THIRTY-ONE
Harry
Hudson fucking Anderson.
There’s only so much hiding a guy can attempt. It cost me a sensible bribe – just shy of a grand – to have Whizz Tech Dan hack the security footage. The CCTV should be foolproof since it uses some of the most ruthless software known to man, but thankfully, Dan set it up, meaning he’s the only person in existence who can gain access.
The interaction seems pretty fucking civil as I watch the footage. Christ, Hudson looks like a sound guy … until he taints Gigi’s skin with his lips. An anger so intense it could only be treated by spilling blood swarms my body at the sight. Luckily, Richard has someone down in the cellar that he needs information extracting from. I welcome the opportunity with open arms. It’s been some sweet and sick torture not having an outlet for my rage, especially since my case of blue balls is becoming increasingly tiresome.
Andy passes me the paperwork as we pace down the halls towards the interrogation quarter. Ours are unlike any other – they’re a lot more … sinister. We’ve chosen the smallest of the bunch, a vast space of approximately one thousand square feet. Rubble is scattered on the concrete floors and graffiti decorates the walls, allowing our victims to assume we’ve escorted them to an abandoned building. Little do they know, they’re in our fucking territory .
I run my eyes over the paperwork, picking apart the crucial information as Andy unlocks the heavy fireproof door that leads us to the floor below.
Russo De Luca.
Some descendent of the Mafia who got caught snooping at one of Richard’s offices in South London, no doubt searching for information the Italians could use to blackmail him.
That’s the problem when you’re in a position like Richard’s: someone will always be itching to fill your shoes. Luckily, he’s always one step ahead of them. The cruel reality is, I wish they had extracted a juicy fucking tell. Hell, I’d praise them for it, but I’m not supposed to get involved in politics. My job is to extract the information out of this guy by any means necessary.
“The Boss isn’t going in with us on this one,” Andy says, a calmness to his voice as we walk down the hall. “Whizz Tech Dan caught CCTV footage of him on the phone with a man named Paolo. Records check out as a distant uncle who’s hired us before for an assassination.”
I nod.
“Richard said to have fun trying to extract the information, but otherwise he’s useless.”
This doesn’t surprise me. It always tends to be snakes we’ve worked for in the past who are intimidated by our work, wanting to tear apart our society from the inside out.
I pocket the paperwork in the back of my jeans, preparing for business. Richard would have visited him shortly before our arrival, alerting Russo of our incoming presence. He’ll know he’s going to die today.
As we unlock the wrought iron door into his interrogation room, the stale scent of urine fills my nose. Turning the corner, I jut out my bottom lip. The poor fucker has pissed himself. We haven’t even started yet.
Andy and I simultaneously approach the table littered with torture devices. Ignoring the victim’s presence is one of the most crucial parts of the process – it’s jarring and will stray their attention from withholding information.
Russo says nothing except for a few grunts as he struggles in the lone wooden chair in the centre of the room. He’s restricted with iron cuffs since we found out rope was prone to burning during the odd torture method.
“What about these?” my friend asks, holding up the pliers.
We both turn to Russo, and his eyes balloon in fear. I cock an eyebrow but shake my head, turning back to the table. The pliers are normally one of my favourite methods, along with ripping out a few teeth, but seeing as this guy has replaced most of his molars with gold, he’s probably immune to extraction.
Besides, I’m more in the mood for getting my hands dirty today.
We are looking to spill blood after all.
People may say otherwise, but nothing beats a knife. It fits comfortably in your hand, and nothing quite surpasses the feeling of a staggered pulse in your palm, vibrating against the blade.
Once I’ve opted for a simple switchblade, I nod at Andy to get started with the interrogation.
As I dry my hands with a cloth for no other reason than to heighten suspicion, eyes burn into the back of my head. I turn around to watch Andy trudging towards Russo, dropping the bucket of water at his side with an echoed clunk and causing water to spill over the rim.
Andy kicks the top of his chair and Russo’s back falls to the floor. He’s barely able to spit pleas of mercy before Andy covers his mouth and nose with a cloth, pouring the bucket of water over his face. Our victim thrashes back and forth, stuttering for breath against the rag, but he’ll only find himself suffocating due to the water.
Leaning back against the table, I cross my legs at the ankles and fold my arms over my chest, watching my friend do what he does best as the excess water pours down the grate below his feet. Just when Russo is on the brink of unconsciousness, Andy drops the bucket and pulls the chair upright .
Spluttering water up from his throat, Russo vomits, spoiling the ground. Andy’s face drops all emotion with impressive speed.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Russo,” he says. “You tell us what you were doing in South London, and we’ll let you go.”
“Y-yeah, right.” He pants, his harsh cough stained with spots of blood.
“I’m a good man. You have no reason not to trust me.”
“You almost fucking killed me!”
“I don’t like being spoken to like that, Russo. Maybe my methods weren’t harsh enough.” Andy places his thick boot on the top of the wooden chair, ready to continue with the torture, but Russo’s eyes widen.
“Wait, wait, wait!” he yells. “I was collecting information.”
“What kind of information?” I ask, butting in.
“I don’t fucking know! My boss said I’d know it when I saw it.”
“You’re talking about Paolo Ricci, right?”
He nods his head slowly.
My brow furrows as I say, “It seems highly unlikely your boss would send you to all that trouble without being more specific. Having worked with him before personally, I know he’s extra precise with how he wants his jobs done.”
I take my steps slowly, and Russo turns rigid the closer I approach. His dull eyes are now frantic as I stand less than a metre from him.
Andy chimes in. “He liked the torturous methods the most. The ones where our targets plead for us to kill them because the torment is too much.”
Losing composure, a roar tears free from Russo’s throat and he starts to thrash against the cuffs, the iron slicing his wrists to shreds. “What’s the point in fucking telling you anything? I’m a dead man anyway!”
True.
I crouch down beside him, toying with the knife’s handle, before I grin and say, “Entertain me.”
“Fuck you, man!” he spits, fighting against the restraints with all his might .
Catching the handle in my palm, I lean up and run the tip of the blade over his jugular, towards his shoulder.
“I’ll ask you one last time. What information were you looking for?”
I push the tip of my blade into his shoulder, piercing his flesh.
He screams.
I smile.
My knuckles tighten with tension as I imagine twisting my wrist and watching his body flood with panic. Blood would spray from his neck if I assaulted his carotid artery with my blade. It’d be fatal enough to kill him, but slow enough to ensure his death would be long and painful.
As I’m preparing to strike, a cold chill rakes up my spine as an echoing creak fills the space around us.
Mine and Andy’s eyes lock.
Who the fuck is that?
I whip my head towards the source of the sound, my eyes landing directly on the door. Strands of long brown hair peek through before a face – one belonging to an angel who just stepped into the depths of hell – peers around the corner.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!
My arms start to vibrate, struggling to keep the composure settled under my skin, as Gigi takes in the space in front of her, looking from Andy, Russo, and me to the rubble beneath our feet. Just as her eyes are about to land on the table full of creative equipment, my composure cracks and I launch my switchblade. Her breath catches as the knife lands in the wood with a swoosh , positioning itself just a few inches from her creamy skin.
“Outside. Now!” I demand.
Ignoring my threat, she asks, “What are you doing?”
I’m already storming over to her, blocking out Russo’s pleas of innocence and hoping the little wench in front of me will be his saving grace. I’m enraged to see her eyes alight with intrigue rather than fear.
Pulling her out of the room, I drag the heavy door closed behind us. My hands grip her shoulders. “What the fuck are you doing here!”
“I followed you.”
“What on earth would make you do that?”
She gnaws on her bottom lip, her doe eyes aching to break down the walls of my fury. “I wanted to watch.”
“You wanted to watch,” I repeat sarcastically.
She should be running for the hills after witnessing what occurred behind the door, but instead she wants to stay and watch. What if she’d stayed to witness me plunging my knife into Russo’s throat? Jesus Christ.
As my thoughts become docile I finally notice Russo’s pleas have ceased. Andy must have finished the job. With the intrigue on Gigi’s face, she must have come to the same conclusion. Her eyes flicker to the closed door over my shoulder.
My jaw tightens. “You are not ready for this.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, her cheeks go red with warmth. “You’re scared of what I’ll become.”
“Of course I’m fucking scared!” I say in a hushed whisper. “This is not the life for a woman.”
She retreats a step, stammering, “There’s other women here.”
True, but they’re not my woman.
With my silence angering her, Gigi demands, “What about Poppy?”
I scoff. “I don’t even think she’s human at this point. She’s an anomaly.”
“Then let me be one too,” she pleads, touching my hands, which still rest on her shoulders.
At the realisation I’m stroking my thumbs over her skin, I snap my hands away. Words can’t do my anger justice, so I simply shake my head. And while I’m at it, I stand back to physically distance myself, because her touch is too damning.
I can’t accept her in this life. It goes against everything I’ve ever fought for since I met her. I’m not a fucking gentleman, but I’ve always prided myself on the fact I’d protect this woman until the very end.
And I’ll continue to do so even if I die trying … but I can feel my lifeline faltering.