiled floor, to the other side of the room, to a small stove, and a gas hob. One of the rings was lit with a blue flame. On it rested the blade of a knife. A large hunting knife, the point sharp, one edge serrated. The blade was red hot.
Reith picked it up, held it before him. He wheeled back to Black, and leant in close. He placed the tip of the blade on the corner of Black’s eye. Black groaned. Suddenly the pain he felt in his head was overwhelmed by the searing pain on his skin. Slowly, Reith drew the knife down, across his cheek, to the side of his mouth.
Reith pushed the chair back, considering his work. He nodded, pleased with himself.
“That’s an appetiser. Talking of which, I have to go upstairs and join Boyd for his dinner party. Some big client he’s trying to impress. But I won’t forget you. You’ll be on my mind. I’ll be down in a couple of hours. To keep you interested, I’ve got plans for you. Big plans.” He wheeled the chair close again, brought his lips up close to Black’s ear. “You know how much I like face masks,” he whispered. “I’m going to use that knife to peel the skin off your face. I want my very own Adam Black mask. Then I’ll let you look in the mirror, before I pop your eyeballs. Then after that… well, that’s when the real pain begins.”
He left, placing the knife back on the naked flame.
Black watched him go. He strained against the handcuffs. No good. He was trapped.
He was a dead man. Unless there was a miracle. And Black didn’t believe in miracles.
68
Lampton had things to check up on. Or so he’d said. The fact was, he was angry. Without a please or a thank you, his room was being used for purposes he didn’t understand, nor want to. A man was hauled in and chained to a chair. The other man he did not know, but it was clear his intention was torture. Lampton had nothing against torture. He’d applied torture often, if he felt it was required. But to take possession of his room, like he was a piece of scrap, and use it for whatever they wanted. He felt taken for granted. Diminished. Humiliated. He concentrated on other things.
The Japanese had arrived. Lampton had two children to get ready. In fact, there was little to do. He’d given them both a mild soporific a short while ago. Nothing much. Just enough to keep them tranquil. The clients hated tears, or temper tantrums. Fear was acceptable, but in small doses. Respectful fear was tolerated. Lampton had the whole thing down to an art. He’d checked in on them briefly. Both sat in front of their television screens, both wearing pink pyjamas, both listless, unresponsive. Which was for the best. The whole thing required finesse and expertise. Plus, he had a very special incentive.
He was gazing at his “incentive” now. The room was half lit, the globe slowly spinning its characters across the ceiling. He sat on a chair by the bed, and watched her. She was breathing softly, steadily. The covers almost covered her head. Her blonde hair spilled out, onto the pillow. Such a delicate creature. Such pleasure they would both experience. And pain. Soon. He resisted the urge to stroke her hair, the side of her face. He sat, entranced.
A bleep made him jump. His mobile. It was Falconer, upstairs.
“He wants to see them. Both of them. Get them ready and get them up now. We’re in the dining room. No fuck-ups, Lampton.”
Lampton cursed under his breath. She hadn’t woken. He hurried out of the room. He hadn’t fucked up yet.
And he wouldn’t tonight.
She sat up. She waited for the lock on the door to click. She didn’t hear it. Hardly daring to breathe, she got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, crept to the door, as silent as a shadow. She turned the handle. The door opened, just a fraction. She saw him, his back to her, unlocking a door opposite. She shut the door, softly, softly. She pressed her ear up against the hard wood. She heard him talk, doors opening, shutting, his voice fading away, leaving a deep silence. Without knowing why, or without any idea of where she was going, or what she was doing, she slipped out.
But she did know something – she was terrified, and had to get away.
69
Sands listened to Falconer drone on about all sorts of crap, wondering if Mr Kaito was really as impressed as he appeared to be. He’d arrived with two men. Picked up at the airport, same routine as the man they’d picked up masquerading as Lincoln. The man called Adam Black. Sands was still shocked. A man – highly capable – had sat next to him at the dinner table. With the sole purpose of murder. Sands shuddered. So close to death. Now Black was languishing in the dungeon. At the disposal of the man called the Grey Prince. Sands couldn’t give a shit what happened to Black. As long as it ended with him being dead. And then business as normal.
He tuned back into the Falconer monologue. This was the first time he’d met an actual client face to face. The man was reputed to be a billionaire. He looked nothing exceptional. Small, a trifle portly, balding. His two bodyguards stood quietly in the shadows. Falconer had stationed one of his own men in the next room. The rest – another four – were on a roster. Two patrolling the grounds, one at the main entrance, one at the back entrance.
But despite the bullshit which spouted forth from Falconer’s mouth, Sands grudgingly conceded he had it right. The samurai warrior did the trick. Especially the sword. Kaito had desired to see it. It was placed on the table, still in its metal sheath. Kaito looked at the thing like a kid with a wondrous new toy. When he’d discovered its origin, that it had been fashioned by Masamune, the guy had an orgasm right there. And offered to buy it for one million dollars. Money would be transferred that evening. Falconer had the touch. He was a monster, but he knew how to make money. And that was one major turn-on for Sands.
The man called the Grey Prince, whose real name he’d discovered was George Reith, sat quietly, smiling, offering little in conversation. He seemed distracted. Sands found him boring. Over brandy, flushed with drink and the purchase of a fabulous Japanese sword, Kaito asked to see the merchandise. Falconer immediately obliged, calling Lampton. They were to be brought up. Sands took another swig of his drink. He was light-headed. It wasn’t like him. But he didn’t care. They’d made a ton of money, and life was good.
The man called Reith stood, excused himself. “I have important business,” he explained quietly.
“Of course you have.” Falconer laughed. “Make the bastard pay. I want to hear him scream his fucking lungs out.” Of course, that would never happen, thought Sands. The dungeon was well sound-proofed.
Reith nodded, and left the room. Presumably downstairs. To do what he had to do, to inflict
dreadful deeds on Adam Black.
Sands sat back, swirling the brandy in his glass, thinking, While I sip my fine $500 brandy, a man will be downstairs being mutilated, pleading for his life. While I sip my drink.
Sands smiled to himself.
Adam Black had messed with the wrong people. Now he paid the price. May the fucker rot in hell.
70
Black surveyed the room. It was split into two parts, as far as he could make out. He was positioned in the office section. A work desk, office chair, twelve monitors on the wall, files stacked neatly, a computer and keyboard. A small kitchen unit, comprising stove, gas hob, microwave, kettle. One of the gas rings burned bright, the blade of the knife red hot, the implement of his torture and death. Black tried not to dwell on it. If he turned his neck, he saw details behind him… a bed, cupboards, wardrobes, a far door, presumably shower and toilet. All very neat. Black imagined the person who dwelt here was precise, fastidious, obsessively so.
He couldn’t see a way out. His wrists were handcuffed to the arms of the chair. His ankles taped to the legs. He was going nowhere. Soon he would taste the blade. He would endure torture, then die. Black was not scared. He was resigned. He might see his wife and daughter again, in another place. And if he didn’t, then at least his guilt would end. He would meet oblivion with a smile.
Black looked up. To his astonishment, a girl stood in the doorway. Maybe seven years old. She stared at Black, wide-eyed.
Scared.
Black saw a glimmer of a chance.
“What’s your name?”
She didn’t respond. She stared, her face blank.
“My name is Adam. Can you help me?”
She took one tentative step forward.
“Please,” he said. “These men have trapped me. Like you. Help me. I can get us away from this place.”
Another step forward. Black wondered how he must look; cuffed to a chair, a raw burn mark running down the length of his face. A ghoulish figure.
She didn’t respond.
“There are keys hanging on the wall.” He gesticulated by nodding over to where the other man had left a set of keys on a hook. Probably another vain hope. He had no idea the right key was there. But he had to try. “If you climb up onto the desk, you could get them, and see if you can unlock these handcuffs.”
Another step forward.
“Please,” he urged.
A response. An almost imperceptible nod. But Black saw it. He dared to hope.
She scrambled up onto the desktop, knocking over a plastic tray containing pens, paper-clips, other stuff. It fell with a clatter. Black held his breath. She reached up, retrieved the keys, lowered herself, approached Black.
“Let me see.”
She spread them out between her hands. There!
“Try the little key,” he said.
Suddenly a noise, from outside. The sound of a lock. A door opening, closing. A man’s voice. Reith.
“Hurry,” breathed Black.
She placed the key in the chamber of one handcuff, turned. The two metal arms clicked and pulled open. She concentrated on the other one. Seconds ticked by. His voice was near. The second sprung open.
The voice only seconds away.
“Hide!” he whispered. “The back room. Go!”
She understood. She scampered away, behind him. He heard her close the door, just as two men appeared. One was Reith. He was carrying a brown paper bag. The other, a guard – a holster strapped under his arm, and in the holster, a pistol. Looked like a Beretta.
“You can go, thank you,” said Reith. The man nodded, giving Black a darting look, and left. Black had positioned his wrists back on the arms of the chair. At first glance, it appeared he was still cuffed. His ankles were still taped.
“Is that a present for me?” asked Black.
Reith sat on the desk chair, the brown bag on his lap, and wheeled the chair closer. Not close enough.
“More a statement,” replied Reith.
“Sounds intriguing.”
“Glorious, actually.”
He opened the bag, and pulled out a full face mask, made of delicate white porcelain.
“When circumstances dictate, I wear this. This is my Death Doll mask.”
He put it on. The image confronting Black was something from a nightmare. Reith continued, speaking through a space for his mouth, just large enough for Black to see his lips move as he spoke, the pink movement of his tongue.
“I only wear this when the pleasure evolves into pain. When the killing urge comes on. My subject sees this and knows there’s no turning back. I become death, Mr Black.”
He pushed away, to the knife, glowing on the gas flame. He was wearing gloves. He picked up the knife, and returned to Black.
“If you recall, I’m going to start by peeling your skin.”
He thrust his arm forward, grabbing Black by the hair.
A little closer.
Reith leaned in. “Don’t struggle, or the pain just gets worse.” He raised the knife, angling Black’s face one way, drew the blade close to his cheek. Even through the mask, Black could smell Reith’s breath. It was all he needed.
Black suddenly lifted his hand, caught Reith’s wrist. The white mask remained impassive. Underneath, Reith’s face was doubtless a picture of profound astonishment. Reith gave a small startled scream. Black brought his other arm up and round Reith’s neck, bringing him into his chest, catching him in a headlock.
Reith collapsed forward, onto his knees, the chair skittering backwards.
“You got it all wrong,” hissed Black. “It’s me who is death. But I don’t become it. I am it.”
He forced Reith’s hand downwards, the blade edging closer to Reith’s neck, below his ear. Reith tried to resist, push back, but his angle was all wrong, and Black was stronger. The tip scraped his neck.
Reith’s voice was a husky rasp. “Please…”
“For the children, you fucking mad bastard.”
Black pushed. The blade entered, red hot, a fraction behind the jawline, sliding in, through flesh, blood, through his neck. Skin sizzled. He pushed, until the blade was in, hilt deep. Reith spluttered, emitted a gargled croak, all the while the Death Doll mask stared, reflecting neither pain nor fear. Black felt Reith shudder, his body sagged. He flopped onto the tiles.
Black stretched down, pulled out the knife, used it to cut the tape round his ankles.
He went to the back of the room, opened the door. It was a bathroom. The girl was cowering in a corner. He held out his hand.
“Come with me.”
They left, passing Reith’s body, huddled on the floor, shirt soaked, blood lying in a little pool on the tiles. The girl stared at it, transfixed. Black had no words. She was in a living nightmare. Nothing he could do about it, except try to get her the hell out. And on the way, inevitable images of horror. The price of freedom.
They entered into a broad, long hall. Almost like a kids’ playground. Sparkling globe lights on the ceiling, reflecting silver stars. Soft toys scattered. Brightly coloured wallpaper. Doors on either side. At the end of the corridor, a single door, with a numbered keypad. The exit, assumed Black.
He knelt down to the girl.
“Did you come from one of those rooms?”
She nodded, and pointed.
“I need you to go back. Stay inside. Don’t leave, until I return.” He held her gaze, looking into her eyes. “And I promise I will.”
She nodded again, eyes filling suddenly with tears. She turned, went to her room, looked back quickly, disappeared inside.
Black straightened. How the hell was he going to get out? He paused. An idea struck him. It was a long shot, but it might just work. He returned to the room, to Lord Reith. Even in death, he might prove useful.
71
The guard sitting at his post sipped from a can of lemonade. He was bored. Nothing happened on this particular watch. He preferred doing the patrol route round the periphery of the ranch. At lea
st when he did that, he got to stretch his legs. And chat. Maybe even a smoke. But here, cooped up in this tiny box of a room, nothing ever happened. He’d been working for Falconer for two years. And during this time, he hadn’t seen even a hint of excitement. But he got well paid for it, so he didn’t make it his business to grumble. And what went on in the basement wasn’t his problem. He did a job, he got paid. End of.
This evening had been a little different. Guests from Japan. A big guy in a dinner suit kept prisoner in Lampton’s room. And now he’d just taken another guy in. Blood would spill, he thought. But it wasn’t his problem. His job was to watch one single monitor on the desk in front of him. The view was the entrance in and out of the big hallway, where the kids sometimes played.
He took another sip. An image appeared. It startled him. A man was there. The guy in the dinner suit. Wearing a crazy mask. He was pointing to the door. Probably forgotten the key code. Stupid fucker, he thought, as he pressed a button, releasing the electric locking mechanism, opening the door.
Black was in. He stepped through, into a room with one man sitting at a desk in front of a monitor screen. The same man who had escorted Reith.
“You forget the code?” asked the man.
Black nodded.
“Three, three, four, three. I like the mask. A bit creepy. You finished now?”
“I’m not, but you are,” replied Black. The man was sitting, looking up. Black revealed the knife. It flashed in his hand. He clamped one arm round the man’s face, used his other hand to stab him in the heart. The man uttered a choking gasp, slumped forward. Black rested the man’s head on the desktop. If it weren’t for the blood, he might have been mistaken for sleeping on the job. Black pulled the Beretta from his side holster. Checked the magazine clip. Eight cartridges. That would do just fine.