CHAPTER 15
Clint’s eyes were fixed on the shooter, the man’s words resonating in the cowboy’s mind.
Fuck him, I hope he fucking died.
The little brother.
Sibling to the traumatized older brother.
Son of the devastated mother.
I hope he died.
Clint dragged the other chair over and sat in front of the shooter.
For a long, drawn-out moment, he stared at the bleeding man, savoring his fear and pain.
The coppery odor of his blood hung faintly in the stale air of the Guest Room, and the cowboy inhaled it as if taking a drag from a joint.
It had a similar effect, getting him a bit high on the scent.
It had been some time since the scent of blood had this effect on him. Maybe that was a good thing. He had kids and, soon, a husband; it was probably best to leave his old “addictions” behind.
But tonight… he let himself feel it again. He didn’t want anything to stifle his baser instincts, his need to draw blood and take life.
Cochise stood his ground behind the shooter, his own bloodlust reflected in his cold gray eyes.
He hadn’t been present for the horror show Clint and Axel witnessed, but he could read Clint like an open book, and the nightmare was etched on the cowboy’s face.
The Egyptian was a dad, too. A dad who had almost lost his sons to another nightmare.
Standing behind the shooter, eyes locked with Clint’s, he understood the assignment and, like Clint, wouldn’t flinch.
What the fuck were they waiting for?
Not that Chaz was eager for the torture to begin again, but—fuck—the way the cowboy just sat there and stared at him was fucking creepy. And the big bastard hovering behind him like some kind of fucking creature made his hair stand on end and sent chills down his spine.
The pain surging outward from his groin wasn’t subsiding; it was growing worse.
It pulsed through his body in waves of agony.
His balls felt as if they’d been set on fire by the heat of the pain.
A permanent bleary haze glazed his vision, blurring the cowboy’s face—but not enough to blind him to the man’s eerie stare.
“Why… are you… doing this?” Chaz rasped. “Wh-What did I… do to you?” Even speaking heightened his agony. He shifted, and his bare ass slipped in the blood pooling beneath him.
Something almost demonic stared back at Chaz, and an icy sensation slid down his spine.
“That kid… who messed up your shot.” The cowboy’s voice stayed at a whisper. “The one you hoped would die.” The darkness behind his green eyes shifted. “He had a brother, a mother. Family who loved him.”
Oh, fuck. Chaz didn’t think he could get any more scared than he already was—he was wrong.
“Two young boys are dead,” the cowboy murmured. “Because of you.”
“Two…?” Chaz’s face twitched, and he shook his head. “No… no, there was only one.”
“For every action…” The cowboy leaned closer and slid his hand into Chaz’s crotch.
“… there is a reaction.” He squeezed his damaged scrotum—hard.
Chaz screamed and thrashed. The cowboy just stared at him, his hand clenching like a vice, the pain so intense it felt as if he were ripping his balls off.
“Every action has a ripple effect, like a stone dropped into a lake.” He leaned in, his breath hot on Chaz’s flushed, sweaty face as his lips peeled back from his teeth.
“When you shot that kid… it rippled out, causing the death of another innocent boy.” His teeth snapped in Chaz’s face. “Do you hope he died, too?”
Chaz convulsed as if he were in an electric chair, every muscle seizing, his jaw clenching until his face hurt, as the cowboy twisted his bloody balls in a tight fist. Chaz’s head craned back over the chair, and he was suddenly staring up through bulging eyes at the large man behind him.
Somehow, he was even scarier than the cowboy—though the cowboy literally had him by the balls.
The beast of a man stood over him, a huge knife in hand. He slid his fingers into Chaz’s hair, twisted the strands, and yanked his head back until the tendons in his neck strained dangerously. Chaz gagged, tears streaming down his temples.
“Answer the man,” the colossus snarled.
Answer the man. What was the fucking question?
Chaz’s pain-clogged brain frantically tried to recall what the cowboy had said.
But the excruciating pressure between his legs and the threat of his neck being broken were his entire existence at this point.
“I don’t…” his voice gargled in his strained throat, foamy spit gathering in his mouth.
The large blade touched his taut throat, its razor edge popping through the first thin layer of membranes. Blood trickled down Chaz’s neck, almost tickling, like the kiss of a snake’s tongue.
“Do you…” The cowboy twisted his bleeding nuts.
Chaz gagged on his screams. “… hope the other boy…” A burning sting seared across Chaz’s throat as the blade pressed harder, releasing a thicker stream of blood that pooled in the hollow of his throat.
“… died too?” The pool overflowed and dribbled down Chaz’s chest and stomach, filling his belly button, then trickled lower along his happy trail… that wasn’t so “happy” anymore.
The shooter’s knuckles were bone white as his fingers clamped onto the armrests like hooked talons. His chest hitched with his broken, panicked breaths as blood trickled from his throat down to his groin.
“Answer him,” Cochise demanded for the second time. The shooter’s head was bent so far back over the chair that his neck was in danger of snapping. The Egyptian kept perfect control of the blade, where a single slip could end the man’s life.
“I-I… no… NO!” the shooter choked on the desperate cry. “I-I didn’t mean it! I-I don’t want them to die—I DON’T! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I-I didn’t mean for them to get hurt! I DIDN’T!!”
Clint withdrew, his hand coated in the man’s blood, the warm wetness dripping from his fingertips. The shooter gasped in relief as the pressure eased from his useless balls, but he remained tense beneath the blade.
When Clint nodded at Cochise, the big man withdrew the knife and released the man’s hair. The shooter sagged forward, drawing deep gulps of air. His head hung, and he raised watery eyes to Clint’s face. The cowboy met his gaze. “Three.”
The shooter frowned, his bloodshot eyes mottled with confusion.
“You’re not sorry about the kids,” Clint said calmly. “Lie number three. You’re out.”
“Huh—” The man gasped as his head was wrenched back again, and Cochise hooked his fingers into his mouth, prying his jaw open. His tongue flailed as he screamed and tried to thrash free of the man’s iron grip.
Clint rose from the chair, brandishing the ear-clamp pliers. The shooter’s eyes bulged from their sockets, and he let out a guttural cry as the cowboy clamped the pliers onto his tongue and pulled it from his mouth.
“I hate liars,” Clint said. “I gave you three chances to tell the truth, and you wasted them all.” He nodded at Cochise.
The Egyptian struck swiftly, the blade slicing through the shooter’s tongue like butter. The man screamed as the appendage was severed. Cochise let go of his jaw, and blood gushed from his mouth, splattering Clint’s face as the man whipped his head back and forth, gagging and sputtering.
Stepping back, Clint dragged his sleeve across his face. He walked to the drum of coals, dropped the severed tongue into the barrel, splashed gasoline into it, and set it on fire.
The shooter sagged forward, mouth open, convulsing as blood poured down his body.
His eyes had a glaze Clint was familiar with.
The man was checking out. Clint walked to the table, picked up another tool, then returned to the shooter and slapped his face, bringing him back to attention.
Clint sat before him again, smacking his cheek a couple more times until the man managed to focus.
The cowboy held up the small pruning shears, squeezing the handle twice and snapping the short blades in front of the man’s bloody face. “We’re not done yet.”
Chaz was barely coherent, his entire consciousness reduced to a pulsating orb of excruciating pain. All he could taste was blood as it filled his mouth, spilling over his slack lips and back down his throat. His tongue stump spasmed at the back of his throat, gagging him as it swelled.
When the cowboy slapped his face and snapped the shears, his full focus zeroed in on those two blades. He tried to beg, but only muffled, gargled sounds came out. Chaz flinched, choking and drooling, as the cowboy seized his right hand.
“Is this the one?” The cowboy bent back Chaz’s index finger. “The one that pulled the trigger? That pushed that first domino?” His cold eyes darted to Chaz’s other hand. “Or are you a South Paw? I guess the only way to be sure I get the right one—is to take them both.”
Chaz tried to jerk his hands back as he thrashed in the chair, but the leather straps held them fast. A strangled scream ripped from his bloody throat as the cowboy jammed Chaz’s right “trigger” finger between the shears’ blades and began to squeeze slowly—rather than snapping it off.
Animal sounds bubbled from Chaz as his body jerked and convulsed. The cowboy steadily squeezed the shears’ handle, biting through flesh and bone. Chaz’s hand spasmed wildly, then the blades connected, and his finger popped loose, falling to the floor and plopping wetly into a puddle of blood.
“Huh-huh-huh!” Chaz gasped, his stubby tongue wagging erratically, his ability to form words severed along with the appendage.
“One more.” The cowboy grabbed his left hand.
Chaz shook his head violently, bloody spittle spraying from his swollen lips. Panicked whimpers squeezed from his mouth and nose. His left hand yanked viciously against the restraints and the cowboy’s grip, but there was no escape.
The left finger came off more quickly, but with all that pain coursing through him, Chaz couldn’t tell whether the quick snip hurt any less—only that it fucking hurt.
Chaz sagged forward, his chest nearly touching his thighs, as his body twitched and spasmed in pain. His mouth hung slack, a steady stream of bloody saliva dripping from his lips, mingling with his tears in a puddle on the floor. Both hands were shaking, the two stumps bleeding down the armrests.
The cowboy stood and tossed the bloody shears onto the table with an echoing clack, landing among the other tools of torture.
Fingers sank into Chaz’s hair, and he was hauled upright in the chair, the beast behind him holding him in place.
Through watery, blurred vision, he watched the cowboy draw his gun.
His eyes crossed slightly as the man pressed the barrel’s tip to Chaz’s forehead.
Shaking with sobs, Chaz pushed his head against the weapon and squeezed his eyes shut. Do it… please do it… make the pain STOP. He waited for the click of the trigger, the explosion that would release him from this unbearable agony.
Silence. Then…
“You want to die?” the cowboy drawled. His southern-tinged voice sounded thick and faraway.
Chaz trembled and nodded.
“Those two boys wanted to live. Their families wanted them to live. They didn’t get what they wanted.” The gun slowly pulled back from his head. “Why should you?”
Chaz’s eyes snapped open, and hot tears flooded his face. He looked desperately at the cowboy, choking on his sobs. No… No… kill me… KILL ME! PLEASE!!
The cowboy held out his hand, and the beast handed over his large blade. Sinking to his heels, the cowboy stared into Chaz’s bloodshot eyes. “You wished the boy would die. He did. You don’t get another wish.” He pointed the knife at Chaz’s face. “I ain’t your fucking fairy godmother.”
Pleas blubbered from Chaz around his severed tongue, blood bubbling in his mouth.
“I think you need to sit here and think about all the pain and chaos you’ve caused,” the cowboy murmured.
His face twitched. “Think about those two families and what you took from them.” He touched the blade’s tip to Chaz’s quivering gut.
“Think about that boy you hoped would die.” Chaz gasped as the cowboy shoved the blade into his stomach, not too deep, not enough to kill him too quickly.
“And after all that thinking… maybe you’ll feel some remorse.
” He pulled out the knife, rose to his feet, and wiped Chaz’s blood on his pants before returning the weapon to his large friend.
“When I come back to check on you, if I see remorse… maybe I’ll kill you. ” The cowboy adjusted his hat. “Maybe.”
Chaz choked on desperate cries as the two men walked to the thick metal door. No—don’t leave me like this! Please! Just kill me! Just fucking KILL ME! PLEEAASE!!
The men left, and the heavy door closed behind them with a scraping thud, leaving Chaz to die a slow, excruciating death inside this tomb.