Chapter 2
2
ANTHONY
I take the steps down to the basement without a backward glance. The door to the shed above ground closes with a bang, and I hear the click of the lock from the outside.
Good. Shut me in.
No one should come down here. Unless they’ve been invited.
And the only ones who are down here now have been summoned and escorted.
Against their will.
No one would come to hell for fun.
And no one ever comes out alive.
I hear their screams and pleas as soon as I enter the labyrinth of tunnels that I carved out under the back yard of my property over twenty years ago. I make my way to the right as lights flicker overhead, and I pick up the pace.
This is the land of the dead. I keep their bodies here, buried deep within the earth—entombed in the catacombs.
Another scream causes goosebumps to explode across my skin.
Yes. They should feel it.
They should feel everything.
I want them alive as long as possible. Days. Weeks even.
I want them to regret ever touching him, ever trying to snuff out his light.
The way he looked curled up on the ground of that bathroom, the welts on his skin, the bruises. The way he bled. The way his tears slipped from his eyes, how he reached for me when I finally arrived. How he called out for me while he slept…
I’m going to make them bleed for every kick, every punch, every hateful slur.
I finally see the open doorway and make my way inside. My fingers grab the gloves in my suit jacket pocket, and I put them on. They squeak as my fingers flex, my legs carrying me toward the tray of knives that Bane has set out for me.
“Time to take you apart,” I say lowly as I stand in front of the three bloody men all tied up in a row.
The men who hurt him.
“Please,” one starts to say, but I don’t want his words. I don’t want to hear him speak.
There’s a reason I’m called The Silencer.
I nod to Bane and the other man standing guard, and then reach toward the prisoner, pulling his mouth open as he grunts and drools.
“First your tongue,” I say as I grab the knife and bring it up to his lips. “And then every other piece of you.”
His screams make it worthwhile.
A small atonement for his crimes.
And yet, it’s not enough.
No, there will be more. Much more. I think of every hour I’ve spent at his bedside. Every hour that he’s been in agony, and I’ve been unable to help him. Every rasped breath and pained moan. I think of it all and know that even this may not satisfy me. For every day the boy is hurting, for every bruise on his body, these prisoners will suffer. And only when I’m satisfied will I let them die.
Only then , I think as the knife carves into muscle.
Only then.