Authors: Sonya Bateman
“Leonard. Dispose of that, and tell Mari to bring me a new shirt and clean the carpet.” Trevor lowered his arm, stowed the gun in a back pocket, and started on the buttons. “His car has to go. John, bring it to the docks . . . wait, take this and burn it somewhere first.” The last button released, he stripped the shirt off and held it out. Bat Man ambled forward to take it.
I blinked more than a few times at the intricate mass of snakes tattooed on Trevor’s chest, stomach, and upper arms. The work was unusual—done in shades of black and brown, it didn’t look so much inked as burned into his skin. In addition, a pendant on a thick silver chain hung around his neck. The medallion was etched with symbols that once again seemed strangely familiar. The thing looked a few thousand years old, like a coin from a forgotten Chinese dynasty. But it gleamed as if it had just been minted yesterday.
With the shock of the emotionless execution wearing off, I tore my gaze from the strange markings and looked at Jazz. Her eyes hadn’t left Trevor. Cold fury radiated from her and promised retaliation, while her arms formed a shield around
Cyrus. The muffled shot hadn’t freaked the kid out too bad, but he whimpered and squirmed against Jazz.
The land mass, otherwise known as Leonard, crossed to the body and produced a folded plastic trash bag. The fact that he apparently carried them around just in case chilled me to the core. If I didn’t pull a miracle out of my ass soon, I’d end up right where this sorry sack was headed—in a thirty-gallon plastic coffin at the bottom of the lake. Leonard opened the bag and drew it over the corpse’s head. He tied the bag closed at the waist, lifted the body as if it weighed no more than a bag of leaves, and tossed the eternally surprised Conner over a shoulder.
Trevor watched the giant leave the room. He’d made no attempt to remove Conner’s blood from his skin. The spray had darkened to a tacky maroon, creating an almost tribal pattern across one side of his face, up his skull, and down his neck. Even his ear bore the gruesome freckling. He bestowed a benevolent smile on Jazz. “Don’t be troubled, now. You’ve met my expectations, and you’re free to go.” He addressed two of the gun-toting thugs. “Pope, Harmon, bring the lady and her child back to her vehicle. If there is a body, collect it. If not, call for reinforcements.”
My skin crawled. Why would Trevor think there wouldn’t be a body? An instant later, I realized Skids must have reported exactly what happened at the garage, and if Trevor even half believed it, the vigilant son of a bitch was just covering his ass.
With a defiant glance at Trevor, Jazz approached and stopped in front of me. The boy in her arms stirred, blinked sleepily . . . and a lump lodged in my throat when my own blue eyes looked back at me from the small face that bore a striking resemblance to Jazz’s.
In that instant, I would have died a hundred times for both of them.
Jazz attempted to smile. It didn’t work. “Try to stay alive, Houdini.”
“Ga,” the boy pronounced.
“I think he likes me.” I summoned a grin, though I imagined it looked as if I’d just dropped something heavy on my toe. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Let’s not give the lady false hope,” Trevor cut in. “As I believed my former associate mentioned to you earlier this evening, Mr. Donatti, that isn’t likely to happen. Pope, if you would.”
One of the goons grabbed Jazz by the shoulder and steered her away. I watched them escort her out in silence, too furious to release the useless barrage of insults and threats building inside. At last, I faced Trevor with fists and jaw clenched and waited.
Trevor smiled, this time without benevolence. “Take Mr. Donatti downstairs, and let him hang around for a while. I have a few matters to attend to before we begin. Mr. Donatti, I suggest that you consider very carefully what you’re going to tell me, and make sure I like your answers to my questions. I have many of them.”
Two of the remaining thugs flanked me. The one with the Taser moved in front. While the others held me, the third thumbed a trigger on the pronged device and produced an ominous buzzing crackle. The insouciant grin he’d flashed Jazz outside resurfaced. He thrust the posts under my ribcage and held.
Tasering didn’t feel like sticking a finger in a light socket. It felt like swallowing a box of sewing needles, then being thrown into a giant blender to get them moving around.
Five long seconds into the shock treatment, I sagged in the thugs’ grip. Taser Boy gave me another quick jolt for good measure and finally left me to droop. They dragged me across the room opposite the direction everyone else had left, toward a tall black door.
I could hardly wait to see what was on the other side.
Split lip, bruised balls, fried ribs, and now, shredded wrists. My running tally of injuries insisted on playing itself out in my head like a demented game show.
And what do we have next for our fine contestant? Why, it’s a drawn-out and brutal death, accompanied by a fabulous voyage to the bottom of the lake!
“And the crowd goes wild,” I muttered. Hysterical laughter bubbled just beneath the surface. I couldn’t let it out, or I’d never stop.
Downstairs was a basement, where the thugs had strung me from the rafters like so much meat. Dim lighting revealed enough to confirm that this room had only one purpose: to inflict pain. I scoped the scenery, automatically looking for possible escape routes. My initial analysis proved less than encouraging.
I had to give it to Trevor. The place had atmosphere. I’d done a brief stint in a Cuban jail, and though those quarters had been less than modern, they’d been a four-star motel compared to this. The stone walls glistened with just enough moisture to dampen the already stifling air, and the slab floor that
chilled my feet through my socks showed layers of blotched stains, the ghosts of fluids that couldn’t have been water.
I knew he was into torture, but I never imagined he’d elevated it to an art form.
The light came from a dense cluster of flickering candles at various stages of melted, arranged on a small curtained table. Wax buildup, the thick and blackened kind that could only have come from years of burning candles in the same spot, clumped along the edges and descended in stippled waves down the fabric draping the sides. It reminded me of the bless-me-Father-for-I-am-fucked displays common to low-income ethnic neighborhood churches. I’d seen plenty of them growing up. Nobody’s Aunt Maria ever recovered from cancer because of them. Nobody won the lottery. And nobody’s parents miraculously returned from the grave, either. I knew—I’d spent every Sunday afternoon for two years confessing sins, regurgitating Hail Marys, and lighting those damned candles. They were false advertising.
Back to the inventory. What basement torture chamber would be complete without the requisite instruments? Despite the high-tech gadgetry controlling the fortress upstairs, Trevor remained downright medieval in his choices of pain-causing devices. A pegboard displayed a collection of pliers, good for the wholesale yanking of nails and teeth. Ball-peen hammers ranging in size from miniature to skull-crushing marched down the right side of the board.
Restraints seemed a common theme, too. There were chains, cuffs, collars, and lengths of rope, like the one keeping me suspended in place and rubbing my wrists raw. A bundle of smooth rods stood in a far corner. From here I couldn’t tell what material they were made with, but it looked as if they’d
hurt. An enormous gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall to the right of the stairs. He probably liked to have his victims watch themselves being tortured.
Best of all was the long table encompassed by a sectioned wooden frame, complete with an oversized gear and a crank handle. A good old-fashioned rack.
I couldn’t wait for Trevor to come down. What fun we’d have.
A whispered rustle of sound crept from a shadowed alcove to my right, at the opposite end of the room from the stairs leading up. I squinted in that direction, but the candlelight refused to penetrate the blackness there. The sound didn’t repeat. Maybe I’d been hearing things. Might have been a rat or some other basement-dwelling creature.
Another sound commanded my attention. Measured footfalls on the stairs. Oh, good. Time for pain.
I tried to hold the guttering hope that the alcove, with its mysterious noises, contained a way out. A crumbling wall, a secret passage, a sewer grate. I wasn’t picky. Since I didn’t intend to tell Trevor anything just yet, he wouldn’t kill me right away. Maybe the rope would loosen or weaken while he beat on me. It could happen.
So could Armageddon. At least that would take Trevor, too.
Trevor entered the room alone. A point in my favor—no thugs to witness my forthcoming screams. He’d cleaned himself up but hadn’t bothered to button his fresh shirt. He still wore the pendant. The snake tattoos seemed alive in the flickering candlelight, writhing hungrily over his torso, devouring him. His eyes shone with carefully contained insanity. And he’d brought the Taser.
I was so dead.
He stopped in front of me. “Mr. Donatti.”
“Present.”
Trevor jammed the Taser against my thigh and pulled the trigger.
I went limp. Fortunately, the rope held me up. He kept the jolt short, and when he pulled back, I gasped. “Jesus Christ. Aren’t you supposed to ask me a question first?”
Trevor shook his head as if he was disappointed. This time, the damned thing juiced the side of my neck.
The charge exploded in my head, blinding me. My mouth opened. No sound emerged. I figured smoke would start billowing out, but saliva foamed over my lip and dribbled down my chin instead.
This was Trevor’s subtle way of telling me to shut up. It worked. Couldn’t speak if I wanted to.
“If you had my item, Mr. Donatti, you would have given it to me by now.” His voice wavered and splintered against my pounding eardrums. “Eventually, you will explain what happened. I’m not ready to question you yet. At this point, your job is to listen.”
“Listenin’,” I slurred, slopping more drool onto the floor.
Trevor zapped me again. I screamed.
“You believe if you don’t cooperate, I’ll kill you. I won’t. You believe if I leave you alone long enough, you’ll find a way out. You can’t. You believe torture is the worst that can happen to you, and death is preferable.” He moved in and brought his face inches from mine. “It isn’t.”
I believed that.
Had to pull myself together. I drew several deep breaths and tried to calm my jittering muscles, aware that short Taser
bursts didn’t cause death. Only temporary paralysis and incredible pain. My legs responded slowly, and I managed to hold a little weight with them. I lifted my head. “You’re not . . . giving me a lot of . . . incentive.”
Trevor grinned. There were icebergs in his smile. “I don’t have to, Mr. Donatti. You see, I don’t need your cooperation.”
“What?” My voice cracked. If he didn’t need me, why hadn’t he just shot me?
He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “Regarding other things I don’t need, your lovely friend Jasmine is a liability. The boy, too.”
“Don’t you touch him,” I snarled—seconds before my brain worked out that I’d chosen the wrong pronoun.
Oh, Jesus, no . . .
“Him?” Trevor stared at me. The icebergs flashed. “Why, Mr. Donatti. What blue eyes you have.”
H
E
ET ME HEAR HIS PHONE CONVERSATION WITH THE THUGS
.
“Have you gotten to her van yet? All right. When you do, let her and the boy go, and follow her. Don’t alarm the lady. Remember, I want that body. If it’s not there, I’ll send others to look for it. I have a different job for you.” Trevor paused and sent a smile in my direction. “Wherever she ends up, I want a silent hit. Kill her, finish anyone else you find, and bring the boy back to me.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Trevor disconnected and pocketed his phone. “Well, Mr. Donatti, it seems we’re going to have company.”
“Why?” I finally managed. “You have me. Why hurt them?”
He grinned. It was an awful expression, full of bitterness. “Because I need that item you lost. You have no idea how
much. But mostly, because I can. And I did warn you that being tortured wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.”
“I’ll kill you, Trevor. Believe that.”
He looked at me as if he was actually considering the possibility. “I believe you’re convinced that you will. You can’t, of course. But you do possess more fortitude than I gave you credit for, and that is saying something.” He crossed to the pegboard, scanned it. After a moment, he reached out and selected the smallest pair of needle-nose pliers, just three or four inches from tip to end. “If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for our guest. Don’t worry, Mr. Donatti . . . I’ll let you see him first. I’ll let you see everything.”
My mind emptied. I couldn’t threaten him, couldn’t insult him. Couldn’t even move, despite my body’s desperate desire to lunge, snap the rope, gouge the sick bastard’s eyes out.
“You’re speechless?” Trevor approached me, Taser back in hand. “And I thought you’d never shut up.” He stopped and thumbed the trigger a few times. Sparks snapped from the prongs in the semidark, bright as fireflies. “Where would you like it this time?”
He couldn’t bring me any lower, so I spat in his face. “Up your ass.”
“Oh, that’s far too much trouble.”
I had time to think that at least I’d wiped the smug smile from his face before he jammed the Taser into my stomach and held.
For a long, long time.
Seconds, maybe minutes. I couldn’t tell. Everything shut down—sight, sound, smell—everything but sensation. I could still feel. And what I felt was pure pain in every cell of my body. Was I breathing? I’d forgotten how to bring air into my lungs.
Forgotten how to think. Mr. Donatti isn’t in right now. Please try your call again later.
At last, I realized there was no new pain being generated. The source had been removed. It took my scrambled brain a few tries to recall the source. Trevor. In the basement. With a Taser.
Trevor. Ordered a hit on Jazz. Going to torture and murder my son in front of me.