Chapter 28 #4
“I’m going to ask you again,” Meathead said, crossing the distance between them, not bothering to build up the suspense but rather placing the sharp end of his knife against the skin of Beckett’s right pectoral.
If he jammed it in, it would hurt, no doubt about it, but it wouldn’t kill him.
And that was really the main thing in situations like this.
One of his gunnies in C.U.N.T.’s had drilled one simple philosophy into them: Pain was temporary.
Beckett could deal with temporary pain. Death, on the other hand, was pretty fucking permanent.
“Who hired you?” Meathead asked.
“Geraldine something—works for Tracy Goodman. Mr. Rosario contacted my boss directly. I only met him a few days ago,” Beckett replied anxiously, speaking rapidly to make it sound more believable, and convince Meathead he was thoroughly terrified.
“Stop lying to me!” he shouted, pressing the blade into Beckett’s skin slowly and with deadly intent.
Beckett cursed a blue streak, his eyes rolling back in pain as he did his best not to scream. They didn’t deserve his scream or his tears. Fuck these assholes.
“What the fuck man! I’m telling you the truth!” he begged desperately instead, his knees buckling as the pain flared through him. It wasn’t enough though. Clearly, Meathead was a sadist. He was practically foaming at the mouth at the sight of Beckett’s pain.
“What’s your name?” the fucker demanded, pulling back the blade, now covered in blood, and setting it about an inch below the initial wound.
Beckett hitched a breath as the blade left his body, feeling faint with pain and terror.
He took a steadying breath, refusing to give in to those feelings.
His hands were straining against the ties, his mind running through all the different ways he could get out of them and disarm the bastard.
But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He was a bodyguard.
A hired bodyguard. Not some Special Forces marvel who could pull off this escape any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
He had to make it look convincing. Had to play his part. He had to survive.
Do it for Franklin, he reminded himself.
“Your name!” the asshole roared again, and Beckett could feel the sharp knife press hard against his skin once more. It was nothing compared to the burning pain in his chest, but it was menacing all the same.
“Donovan Carpenter,” Beckett whimpered. “Please,” he pleaded, trying to sound truly pathetic instead of letting any of his burning rage show.
“I don’t believe you!” Meathead shouted before pressing the blade into his chest again.
Beckett bit down on his tongue hard to hold back his screams. His head bent back in an attempt to escape the pain but there was no mercy—no give.
Just pain, flaring up and setting his world ablaze.
It was looking increasingly likely that he was going to be the poster boy for “death by a thousand cuts” if this shit kept up.
“Not so funny now, are you?” Meathead asked, smiling like a maniac.
Sick fucker needed to die.
Beckett chuckled, the faint laugh making his bruised ribs sing with pain. He ignored it.
“You enjoy poking men with hard things often?” he said, baiting the monster with the knife.
It was a mistake. Of course, it was. Meathead roared with fury, and instead of pulling the knife out, he pulled up, cutting the skin left between the two punction wounds.
Beckett’s knees gave out again. He didn’t say a single thing, the pain taking his breath away and his mind went blank for a wonderous second.
“Stop!”
Beckett searched for the man who said that but couldn’t find him in the dark. Meathead was taking up his entire field of vision.
“He’s telling the truth. I have the picture.”
Meathead growled angrily, stomping over to the opposite wall. Beckett caught sight of the figure there. The same guy from before was his best guess. Jean, then, had returned to the torture chamber. If he ended up being his savior, Beckett would owe him an apology for mocking his name.
Jean was holding a phone, its screen bright in the dim lighting.
Meathead grabbed it from him and peered down at the device.
Beckett had no doubts about what he was looking at.
He’d seen the picture posted online. Beckett and Hayes, standing on either side of Jonathan Kent, each one had an arm looped through Mr. Kent’s.
Most of their faces were covered by masks, but it was unmistakeably them, if you knew what you were looking for.
“Fuck!” Meathead cursed viciously. He threw the knife he’d been holding all the way across the room, and Beckett made a mental note of its location even though he wasn’t able to reach it.
“Tell the boss we’re wrong,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
“And send the doc down before the loudmouth bleeds to death.”
“He won’t be happy,” the other one said.
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” Meathead lashed out. “Fucking go!” Then he turned on his heels and lumbered over to Beckett, footsteps as heavy as an elephant’s.
“I looked good in the tux right?” Beckett asked, through clenched teeth as he tried to manage the pain coursing throughout his entire body.
Meathead punched him unconscious. Hallelujah! Another small blessing.