by D. B. James
“I am telling the truth!” he bellows, his voice practically vibrating off the windows.
“All it takes is one finger, Mikey. I could reach over, grab your hand, break one finger, and you’d squeal like a pig. Tell. Me. The. Truth.”
“I am! It’s the truth. We’re meeting some guy named Smith. He’s taking us from there to a place in Indy. He’s having issues collecting a debt. The boss owed him a favor from a few months back. That’s all I know, I swear.”
He pulls off to the side of the highway and barely throws open his door before he gets sick.
“Shit, I’m sorry, man. I’m paranoid. It was all the questions. I’m not used to you asking questions. Add in you crossing the state line and heading the opposite way of Chicago—which in itself would be weird for you to pick me up for—and I panicked. I’m sorry.”
Mostly, I am. He doesn’t know about my wanting out, at least not to my knowledge. My paranoia stems from my working behind their backs from the beginning. He had to go and mention Vinny. If he hadn’t, we’d probably be meeting this Smith character by now and Mikey wouldn’t be emptying the contents of his stomach on the side of the highway.
“I’m nervous because of the guy we’re meeting. Not because I was lying, asshole!” he yells as he’s wiping his mouth and climbing back behind the wheel.
Life man, it sure does keep you on your toes.
This guy, Smith—he’s slimy, creepy in the worst possible way. If I thought Saul gave me nightmares, I was mistaken. Nefarious vibes roll off of him, like he eats children for breakfast. His gravelly voice causes the hair on my arms to rise and sends chills running down my spine. It’s dead, as are his eyes. Behind his dark blue irises is the look of death, nothingness. He’s completely hollow, void of any feelings.
And he’s armed to a T.
Why the hell does he need our help?
He’s spoken maybe ten words total and I’m not about to ask him to give us any more information. The less he speaks, the better. Not twenty minutes ago, I was ready to break Mikey’s fingers, bash his head in, and bring us crashing to our deaths because he wouldn’t give me answers. I know better than to ask for them from Smith.
I haven’t spoken one word to him in return. When Mikey made the introductions, I grunted in reply. My instincts are not off about this guy. The smart thing to do here would be to run—if only it were that simple.
“If you’re as good as Martinelli says, I may have more business for you, Rhys,” Smith says with a sneer from the driver’s seat of his van.
“Actually, I may be moving.”
Mikey swings his head around from the passenger seat and shouts, “What?”
“Yep. It’s what I’m flying out to meet with Martinelli about. I’m moving.” It’s a lie, but there’s no way I’d work with Smith again. He’d have to be holding a gun to my head to get me to agree to it, and since that’s not going to happen, I won’t be working with him again.
“Pity,” Smith mocks back.
“Huh, well I think it sucks.” Mikey sounds pissed, and I guess I can see his point. Maybe I’ll fill him in on the lie after this job is done. Maybe not. Depends on how I’m feeling afterward. It’s probably better if he thinks I’m moving anyway.
It’d be safer for Averill in the long run.
Safer for me.
If I weren’t already working on getting myself out of this mess I’ve gotten into, meeting Smith would’ve been the kick in the ass I needed.
It’s despicable people like him I’m thankful to have never encountered. He’s one hundred percent, without a doubt, a murderer. There’s not a single question in my mind about it. Smith is a killer.
Maybe more. He’s the kind of person I want to defend my potential clients against. The kind I want to put in prison. The kind I thought Martinelli was. Don’t get me wrong, Martinelli is a bastard and deserves to be in prison, but he’s not as cold-blooded as Smith appears to be, nowhere near as villainous.
“Sorry, Mikey, but yeah, I’m moving soon. My father had a heart attack and I’m needed back west.” Another truth buried in a lie—my specialty.
“Lucky for you, I happen to live out west. Where out west?” This comes from Smith.
Shit. Lie some more, Rhys. Do not say California.
“Washington.”
If anyone asks where in Washington, I’m screwed. The only place I actually know of in the whole state is Seattle. Everyone knows Seattle. With my luck, he probably lives in fucking Seattle.
“I’m in northern California. Again, a pity.” It’s like his voice is laced with sarcasm, and not the good kind either—the deadly kind.
Dawn is breaking as we reach the outskirts of Indianapolis city limits, the sunshine blaring through the windows. I could use some coffee, but it’s the last thing I’m going to ask of Smith. He’d probably gut me if I asked to stop.
Never before have I been this scared for my life.
Thinking about Averill, I decide to quickly text her. I know she’s sleeping, but I at least want her to know I was thinking of her if anything happens to me. Neither of the guys better fucking see me texting her, but she’s worth this risk.
Me: Morning, beautiful. I know you’re still sleeping, but I wanted to be the first to greet you. I’m watching the sunrise and thinking about you. I’m sorry about last night. Please allow me to make it up to you. Dinner (only dinner) next week?
It’s technically not a goodbye message, but I don’t want to alarm her. I’m not expecting her to reply, and I power down my personal phone and slip it back into my pocket. She’ll at least wake up to my message, and that knowledge makes me smile.
“I hope you’re smiling thinking about all the pain you’re going to be bringing to this sorry sap, because it’s the only acceptable reason for such a smile,” Smith bites out as he lights up a cigarette. That explains the gravelly sound of his voice.
“If you say so.”
What does he think I’ll say? Yes? Like I’d be sadistic enough to actually smile about harming someone—although I guess he obviously is—when all I ever wanted to do was help people. My warped sense of justice is why I’m in this mess. I wanted to know the why, not the how. I knew the how.
“Ahh, and here I thought I was reading you right. Turns out you’re a softie. I thought maybe I’d found a sinister partner in crime. Another pity all around.”
Again, if he says so.
“Not in my book. If you’d bothered to ask before employing us, you’d know I’m a lawyer, not a hired thug. It happens I help Martinelli out from time to time when he needs me to. Otherwise, I’m his lawyer. Nothing more, nothing less.”
He’s constantly shaking his head up and down, like a broken bobble head doll. Up and down. Up and down.
“Pity.” He sneers once more.
It’s the last word I hear for an hour, and the sound of silence is deafening, but welcome.
When we arrive at the hellhole Smith has taken us to, I’m hit with the odor of raw sewage before I get out of the van. From the appearance of the abandoned houses, warehouses, and an old factory, it’s not hard to see where the smell is coming from.
Grabbing the bandana I keep in my back pocket for such occasions, I make quick work of adjusting it over my face, covering my nose. The foul aroma reaches into my lungs deeply, nearly choking me, the bandana doing nothing to mask the stench.
“I don’t particularly care where we are but, where are we?” Mikey questions as we’re getting out of the van. My thoughts exactly, buddy.
“Where we are is of no concern to you. It’s who’s inside that matters. Your orders from me are to break his limbs until he gives me the answers I need. I’ve been trying to break him for weeks. His appearance may shock you, but I don’t give a fuck about that. Do the job I’ve brought you here to do and I’ll take you back.”
Somehow, I doubt what he’s saying.
We’re not going to get out of this easily. He’ll want more from me. As soon as he sees how I break people,
he’ll want more from me. Martinelli has dug me in deeper without knowing I wanted out. Smith is never going to let me go, not after this morning.
“Can we talk about this inside? Where maybe it smells a bit nicer?” If I had anything in my stomach, I’d be retching up the contents. It smells worse than your basic raw sewage; it reeks of death. My guess would be there’s a mass grave nearby and its stench is permeating the surrounding area.
This is Smith’s playground.
The thoughts running through my head are dark, I know, but one look at Smith and you’d be thinking the same thing. Mikey is thinking it too; from the way he hurries along after him into the dilapidated building, he’s as scared as I am but wants out of the stench more. He knows Smith could kill him without batting an eye, but he’s trusting him enough to follow along willingly. I, however, hang behind a few steps. I’m checking out my surroundings inside and out, planning an escape route in case one is needed.
Once we’re all inside, the smell lifts slightly, but not enough to warrant removing my bandana. We’re in what appears from the outside to be an abandoned warehouse, though from the inside it’s anything but. We’re standing in a long hallway lined with doors on each side. I count six on the right and five on the left, all closed except for one near the middle on the right. It’s hanging open but no light is coming through.
The door behind me seems to be the only exit. Shit. This isn’t good.
Smith could trap me here and I’d never be found. Who would think to look for me here? No one knows where I am besides Mikey, and maybe Martinelli. He knows I’m with Smith, but I doubt he knows of this place. If he set me up, I pray my death comes swiftly.
“Don’t look scared, Rhys. I’m not going to kill you. Yeah, I can tell you’ve guessed what this place is. It’s my torture house, where I bring my so-called victims. The only one you have any concern with is through the open door. Break him down. I’ll ask the questions while you do the work.” He motions for me to walk ahead. I take one tentative step after another toward the open door. “I’ve pulled a few teeth—nothing. Cut off a finger—nothing. Threatened to kill his wife—nothing. Raped his wife and recorded it, still nothing. Short of killing him, you’re my only option, and I need the answers only he has; get them for me and you’re done.”
What I wouldn’t give to take this bastard down. He just admitted to torturing someone, to rape. If only I had been recording this conversation to use against him later. It’d probably never actually work, but at least I’d have some evidence to put a piece of shit like him in prison where he belongs. If I were a killer, I’d kill him right now, with my bare hands. Smith is a true monster. I want him to pay.
Somehow, he will pay. I’ll see to it.
The man lying on the ground has shackles around his hands and ankles, and they’re attached to the wall. He barely registers our entrance. He’s hardly alive; from the looks of it, he’s hanging on by a thread, and Smith wants me to break him more. He’s been tortured within an inch of his life; no way am I going to lay a finger on him. No way in hell.
“Take me back to Mikey’s truck. Now.”
It’s not a request, but a demand. If he’s smart, he’ll listen. If he’s dumb, he’ll do what I want him to do. He’ll pretend he didn’t hear me and draw this out, and then I’ll break him. I’ll break his limbs, beat his face in, and I’ll set this broken man free. I’ll check the other rooms for more helpless victims and set them free as well.
But Smith? Smith I’ll leave shackled in one of his own torture rooms. I’ll leave him broken, wishing for death to come reap him. He’ll pray to whatever god he believes in to grant him a quick death, but there will be no mercy for him. Mikey sees the look on my face and wisely takes a step back, a step toward the exit door.
“No, I will not be taking you back to Mikey’s truck, not until you do what I’ve asked of you. Get me the answers I require and you’re welcome to leave. If not, I have a room free.”
Oh, you do, do you? Good to know, since I’ll be using it for you.
“Mikey, I could use some help here.” I’m confident he understands what kind of help I’m referring to. He needs to incapacitate Smith for me, hold his arms back and clear him of any weapons while I pound his face in. Unfair? Yeah, maybe it is, but he doesn’t deserve a one-on-one battle. Dirty is what he deserves. For raping a woman. For torturing this man lying on the floor. For breathing the same air as me.
In the blink of an eye, Mikey has Smith pinned to the floor, his arms behind his back.
He’s furiously irate, his words dripping with venom, actual spit dribbling down his chin when he sputters his threat: “I’ll. Kill. You. Both.”
“Funny, but I don’t think you’re in a position to kill either of us, and you certainly won’t be when we leave you. Martinelli told you what I do, right? Well, he forgot to mention one thing: I won’t hurt someone who’s basically already dead, and I don’t hurt women—ever.” Getting down on my knees and putting myself eye level with him, I spit out the next words so he knows what sealed it for me, what he did to cause me to turn on him. “You admitted to rape. You’re lucky I’m choosing to leave you alive. You’ll be begging me to kill you once I’m done. In fact, I may cut off your dick and send it home with the man whose wife you raped as a gift to her so she’ll know you’ll never rape another woman ever again.”
Mikey winces as I say the words. Trust me, I winced too.
Clenching my fist, I deliver the first punch, aiming right for his nose. The sound of flesh breaking cartilage hits my ears—bull’s-eye. I have to give him credit for not making any sounds of distress yet, further proving to me how psycho he is.
The next punch I aim for his right eye, then the left. For the last blow to his face, I place an uppercut to his chin, swiftly knocking him out. He goes lax in Mikey’s grip. Searching his pockets, I find keys and make quick work of finding the one for the shackles holding the man in place. Unlocking him, we place the now vacant shackles around Smith’s hands and ankles.
Leaving him there, I concentrate on the man we’ve freed. He’s still unconscious.
“Mikey, go search the other rooms and see if you can find some water.”
I’m not sure what Mikey thinks about all of this, what he’ll say to the boss, but frankly I don’t care. I’m hoping to leave soon anyway. I can’t believe Martinelli thought I’d help someone as vile as Smith. He had to have known he’s a murderer.
A few minutes later, Mikey comes back into the room carrying a couple bottles of water and a blanket.
“I found the water in the first room, but I ran and checked all the rooms. There’s no one else here, at least not on this floor. One of the doors leads to a second level. I can go look around if you like, or help you down here. I assume you’re not done with Smith?”
“Far from it. After I bring this guy around, I’ll take care of Smith. He won’t be leaving his own version of hell for a long time to come.”
He nods in reply; he gets me. Mikey knows I’m normally a man of few words. Only recently have I taken to using them more and more.
“He’s locked up, so I can handle him from here. You can take a look upstairs if you like. I’m fine. When I’m done, we can drive this one”—I point to the unconscious man beside me—“to the nearest hospital using Smith’s van before we drive back to your truck—and no, I’m not actually going to cut off his dick like I said. It makes me shudder thinking about it. The threat was enough.”
“’Kay. It’s not like I’d be against it since he admitted to raping a chick, but still. It’s the thought of it happening to another dude.” Again, he visibly winces. “Yep, it makes me shudder.”
He leaves the room and I go about waking the man before me. Taking one bottle of the water, I dump the contents over his head, hoping it’s enough to jolt him awake. If not, I’ll use the second one, but I’d rather he have something to drink when he awakes. Turns out luck is on my side, and he slowly comes to from the shock of the water hitting him.
“Wh-Wh-Who are you?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. All you need to know is, you’re safe now, or will be. Drink this.” I shove the water into his newly freed hands. “Slowly, or you’ll vomit it all back up.”
He proceeds to take small sips of the water while I walk over to an indisposed Smith. Since he’s a right-handed individual, I decide to break his right fingers, hand, and arm first. I’ll do the same to his left, but not each finger. I want him to take a long time to heal and his right side to be the worst.
Taking his right hand, I lay it out flat on the floor then, starting with his pointer finger, pull each one back as far as I can, until I hear it pop. After I’m sure they’re all broken, I lay them back out and step on each one, hearing the bones crack under his skin like ice crackling. Now his fingers are well and truly broken.
The man whose life I’ve saved is laughing from where he is half sitting, half lying on the ground, watching.
“If I were in your position, I’d probably laugh too, but the sad thing is, I’m only getting started with Smithy-boy here. I’d feel sorry for him if he wasn’t such a monster.”
The man stops laughing once I grab Smith’s arm and proceed to break the individual bones. By the time I’m starting on his left side, Mikey has joined us in the room. He simply nods at me and asks the man if he can walk on his own when we’re ready to leave. He says he believes he can, but I doubt it. Mikey starts asking him all kinds of questions. How long has he been here? What kind of information did Smith want from him? Where is the nearest ER we can take him too?
When I’m done with Smith, I re-shackle his left arm but leave his right one free. I’m nice enough to leave the keys in the room—on the other side. He’ll never reach them, but I’ve left them where he can see them so he can torture himself with thoughts of his own freedom being almost within his reach.