The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  Corvair’s frozen smile made his stomach lurch. “Oh, I don’t care if you talk or not,” he said. “I just want to hurt you. A lot.”

  “Great. Guess I won’t talk, then.”

  Roman closed his eyes and waited for the pain. By the time he got the opportunity to free himself, he might not have enough strength left to take it.

  Chapter 45

  Ozzy had no idea what this thing was that the soldiers had strapped him onto, but he figured it wasn’t going to give him a nice massage.

  They’d forced him to remove his shirt, shoes and socks before they tied him down. At first the metal had been cold against his skin, but it warmed as the minutes went by with no one coming into the room. He’d tried breaking the bonds through sheer brute force, easing his way out of them, and yanking them off the frame, but they held fast.

  Beside him was a table with some kind of control box and a bunch of coiled wires. The room also contained a utility sink with a stack of buckets next to it, a first aid kit, and a slim metal cabinet. But what bothered him most was the video camera across from him.

  The sick bastard was going to record this.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in there when the door finally opened. Colonel Fischer hadn’t changed a bit in four years—and he was wearing his service uniform, complete with ribbons and medals. Ozzy had no love left for the Army, but this was disrespectful in the extreme.

  “Captain Stone.” The man approached him with a serious expression. “I’m truly sorry it had to come to this. I was willing to let you walk away.”

  “You mean after you destroyed my life?” He yanked hard against one of the wrist straps, and the colonel flinched. “I did walk away,” he said. “Right into another one of your fucked-up games.”

  “That was regrettable. But I don’t play games, Captain Stone. I deliver miracles.”

  “Miracles?” He couldn’t help staring at the man. “You prey on desperate women, and you torture them to death. Miracle is not the word I’d use.”

  Fischer circled him and stopped in front of the table. He flipped a switch, and the control box hummed to life. There was a voltage meter on it. “Do you know what this is?” he said, picking up one of the coiled wires.

  “Looks like a wire, but I could be wrong,” Ozzy said. “Can I get a multiple choice?”

  The colonel ignored his remark. “In South America, they called it the parrilla,” he said. “It’s Spanish for barbecue grill. And you are the meat.”

  Ozzy glared at him.

  “Normally, this wire is wrapped around a much more sensitive part of the male anatomy,” Fischer said, looking deliberately at his crotch. “I’ve decided to spare you that indignity for now.” With that, he leaned in far enough to thread the wire behind Ozzy’s neck and wrapped it twice around his throat.

  “This is pointless,” Ozzy said. “I know your protocols. You’re not even going to let Kat go, so why would I tell you anything?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll talk. Eventually.” The colonel lifted another wire, this one with a wooden handle and a probe at the end. He made an adjustment to the control box and hovered the probe near Ozzy’s side. “The parrilla causes intense pain at both points of contact, and violent muscle spasms between them. Sometimes the spasms are strong enough to break bones.”

  Without warning, Fischer jabbed the probe into his side.

  It hurt a hell of a lot more than the Taser.

  He might have screamed, except the muscles in his neck locked tight as electricity coursed through them. The pain lasted a few long seconds, and he gasped sharply when the probe was withdrawn. “You’re supposed to ask me a question first,” he grated.

  “I wanted you to know what you’ll experience when you refuse to answer.” Colonel Fischer raised the probe to rib level. “That was the lowest setting, Captain Stone,” he said, reaching back to the control box. “The next one will be higher. Now, did Mr. Blade make copies of our archives?”

  They’d prepared for this one. “Yes.”

  The probe touched down.

  The pain was like knives, and his entire body convulsed with the current. Fischer kept the jolt short, but he could still feel it after the probe was removed. “Goddamn it!” he gasped. “I answered you.”

  “Yes, but did you answer me truthfully? You didn’t deny it. That would be the expected response.”

  “Why should I deny it?” He closed his eyes briefly. “Of course he made copies. You know damned well he did.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the van. Toolbox.”

  “And is the toolbox compromised in any way?”

  “No.”

  The probe dug into his bicep.

  Aside from the anguish, the strain on his shoulder was so intense he was sure it would dislocate. He couldn’t even breathe during the shock. Spittle bubbled from his lips and seeped down his throat, nearly choking him. When it stopped, he was wracked with harsh coughing spasms.

  “Are you sure the toolbox isn’t compromised?”

  “Yes! Goddamn it, I’m sure.”

  Fischer let out a sigh. “You did have such potential,” he said. “There was a time I’d considered recruiting you. It’s a shame you’ve chosen to cast your lot with deviants.”

  Ozzy went still. Maybe there was a chance the original plan could still work—or at least part of it. But he had to tread very carefully. “You mean Blade?” he said. “I can’t stand that sick little weasel.”

  The colonel raised an eyebrow. “Really. Because it looked to me like the two of you were getting along just fine.”

  “I needed him to get to you.” He tried to shrug, but the motion sent fresh pain screaming through him. “I’m just a soldier. All that geek crap is beyond me.”

  “And why did you want to get to me?”

  “Are you kidding?” He glared as best he could. “You ruined my life. I want it back.”

  “You’re a convicted felon, Captain Stone. You can’t have it back.”

  “Maybe not, but fucking you over would’ve been the next best thing,” he said. If he could convince Fischer this was all about revenge, he might have a chance. “I spent four years in hell. For two of them, I had to share a cell with that freak Blade. I want something for that.”

  “And the women?” Fischer raised the probe slightly. “You did say that I prey on desperate women.”

  He sneered. “I said what I was supposed to say. They’re not my problem.”

  The colonel zapped him in the stomach. This time, he’d drawn just enough breath to scream.

  “You’re sure about that.”

  “Y-yes…fuck.” His teeth chattered as he tried to speak. “Would you stop doing that when I answer you? It doesn’t make me inclined to cooperate.”

  Fischer stared at him for a long time. At last he said, “I heard that Mr. Blade suffered a rather brutal incident in prison, just before he was released. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Ozzy went for a casually cruel tone. “I arranged for a going-away present, so the sick bastard would remember me.”

  He tried to brace himself for another shock. But the colonel laid the probe aside and loosened the wire around his throat. “Well, Captain Stone,” he said. “I’m tempted to believe you. But we both know that your word alone is not sufficient proof.”

  “No kidding. So what is?”

  Colonel Fischer smiled. It was a terrifying expression, devoid of any warmth or encouragement. “I want you to finish what my so-called partner has started, and beat Roman Blade to death.”

  He came dangerously close to losing his composure. If Fischer had wanted him to shoot Blade, or even Kat, he would’ve had a good chance at turning things around and taking the colonel out. But if he agreed to this, he’d actually have to hurt Blade—and make the man believe he meant it. “That’s not really my style,” he said, knowing Fischer would expect a protest.

  “I know. That’s why you’re going to prove your loyalty by do
ing it my way.”

  Ozzy closed his eyes. Everything in him wanted to refuse, but it was the only chance they had. And it was a damned slim chance. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  He’d just have to hope Blade understood his intentions—and reacted accordingly.

  Chapter 46

  By the time Corvair moved him to the chair, Roman felt like a skin sack full of broken glass. That was some goddamn warm-up—the sadistic fuck had started with his fists, then moved through the leather sap, an inch-thick cane, and a wooden plank. Then, just for shits and giggles, he’d graduated briefly to an aluminum bat.

  He could hardly wait to find out what the main event was.

  “Well, I do hope your little whore friend is enjoying this,” Corvair said as he tightened the straps and clicked the padlocks shut. “I’m thinking about giving you a break, so I can get back to her for a while. She is one tight freak—I’ll give her that.”

  Roman could barely summon the strength to glare. He’d decided to stop speaking when the cane came out, in the hopes of preserving a few shreds of energy. Even those were fading fast. Still, he moved his fingers slowly, searching for the release levers he hoped were there. Apparently Corvair knew how weakened he really was, because he hadn’t bothered with the ankle restraints.

  It was a small victory, but he’d take it. If only he could actually do something with it.

  “No, I think we’ll keep going a while,” Corvair said, as if Roman had somehow participated in the conversation. “Hurting you makes me feel better, after what you took away from me. My God, the hours of fun I could’ve had with that sweet, sweet Teryn.” He stopped and grinned. “She begged so pretty. Maybe I’ll make you beg, too…but you won’t be as good as her.”

  A sudden flood of fury kick-started his adrenaline. If he could just get free, he knew he’d be able to rush the bastard. Maybe even take him down. He forced himself to remain still as his left hand found the safety release. From there it was easy to locate the one on the right.

  Corvair was busy attaching a set of conductive clamps to a car battery.

  There was no way he could take that. He had to act, now or never. When Corvair walked away for a moment, probably to get something to enhance the shocks, Roman hit the levers and pulled his hands free of the cuffs. Moving as quickly as possible, he lifted the ends of the chair arms back into place and rested his arms on top of the restraints. The man no longer seemed concerned that he’d escape—he’d even put the gun down at some point—so hopefully he wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

  Corvair returned with a jar of Vaseline and stood in front of him, leering. “You probably use this shit all the time,” he said. “Don’t you, freak?”

  Mentally bracing himself to move, Roman summoned a mocking grin. “Only when I’m about to fuck assholes like you.”

  The man’s stunned expression was quickly replaced by suspicion. His eyes started to widen as his gaze fell to the arms of the chair, and Roman could almost see the mental calculation as Corvair tried to figure out what was wrong with this picture.

  Before he could arrive at a conclusion, Roman gripped the chair for support and put everything he had into a kick that connected with the man’s balls.

  Corvair went down, his mouth hinged open in a silent scream. Standing was agony for Roman, but he made himself function through the pain and plowed a fist into Corvair’s jaw. The blow knocked him over like a bowling pin. Roman kicked him in the gut, and paused for a gasping breath before he headed for the workstation, and his gun.

  He hadn’t taken two steps when Corvair grabbed his ankle. He tried to twist free, but the man held fast. A second hand joined the first, and they both pulled.

  Roman went down hard and fast.

  The impact knocked the breath from him, throttling the scream in his throat. His vision blurred with the pain—but he made out Corvair lunging for him, and just managed to roll clear. He crawled another few feet and felt a hand trying for purchase on his shin.

  A quick glance back saw Corvair on hands and knees, reaching for him. So he lifted a foot and drove it back into his face.

  Corvair released a loud snarl. Panting and trembling, Roman lurched to his feet and spun, lunging at the man. He caught Corvair mid-rise and bore him to the floor.

  He managed only a single blow before Corvair flipped him onto his back and punched him in the throat.

  “You slippery little freak,” he said over Roman’s harsh gagging. Corvair stood and drove a foot into his side, then reached down and dragged him upright. He tried to bring an arm up, but his shaking limbs would barely cooperate. The blow glanced off the man’s shoulder with no effect.

  So Roman spit in his face.

  “Oh, that is it.” Corvair shook him like a dog until his shirt tore, and then punched him in the gut, doubling him over. “I was gonna show you some mercy, kill you quick. You can forget that now, you diseased piece of filth. I’m taking my sweet time with you—and I’m talking days. Weeks. I will break every part of you twice before you die.”

  Roman started laughing.

  “What’s so goddamned funny, freak?”

  “Good question,” said a voice that wasn’t Corvair. “Care to share with the rest of the class, Mr. Blade?”

  Corvair’s expression froze. He turned his head slowly, and Roman caught sight of two figures by the door to the room. One was an older man in a dark blue uniform with lots of medals and ribbons and patches. Colonel Fischer, he presumed.

  The other was Ozzy Stone. Still wearing only his pants, covered with vicious-looking red and black marks, Stone’s expression was one he’d seen countless times in prison. It said he was about to dispense massive pain in the form of his fists.

  And he was directing that expression at Roman.

  Chapter 47

  If Ozzy had anything left in his stomach, he would have brought it up at the sight of the damage that’d been done to Blade. And somehow, he had to inflict more.

  He wasn’t sure he could go through with it.

  No one answered Fischer’s question, but he didn’t seem to expect it. He motioned Ozzy forward with the gun he still held ready and walked alongside him, addressing Corvair. “What is going on here?” he said coldly.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” Corvair wiped a smear of blood from his mouth, then turned rapidly and backhanded Blade, who fell to his knees.

  “Enough,” the colonel snapped. “Tell me what you got out of him.”

  Blade laughed again. The awful sound, laced with barely contained screams, penetrated Ozzy to the bone. “Not a damned thing,” Blade ground out. “He said he didn’t care if I talked or not. So I didn’t.”

  Fischer’s eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

  “I’ll get around to it eventually,” Corvair drawled. “This freak’s got a lot more pain coming to him. Whatever he’s got to say, I’ll make him write it in his own blood.”

  “No, you won’t.” The colonel moved toward him. “Stand aside, David. Captain Stone is taking over the interrogation.”

  Ozzy glanced at Blade—and saw him blanch and shudder violently as he lowered his gaze to the floor. He felt sick all over again.

  “The hell he is!” Corvair roared. “You are not taking this away from me, you crazy son of a bitch.” He bared his teeth and stepped forward. “I’ve had it with this so-called partnership,” he said. “You get every damned thing you want, and I have to make do with your scraps until you decide to take that, too. Well, not anymore.”

  “Are you finished, David?”

  “Fuck you, psycho.”

  Fischer calmly raised his gun and shot Corvair in the head.

  Blood erupted from the exit wound at the back of his skull. Some of it sprayed Blade, who was still kneeling slightly behind the man. Corvair toppled to the floor, his eyes widened in terminal surprise as the life rapidly faded from them.

  Just as calmly, Fischer produced a phone and made a quick call, telling someone to stand down. Pres
umably the other soldiers. Then he turned to Ozzy. “Get that out of the way, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ozzy said involuntarily. It struck him, looking into Fischer’s eyes, that Corvair had been right about one thing. The man was insane. He tore his gaze away, walked over and grabbed the body by an arm, and dragged it across the room.

  When he came back, Blade had somehow managed to stand. But he still refused to look him in the eyes.

  “I do hate interruptions,” the colonel said. “But now that David is out of the way, I’m sure you and I can form a far more effective partnership.”

  “Right,” Ozzy managed.

  “Feel free to get started any time. Partner.”

  He could only nod this time as he moved toward Blade, surreptitiously scanning the room for a way out of this. Any way out. He found one sitting on a computer table at the left side of the room—Blade’s gun. If he could be sure Blade understood this was for show, he could control the action and maneuver the man close enough to grab it. Then he’d distract Fischer and hope Blade took the hint.

  But for now, he had to make it convincing.

  He grabbed Blade’s torn shirt and jerked him forward, forcing the man to look at him. “I’m going to hurt you now,” he said. “We want to know everything you did. Everything. Understand?”

  “Stone…” Blade whispered hoarsely. “I’m afraid.”

  The flood of relief nearly dropped him. Blade knew what he was trying to do. That would make this a little easier … but not much.

  Recovering instantly, Ozzy set his expression to neutral. “You should be,” he said.

  He tried to pull the punch as much as possible at the last second. Still, Blade went limp in his grasp when the fist pounded his bruised ribs.

  “Get up,” Ozzy snarled. “You’re supposed to be tough.” He heaved Blade away from him, toward the desk, and watched him crash to the floor. Not close enough. Forcing himself to keep moving quickly, he strode over and hauled the man up again. “Who else knows about the operation?” he said.