by Tia Lewis
The Russian smirked and walked through a pool of blood on the floor, leaving my view. Is that my blood or the two Russians? I thought. I lifted up my head and turned to the right to see the two Russians dead on the floor. The floor was stained red from the wounds on the backs of their heads. The air of the room had become metallic and bloody, saturated with the scent of death that I was so familiar with. I let out another groan as I turned my head back to the left and noticed the plump Russian had returned with a wooden chair. He placed the chair about a foot away from me, and it creaked loudly when he sat down. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands folded together as he stared at me.
“Your life is spared today, aye,” the Russian devilishly smiled displaying his yellow teeth. My vision was becoming clearer, but the intense pounding in my head still remained.
“There’s a hit out for you,” he continued. “If I recall it’s three million to the man who kills Liam Hunter. Four million to the man who delivers you intact.”
“Fuck you,” I replied.
“Which is why I shall spare your life,” he sighed in disappointment. He got up from his chair, walked into the kitchen and said: “but not until I have a little fun, aye?”
I growled as I heard the Russian rummaging through the kitchen. I slid my hands from my side and tried to push myself up from the bloody floor like a push-up, but I was too weak to pull it off. Then a chill went down my spine when I realized that both my pistols were gone. I felt naked without my guns, and I could sense the onset of rage begin.
Get up, brother! Get up! Tess needs you! I heard my brother’s voice.
About five minutes later, I still heard the Russian loudly scavenging through the kitchen. I could only assume that he was looking for knives, tools, and other torture devices. I continued to blink rapidly, and I forced myself to fight through this sharp and piercing headache so that I could start to slowly push myself up from the floor.
As soon as I was in a push-up position and about to get on my knees, the Russian came back from the kitchen, whistling and holding two butcher knives in each hand. I quickly fell back down, rested my head on the floor and decided to wait for the right moment to make my move.
“Intact he says, yes?” The Russian let out a girlish giggle and wiggled back and forth in the wooden chair. “But today I want to have some fun. You’ve killed my two partners, and that was a big mistake, Mr. Hunter.”
“Who sent you?” I inquired, still motionless on the floor.
“Shh! You speak too much,” he smiled. He held up one of the butcher knives in the air, moving it back and forth. “Therefore, your tongue will go first. And after your tongue…”
Just then, I heard a faint crash in the backyard. The Russian jumped up with the butcher knives in each hand and walked toward the back door.
Moments later I heard the Russian shout: “Aye, bloody bird!”
The Russian whistled, waving the butcher knives in the air with admiration and came back into the room. As soon as he lowered himself to sit back down on the wooden chair… I made my move.
I jumped to my feet, almost falling backward on the bloody slippery floor and leaped at him, slapping the knives from his hands, and tackling him to the floor. When his body struck the ground, the force of the impact sent several leaning towers of envelopes toppling from the shockwave.
“You will not get away with this,” the Russian warned. I sat on top of the fat fuck and my left knee jammed into his throat, pinning him to the ground. He gasped for air and twisted and wiggled his body to reach for the butcher knife on the floor to his left. I grabbed his left arm, lifted it up and twisted to the left with all my strength. I smiled when I heard the sound of his bone snapping in two. The Russian screamed, struggling to free himself from my hold. His pain amused me so I twisted his broken arm even harder.
“Where are my guns?” I grunted looking down at him, holding his arm painfully in place. I was sweating profusely, but my face was calm, businesslike.
“Ahhh!” He gasped for air, turning beet red as he squirmed to break free. The man screamed like a girl, high-pitched shrieks that sounded as if they should’ve come from a toddler who’d lost a balloon, not a plump Russian gangster. I decided to end it now. I gritted my teeth and continued to dig my knee deeper into his throat, cutting off his circulation.
For some reason, I began to think about her—Tess.
I didn’t know why she kept entering my mind at a time like this, but she did. Before I was solely motivated by the allure of the money, but something was satisfying about killing and beating on the men who were involved in her kidnapping… the same men who had helped to hurt someone that I cared for. I was going to take pleasure in killing the fucking bastards who had given her to that sick fuck, Zharkov.
“I need answers,” I said calmly, pulling my fist back. My hand was dripping with blood that belonged to the other two Russian’s; it had covered me from head to toe when I was laying on the floor. I was ready to cover them in more blood if this man didn’t give me the information that I wanted. I lifted my knee from his throat and gave him the opportunity to speak.
The Russian gasped for air with wide, bloodshot eyes but he kept squirming and frankly I was getting annoyed with his lack of cooperation. His weak and pathetic movements insulted me. He squealed and wiggled his unbroken right arm so I pinned that arm to the ground, pressing my right knee into his right forearm. My thighs were pushing against him with the strength of an unstoppable bull, crushing his pillow-like flesh.
“Ahhh!” he screeched. “No! No!”
“No?” I growled. “That’s funny because Zharkov didn’t give a shit about the word ‘no,’ did he? No, when Zharkov was grunting and grinding on top of Tess, he sure as shit didn’t give a fuck about the word ‘no!” I was seething now, ready to take this shit to the next level.
“She’s a whore!” The Russian protested.
Wrong answer.
With all my might, I punched the Russian directly in the nose with my fist. Bone crunched as his nose imploded, blood spraying like a fountain in his face. My fist jolted, but I kept it steady; my body was taut but not fully unleashed, at least not yet. I could’ve have done this shit for hours and I just warming up.
“My nose!” The Russian wailed.
He wiggled his head from side to side, spattering the floor underneath him with blood. Some of it seeped down his face and into his mouth. He coughed, and blood flew into the air in crimson droplets. His eyes were half-closed, as though he wanted to watch his impending death and hide from it at the same time.
“You’re going to tell me where my money is and who took it,” I said, speaking in a calm, commanding voice. I wasn’t Liam anymore. I was The Animal. And The Animal was used to being cowered to and feared.
“I… don’t know… what you’re talking about,” he said, practically gargling from the blood in his throat.
I pinched his earlobes between my forefinger and thumb, pulled his head back, and brought my forehead down onto his nose with full force. My neck muscles pulsated and tightened at the impact, my teeth gritted, and blood splattered onto my already bloody T-shirt.
“Ahhh! God dammit! You bloody motherfucker!” He wailed again.
He tried to roll over, shifting like a tortoise onto its back, but I dug my knees harder into his forearm.
“Where the fuck is my money!” I howled, sweat dripping from my forehead and mixing with the blood. The Russian didn’t seem to understand who he was dealing with. It was always a damned fool who thought they could come gunning for me. And I always showed them just how foolish it was.
“What money!” The Russian cried.
Wrong answer.
He tried to move again, but I dug my knee in even harder, pressing so hard that I felt bone cracking. I knew it was only a matter of time he would give up.
“Okay! Okay!” He screamed in agony. “Okay! Yes! Okay!”
“Speak.”
“I know… where… your money
is.” He closed his eyes tightly, trying to hide the tears that fell sideways down his face. What a fucking pussy, I thought. I displayed a wicked grin. If he only knew that I was just getting started.
“You’re crying like a little bitch,” I said, turning up my nose in disgust. “Where were your tears when an innocent woman was being raped in front of you or your men? Where were they then!” I was seconds away from straight up losing my shit on this motherfucker.
“Okay, Okay,” he said. “I… know where... it is!”
“Tell me where and stop wasting my fucking time!” I demanded.
Just then the Russian grinned like the bastard wanted to die. It took every shred of self-control that I possessed not to snap his neck right there. But I was curious about why he was grinning. Men didn’t usually gloat in situations like this especially cowardly men like this pussy.
“Boss…” The Russian’s bloody grin grew wider.
“Boss? Zharkov?”
“Your Boss… you bloody… idiot!” He spat. “The man… who calls… himself... Boss!”
“My Boss?” I breathed through gritted teeth. “You’re telling me my Boss has my money? How the fuck would he have it? The Russians took it and the Bianchi family doesn’t fuck with the Russians.”
“Zharkov… is a smart… man,” he answered, chuckling through his pain. Clearly, this bastard thought he had one up on me.
He let out a devilish laugh that echoed throughout the house.
“What did you just say? Fucking Speak!” I said, grabbing his broken arm and twisting hard enough to make him shout out in pain.
The Russian seemed damn near unconscious, sucking in shallow breaths and staring up at the ceiling, with eyelids that fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings.
Boss, brother? I heard Kevin say. Boss has your money? Why would Boss have your money? Those that you thought were your friends have always been your enemies.
I rose to my feet and wiped my hands down on my jeans, leaving red streaks in the fabric. I looked around the room and found my prize possessions—my pistols. I walked to the corner of the room and picked the guns up from the floor, sliding the pistols back inside my leather jacket.
I walked over and knelt down next to the blond-haired man, reached into his pocket, and took out his wallet. It was leather and probably cost at least two grand. I never liked men with expensive wallets. What sort of douchebag wastes money on something like that when you can buy a new gun instead?
I opened the wallet. In the transparent pocket, there was a picture of the two other men on the floor; the man with the death tattoo on the back of his neck was holding a fish the size of a tree trunk above his head, a happy smile on his face. I wasn’t surprised. I flipped past the picture and opened the money sleeve. I took the five hundred dollar bills and shoved them into the pocket of my jeans.
I moved to the man with the death tattoo and reached into his pocket. I pulled out his wallet this one black and almost fell to pieces in my hand. The plastic in the clear pocket fell away, exposing a black and white photograph of an old couple who might’ve been the man’s grandparents, or maybe great-grandparents. I tossed it on the floor and took the four hundred dollars, shoving it into my pocket as well.
Lastly, I returned to the plump Russian with the broken arm and broken nose. He wheezed as I pulled out his wallet. It was blue and red, and when I opened it, I saw the American flag was emblazoned on the coin pocket. There weren’t any pictures, and there was no money. It seemed he was the only smart one since he hadn’t brought his cash on a job. He also had a cell phone in his pocket so I grabbed it and tucked it away in my jacket.
I stood up and threw the wallet onto his chest.
“Bastard,” I said, and headed to the room in the house that I dreaded the most.
I took a deep breath as I stood in the middle of the kitchen and shook my head. Then I made my way towards the cabinets underneath the kitchen sink. I quickly rummaged through them, swiping thick cobwebs out of the way before I found what I was looking for. I grabbed the big black tool box from under a pile of moldy kitchen towels and placed the box on the kitchen counter. Before I opened the box, I found myself pausing and thinking about my brother. I felt my heart begin to race but pushed myself to finish the task at hand. I opened the tool box and grabbed the heavy-duty power drill.
“This will do,” I sighed, resigned.
I wrapped the power cord that was attached to the drill around my hand and headed back to the Russian who was going in and out of consciousness on the ground. Luckily, he laid next to a power outlet, and I smiled. It was time to go to work.
Without a word, I bent down, plugged in the power cord and turned on the power drill. The piercing noise echoed throughout the house and alarmed the Russian on the ground. He turned his head towards me and pleaded.
“No! No! What are you doing!”
“Well, you would you prefer for me to go to hardware store and pick up a chainsaw? Ungrateful bastard.”
I gripped the vibrating machine and aimed the power tool at his head until I remembered that I wanted to have a little ‘fun’ too. I got up and walked over to my black duffle bags sitting by the front door. I searched the bags until I found the salt.
“Why are Boss and Zharkov working together?” I asked, casually walking towards the Russian and holding a container of salt in one hand and the power drill in the other.
“I don’t know! Please! No!” The Russian, pleaded, begging me for mercy that I was unwilling to give him.
Calmly, I plugged the power cord to the heavy-duty power drill into the electric socket and kneeled next to the Russian.
“Last chance to speak,” I said, turning on the power tool.
“No! No!”
I aimed the power tool to his right eye and drilled. Blood and goo spurted out of his eye socket, and he screamed in agony.
“Speak.”
More screams.
I then poured the salt inside his leaking socket that no longer held an eye.
More screams.
“You don’t want to speak? Fine by me.”
I tossed the container of salt to the side and pushed the robust drill through his left eye and then through his skull. His screams agitated me so I moved the drill in and out of his head digging deeper into the skull. Pieces of bone, chunks of brain and blood spurted on my face and onto the wall behind me. Then I started drilling his elbows, knees, and hips before finally, the drill bit broke.
“Fuck!”
I headed back to the black duffle bags and pulled out the tarp. I rolled it out on the floor and reached inside my leather jacket. I pulled out my pistol, aimed it at the Russian and pulled the trigger, firing three times. I holstered my gun back inside my jacket and knelt down beside him, grunting as I pushed his massive body onto the tarp. I rolled him up tight and repeated the process with the other two dead bodies until they were tightly secured inside the plastic.
I located some heavy strength duct tape in one of the kitchen drawers and tightly wrapped the tarps holding the dead bodies up like mummies, ensuring that every inch of the tarp was secured with tape. I was about to haul the bodies outside and into the Russians’ car when I realized that I had the cell phone that belonged to the plump Russian with the missing eyes.
I scrolled through the cell phone until I found a contact name called “Z.” I called the number and glanced over at the three bodies rolled up in the tarp on the floor next to me.
“Aye, Sergei! What’s taking you so long?”
“Sergei is dead.”
“Aye? Who’s this?
“Make your peace with God, Zharkov. This is the Animal. See you soon.”
I hanged up.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I drove down Main Street in Gunner’s Mustang.
The street was alive in the afternoon. A group of birds sat on top of the bakery, chirping down at the pedestrians. Small children grasped their mother’s hands, trying desperately to pull them into Upton’s fiv
e-star candy store. One little girl with a bright yellow dress seemed to exude sunlight let out a scream. “I want candy! I want candy!”
Old men sat in the street on foldaway chairs, some smoking, others sipping coffee from travel mugs. One elderly man wearing a cheap gray suit waved at me. I nodded back.
I drove until I came to the Weathered Spoon Café and parked.
The café’s walls were glass all the way around, and the menu was painted in red on the glass. I saw their special, the ‘Grandma Norma’s Pot Pie, best in the world!’ was still on the list, though the price had risen from a dollar fifty to six dollars. The sidewalk outside the restaurant was dominated by housewives and mothers; the cornucopia of single motherhood was embodied right there in this rural street.
Someone knocked on the glass.
I blinked and saw Tess staring at me through the passenger window. She waved for me to unlock the door. Leaning across the console, I flicked the switch. She climbed in next to me and glanced into the back of the car. When she saw that her suitcase was there, she nodded to herself.
“Mmm, you smell good. Like soap and… bleach. You changed your clothes, too.” She leaned over and gave me a tight and comforting hug.
“I had to take a shower and change my outfit.”
“You always wear the same thing,” she giggled. “All black everything.”
“Black hides blood well.”
She playfully rolled her eyes.
“Black T-shirt, black jeans, black boots, black… boxers?
I turned to her and winked.
“Where’s your leather jacket?”
“It’s in the back seat. It needs to be cleaned, though.”
“So… is everything okay? I was getting worried since you took so long,”
“I had to do a little cleaning up, and I had to visit Rangeley Lake.”
“Why?”
“The Russians wanted to go diving… with their car.”
“In the lake?” Her forehead creased. “Uh… I don’t even want to ask.”
I wickedly grinned, rubbing my hand through my wet hair.