Rage

Chapter 4

Lara

It’s a week later when I get a message on my own cell phone, giving me an address based far outside the city. I send back a simple ‘when?’ and get a date and time in reply.

From then, it’s easy enough to book the date as an emergency vacation, citing a family crisis. I don’t tell Kathy either, just leave for work in the morning like I usually would, picking up a croissant along with my usual morning coffee order and setting my sat nav on the right heading.

It’s a good couple hours’ drive through the endless Northwestern forests out to the location, which turns out to be a sprawling estate on the bend of a river. I nearly miss the turning to the driveway, hidden in the pines as it is, but spot it just in time. As I pull my car to a stop outside the triple garage, a familiar redhead appears on the threshold.

Lauchlan Sullivan; one time stripper, allegedly current mafioso cohort, all time irritating, jumped up, cocksure asshole. But the only one we could have asked this favor from, and a guy who’ll always turn up everything he can—at least for those people he calls friends.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Thanks for-for doing this.”

“Don’t mention it. Like I told Katherine back in the day, I’m always down for a little assistance, should you ever need it.”

I give him my best fucking stink eye, because this was absolutely not the kind of assistance he meant back when we first became acquainted.

“I’m fucking with you, Lar. You are way too damn easy to wind the fuck up, you know that?”

“Well, excuse me if I’m kind of wound the fuck up at the moment. And it’s Lara. For the record.”

He nods, I can only assume in acknowledgment of both the fragility of my mental state right now and the assertion of my full name. At least, that had better be why, or I’m going to have to hurt some more men today.

My rage is on full show, and I have zero intentions of hiding it.

Lockey points up the trail next to the garage. “This way.”

He sets off at pace, skirting round the back of the house. I have to practically jog to keep up with his long fucking legs.

“Where’s the fucking fire?” I pant out, breathless from trying to navigate the slightly muddy pathway in my work-appropriate heels.

“Huh?” He stops, six paces in front of me, turning as I finally manage to catch up.

“I meant slow down. Where are we going anyway?”

“Oh. I have a woodworking shed back here. My buddy Tino is with our mutual friend.”

I know there’s a look of contempt on my face. I know it. But I can’t remove it, because— “You? Woodworking?”

“Yeah, me. Wood working.” He’s got a smirk on his face that I’m not sure I like. “With vises, circular saws, jigs, orbital sanders; stuff for carving shit up. Sharp stuff.”

Oh. Oh . “That kind of woodworking. Right.”

There are grins on both our faces right now, and I’m kinda glad I called him. Even if I am starting to feel a little nauseous as well, the pressing realization dawning that I probably couldn’t have pulled this meeting off on my own.

That feeling only gets worse as we draw closer to the shed in question, but I guess Lock must realize, as he takes my arm, bringing me to a halt a few meters from the freestanding structure.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. We can take care of him, if that’s what you need to happen.”

“That’s not what I need to happen.” I need to take it out on something, and my usual catharsis of kicking punch bags is not. Fucking. Working. “I need this, Lockey.”

He takes another glance at the determination on my face, in my stance, then keys in the code and pushes open the door.

There are two guys in there, both of whom turn to look as the door swings wide. One—the very much bigger of the pair—is picking his nails with the point of a hunting knife.

And the other?

He’s tied naked to a dining chair with a leather strap buckled around his head, bound by scarlet ropes around his chest, arms and ankles to the roughhewn surface. It takes me a blink to realize that not all the rope is scarlet; just the parts where he’s apparently already shed a portion of his life juice. Or someone has, anyway.

Lockey starts with introductions. “Tee, this is Lara, the chick I was telling you about.”

That makes me mad. Fucking enraged, actually. “I’m not a baby fucking hen .”

They both stop and take stock of me, eyes roaming down my body, taking in the black pantsuit and boots that I carefully selected for this undertaking. Along with the middle fingers that I’m holding up, which is why I assume Lockey quickly rescinds his description.

“My apologies. The very capable and obstinate woman I mentioned.”

I decide to let him off with that. For now. He continues, motioning to the giant hulk of dark-haired man, who has at least put the sharp looking blade back in the holster on his hip.

“Lara, this is Tino. He has a distinct knack for finding people and getting information out of them. You can thank him for today’s gift.”

The ‘gift’ in question is looking utterly enraged at the unfolding scene, pulling against his restraints, cords straining in his neck and garbled noises coming out of his mouth around the leather, which I realize must be a bondage gag of some sort. His eyes are bloodshot too, likely from the strain his body has been put under.

Now that I’m fully in view of him, I can see the slight cuts, the contusions from the ropes. Bruising across his pale skin indicates he’s had a rough time of it already.

It’s a pretty horrifying sight, in truth. But I’m glad they hurt him, and more than ready to be horrified, if it means I get to right this wrong.

The big man steps up behind the captive, undoing the buckles from around the back of his head. I’m off to the side, virtually unnoticed, which means Lock is the unlucky one to be standing in the firing line of the great hock of bloody sputum that is expelled onto the Mariners hoodie he’s sporting.

Lockey responds by backhanding the motherfucker across the face. The crack of knuckles on jaw echoes through the enclosed space like a gunshot.

“Now that wasn’t very fucking nice, was it?”

I can’t help but laugh at the calmly posed question. He’s clearly not happy at the befoulment, but is keeping his cool for the show. He removes the sweater, wiping the vile excretion back across the asshole’s mouth, putting it back where it came from.

Our hostage is not so pleased at this development. “Fuck you!”

“No thanks. I got way better offers. At least the other dude in here has a respectably sized cock.” The indecent quip is typical of Lock; whip thin, and quick as one too.

“Hey!” From the smile on his face, I sense that Tino isn’t entirely offended by the insinuation. “It’s more than respectable.”

The bound shithead seems offended that our attention has been diverted. “You can’t do this; don’t you know who I am?”

I reply to him, because I know we all do. And I know none of us fucking care, either. “You’re the dick who hurt my wife. That’s all I need to know.”

“I’m an important person in this city; I work for the mayor!”

Lockey snickers. “Funnily enough, I know. I mean, that’s how we found you, right, Tino?”

“Right.”

“He won’t stand for this, I’m his Press Officer!”

I can’t help but huff out a laugh at that, the fucking jumped up, self-important air he’s got. Lockey and Tino are wearing identical smirks, because… Well, we all know exactly who this fuckhead is.

Lock’s the one to tell him though. “We know who you are, Mr. Not So Fucking Important As You Think. But clearly, you don’t know who we are, do you?”

“I don’t care who the fuck you think you are! You can’t do this to me!”

fuck, we can’t. what the hell was I thinking?!

In contrast to my ever rising anxiety, Lockey is a collected picture of calm, hands linked behind his head, one knee bent with his foot nonchalantly resting on the wall behind. “Oh, but we can, Gregory. We can. So, listen up, ‘cos I’m gonna tell you a little tale, okay?”

“He’ll rain fucking fire down on you when he finds out!” Apparently, Gregory is in no mood to listen.

“Aw, Tino. He thinks the mayor don’t know.”

“Shame.”

The prisoner seems confused by this little exchange. “What do you mean?”

“So, we—that is, Tee and I—work for Enzo Bonetti.”

Tino nods in Greg’s direction, all of us watching as the color drains from his face. “I guess he knows who that is, Lockey.”

“I guess he might. Because Enzo Bonetti donates a lot of money to the mayor’s office every term, right? But of course, you know that, don’t you, Greg?”

Even I know who he is. But I didn’t realize that was who Lockey worked for. And that raises a few questions for me as well, because as far as I know, Mr. Bonetti is just a very wealthy businessman who donates a large portion of his income.

Every year.

Without fail.

Damn.

what the hell am i doing here? i’m so fucking naive to all this stuff…

There’s no reply from the chair dweller, however, so Lock continues.

“See, I know you do. And you also know that Enzo likes this town running just the way it does, don’t he?”

Tino grins, chiming in. “He does. But one thing Mr. Bonetti don’t like is problems. Ain’t that right, Lock?”

“It sure is. And you, Gregory, are currently a problem.”

“What the fuck? I’ve only-I only do what I’m told, I-I never—I wouldn’t upset the balance of things!” He looks terrified now, genuine fear in the light of this revelation.

The men look at each other, then at me.

“We’re not the ones who matter anyway. Do you know who she is?”

“No. Some whore. Why the fuck would I—aargh!”

Tino’s suddenly there, one meaty hand gripping the roots of his hair, that Bowie knife held right to the bared expanse of his neck.

“Show some fucking respect to the lady, stronzo ? * .”

I watch the rivulet of blood appear, trickling down over his Adam’s apple; just the tiniest nick making him judder with fear. There’s a tremble in his lip, belaying all that is going through his mind right now.

“Besides, I think Ms. Lara here would disagree. Wouldn’t you, Ma’am?”

With that deference, Tino has firmly cemented himself in my good books. “I would indeed.”

“I-I’ve never even fucking seen her before! What are you talking about?”

I take a step closer. “Think again, asshole. Art gallery, opening night?”

He barks a laugh, derision striking a snarl across his features. “Fuck. I should… I knew that bitch would squeal. Fucking stupid lesbian whore, thinking she could?—”

He stops talking and starts gasping for breath then.

Mainly because I punch him in the fucking throat. I haven’t trained for years in Aikido to not know how to throw a damn punch when I need to. I spit at him for good measure, right in his repugnant face, dredging up every ounce of hatred I feel into the gesture.

He lunges at me, not seeming to care about the knife held to him. It nicks his throat again, causing a further surge of blood. I realize he’s probably coasting on adrenaline right now, the pain almost insignificant in the wake of his total fear.

That’s about to change.

As I recoil from the unexpected movement, something slips into my hand, the wood grain almost warm against my clammy palm. Looking down at the knife I was handed, I watch the dull gleam of the overhead lights reflect off the edge of the curved blade. I’m hungry for it, hungry to spill more of that vile red poison from him, hungry to watch the fear arrive and fade in his eyes.

I’m hungry for violent revenge.

I’m acutely aware that every pair of eyes are on me as I bring it up closer to my lover’s abuser. I weigh him up, this man —though he doesn’t even deserve that title—wondering where I should start. I move my arm up, tracing the line of his hair behind his ear.

Lockey clearly gauges my hesitation, in that innate way of his. “You gonna go Reservoir Dogs on his ass?”

I purse my lips, twisting my head to look at him. “An ear would be too kind, don’t you think?”

A brow raises, a sadistic smile on his face as his eyes flick downward to the creep’s flaccid worm. “I do. You should give him what he deserves.”

I nod, intending to do just that, but then I realize—I’m going to have to touch it to cut it off. And there’s no fucking way I’m doing that. I look back at my accomplice, indicating with the knife. “Do you think you could?—”

Lock’s eyes roll, but he gets what I mean, kneeling down before the captor and picking it up at the crown. “Just don’t get my fucking fingers with it, yeah?”

“I’ll be careful.”

And I am. I am very careful as I draw the sharp edge across the root, listening to the piercing screams that are let loose as I slice through his genitals. It’s a sound that should incite dread, spread terror into the hearts of softer humans. But I have no qualms, because it gives me a disturbing kind of warmth to know that I’m taking back every fucking scream, every tear and every blubbering, begging sound that she made to him.

I’m going to ignore them all, just as this fucking pig ignored hers.

His fucking screams for every one of Kathy’s.

His flood of tears for all the ones she shed—and the ones she will continue to.

I’m going to savor every syllable, every single fucking noise, for all the pain she had to endure because of this… this fucking trash that doesn’t deserve a title.

I’m so engrossed in violent rage that I don’t hear the door unlocking. Not until it swings partially open to reveal an inquisitive face; a younger woman, long brown hair framing expressive eyes. Eyes which are unsurprisingly fixed on me; the female stranger in this vividly gory party.

“What the hell are you all doing in here? It sounds like a lot of fun.”

I take in the scene she’s faced with; me with a bloody knife still in my hand, Tino’s palm over the loser’s mouth, making him swallow the useless lumps of raw meat I hacked off, Lockey casually leaning against the far wall again, a disengaged look on his face.

The knife drops from my hand, useless excuses forming on my tongue as my jaw drops.

But the little brunette woman just smiles at me. “I guess it must be your car in the driveway? Nice of him to whisk you off without even an introduction. I’m Caoimhe, but you can call me Keev, like everyone else does. And, you know, I’d shake your hand, but…”

She tapers off, but I get why. I’m not exactly presentable right now.

Her gaze turns to the other occupants of the room with a muted sigh. “Boys, dare I ask why you’re hurting people in the shed again?”

Lockey shrugs, pushing back off the wall to defend our current act. “He deserves it.”

She eyes the bound captive. “Pretty sure I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Nope.” The big Italian shakes his head in concession.

“Fine, just... Can you keep it down, please? I just got the baby to sleep and you know the bedroom is this side of the house. You’re being pretty loud.” I think she’s about to leave, but she whirls on her heel, adding further instructions. “And while I think about it, can you not get blood on the front door mat again, please? I’d hate to have to throw this one out. Plus, if you’re going to light the fire pit later, which I would suggest given the state of Tino, could you please make sure to do it after the boys are asleep? You know how they like to get involved.”

And that’s that, as she exits, closing the door firmly behind her.

Lockey eyes Tino impassively. “Yeah, she’s not wrong, buddy. You got a little something… There’s a little red on you.”

He chuckles, looking down at his shirt, the light blue color barely visible under the vital crimson lifeblood of the now unconscious man. “Shoulda’ worn black, I guess.”

Lock clicks his tongue, an irritating habit I recall that he clearly still hasn’t shucked. “I have something you can borrow, it’s fine.”

“Don’t wanna go tramping through the house though, man. I don’t want to be in trouble with your girl for anything.”

“Ah, she’ll take it up with me, you know that. She likes to bust my balls about shit all the time.” He shrugs, nonchalant in the face of her clear control.

“I like your wife,” I chuckle. I really do.

He grins at me. “That's my girlfriend. And yeah, so do I, but you should know that my wife don't give two fucks either."

I look at him, confusion drawing my brow into a frown. "You... Wait. You have a wife and a girlfriend?"

"Sure. I'm married to Anna. You remember her?"

"I do." They had worked together, back at the club when we first knew Lock. And, knowing him, the news doesn't exactly surprise me.

"Right. Keev's my Mistress, and we all live together. One big happy fuckin' family; most of the time. Anyway—you done here?”

I look at the sack of bloodied muscle, bone and sinew that, truthfully, can no longer call itself man, because I’ve removed the very parts that seem to define far too many of them. Not the two with me today, but I sense they have a deeper understanding of what it means to be a wo man.

I take a breath, decision warring with the hurt I want to inflict. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Cool. Tee? Take out the trash, dude.”

“My pleasure.”

I close my eyes as the hunting knife comes out again, drawing a deeper line across his throat, the gurgle of his last breath only barely lifting the shroud of anguish.

He’s gone. But that won’t make his victim right again, in any way.