Chapter twenty-five
Down St. Abandoned Underground Station, Mayfair
Russell
I watch in both horror and awe as my brother holds Hastings under the water level.
When he and Hunter pull him out, the bastard gasps violently in a vain attempt to fill his dying lungs with air.
Once he seems to settle again, they thrust him back below the water.
It’s the cruelest method when conducting any torture—giving your victim a false sense that the ordeal is over only to reenact the brutality.
The process is exhausting and exhilarating for all concerned, whether a participant or spectator.
Harrison approaches Connor from behind and taps him on the shoulder. My brother's focus flits to him briefly. He releases his grip on Hastings. “Enough,” Harrison says firmly. “You don’t want to kill him too soon.” Hunter sighs dramatically but pulls his victim from the water again.
“Spoilsport,” he says cheekily. He lets go of the man he’s holding, who falls forward onto the edge of the bath, his shoulders colliding with the metal before he collapses to the floor.
“We should stick with water. I don’t think our friend enjoys it. His body vibrates wonderfully with fear.”
Hastings doesn’t speak; he shakes his head viciously, trying to clear the water from his ears and face as he lies in a heap.
“Lie him flat on his back,” I suggest, then reach for a dirty rag lying over a metal rail on the wall.
It was probably white at one point; now, it’s a morbid gray speckled with black.
Heaven knows how long it's been down here.
Hunter and Connor maneuver Hastings onto his back.
“Fill the bucket, Waite.” Harrison goes back to the tap and twists open the faucet.
I hobble over then drop my crutches onto the floor, offering the dirty rag to my brother.
“Pull that over his face,” I tell him, then turn to Hunter.
“Pin him down.” My friend moves to kneel on our captive’s chest.
“Pass me the bucket.” Harrison walks over, passing me the now full bucket.
“I’m going to enjoy this.” I tip the water over the dirty rag, and it soaks it immediately.
I keep the stream of water constant as Hastings kicks his legs in panic.
“Sometimes, the oldest torture techniques are the best; prepare yourself, you arsehole, because you will experience many tonight.”
Slowly, we refill the bucket and I pour the water over Hastings’s face. As time passes, he fights less. His will to survive ebbing from his body as the reality of what’s happening to him sets in. I imagine his mouth gawping beneath the disgusting fabric only to be met with more liquid.
Once he stills, we remove it and pull him up to sit.
He’s limp, and I wonder if we have gone too far already.
But then, he coughs aggressively, throwing himself forward from the waist.
His face is filthy, covered in remnants of dirty water.
Hunter grabs him by the collar, pulls him up to stand, then pushes him to a wooden spindle chair which seems strategically located in the corner of the room. Hastings collapses onto the seat.
Another train passes the station, but we can’t see it. The noise is loud behind the wall. The clatter fills the space, and everyone stops speaking. Once it subsides, Hunter pulls his knife from his belt and walks toward Hastings, who looks up with tired, beaten eyes.
My friend spins the knife between his fingers, then lowers it swiftly and opens our captive’s suit jacket and shirt at the shoulders, exposing flesh.
He does the same on the opposite side, then pulls both lots of material down his arms so they bunch at his still-tied hands.
“Perfect,” he mutters before driving the blade into his shoulder.
Hastings wails in pain, and Hunter pulls the knife from his body then turns and passes it to Connor.
“Your turn, Chase. Use him as a fucking pin cushion.”
Connor takes the blade, looks at me, and I nod in encouragement.
It would be typical for me to take part in the rough justice we distribute.
I’m not embarrassed to admit I find a thrill in physically punishing someone who deserves it.
But Connor rarely gets involved. He’s the one who stands back and allows others to take the lead.
But today, it’s obvious he wants to be the one who inflicts the pain.
The knife cuts into the flesh at the top of each arm over and over again. Eventually, Hastings’s body gives the impression that his arms are hanging, almost detached.
“Stand,” Connor barks, and Hastings wobbles to his feet.
“Follow me.” We all look at each other, unsure of where he’s going with this.
My brother walks out into the passageway and heads toward the noise of yet another train.
At the bottom of the corridor is a modern sign with an arrow, telling us the Piccadilly line is to our left.
“I thought the tunnels weren’t used,” I asked, signaling to the sign.
“Those were installed for contractors,” Hunter explains. “So they don’t get lost.”
We follow the arrow and are met with a metal grate that looks onto the in-use trainline.
Connor is leading the way, with Hastings behind him.
Connor stops, and his eyes run over the obstruction.
His foot lifts, and he kicks it violently.
It only causes it to wobble. I look to Hunter and Harrison.
They both shrug, then my eyes land on an old bench sitting to the side of the corridor.
The two men not related to me by blood read my thoughts and go to lift it.
“Out of the way,” I tell my brother, who places his hand on our captive’s chest, pushing him out of the way as the bench connects with the metal. It bends but doesn’t give way until the fourth hit. One side pops open, and between us, we’re able to bend it out of the way.
Hastings turns and tries to scurry off down the corridor. The fact he can still walk is amazing, but prey will always fight until they accept they’re beaten, even if the odds are stacked against them.
Connor strides behind him then grabs his collar, pulling him back to the tracks.
He spins the bastard to face him, pushing him so his heels are only millimeters from the line.
The sound of a train approaching echoes up the tunnel.
Connor smiles menacingly at the man he holds.
He grabs the top one of his arms and squeezes.
Hastings yells in pain as the previously inflicted wounds strain with movement.
“Stop,” he pleads. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Too late. It’s time to end this.” The train gets closer, Connor holds his victim beside the tracks, pulling him away just in time as the hunk of metal passes. My brother turns to Harrison. “Call Violet and get the girls to meet us where we discussed.”
“What do you mean?” I snap, annoyed at being left out of an earlier conversation.
“Samantha needs to see this for herself,” Connor replies.
“No, she doesn’t.” My words are hard and acidic. I don’t attempt to hide my disagreement.
“Yes, she does. She must know this bastard is finished and has paid for what he did.”
“You’ve changed your tune. A matter of days ago, you wanted her to quit her job due to danger, but today, you’re inviting her to dispose of a body.”
My brother's eyes focus on me, and we stare at one another. There’s a new hardness on his features, an unrelenting hatred I’ve never seen before.
“Maybe I’ve accepted she’s much stronger than I gave her credit for.” He strides by me, and Hunter grabs for our victim, wrapping him in a blanket that seems to appear from nowhere. I limp after my brother, completely forgetting my crutches from the earlier room.
“Connor, are you sure about this? This will change her.” He stops then turns to face me.
“She changed the moment we fell in love with her,” he says simply, then walks away.
***
Deserted Warehouse, River Thames
After Connor left the underground tunnels, he pulled the car to the gray door, and we bundled Hastings into the back.
The blanket covering him soaked through with blood quickly; we needed to leave fast.
Once in the car, he passed out. Hunter called his right-hand man, Greyson, to come and clean the scene.
Now, the four of us and Hastings are standing at the river's edge, waiting for Samantha to arrive.
She needs to see for herself that the bastard who hurt her is gone for good.
I want her to know we sought revenge on her behalf, but she deserves to have a choice whether to be involved in his execution.
Her being at peace with her past is my priority.
Closure is part of that. Offering her all of the options is what is best for her.
The warehouse has been abandoned for a long time and is now owned by Hunter.
He has big plans to renovate and build housing here in years to come once the surrounding area is developed, which is underway.
The space is dark and eery, with hardly a sound beyond an odd owl hoot.
A trash can clatters to the ground startling us, and a fox scurries across the asphalt.
Headlights appear from behind the building, and I see my sister’s little black Mazda MX-5 come around the corner.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Harrison mutters, annoyed by the unexpected arrival of his wife.
“And, of course, she had to bring the go-kart,” I add. Harrison grunts. The change in his expression tells me he is furious.
“She’ll be child-free, so she likes to use her sporty wheels. Makes her feel less mum-like,” he says under his breath.
Harrison bought my sister the car as a present when she gave birth to my niece.
He said it was her adult toy to use when she was off mum-duty.
“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for childless days out.”
As they get closer, Violet and Samantha come into view. She grinds to a halt ten meters away, slamming the brakes hard enough that they screech. Harrison shakes his head, then strides toward his wife as she climbs out of the car.
“Vi, light movements. You don’t need to stamp on the brake pedal. And what the fuck are you doing here?”
She beams at him as she closes the door, then skips toward him before throwing her arms around his neck.
He takes her in his arms naturally. “Thank God you’re good at things other than driving. Maybe you need more lessons.”
She giggles but doesn’t respond. Even with his grumpiness, she looks so fucking happy.
“Why are you here?” he repeats.
“To support my friend, and I didn’t want to be left out of the fun.” She rises on tiptoe and kisses his lips. He visibly thaws in front of me. My sister has him on a leash; the man would do anything for her.
“You hate this stuff,” he counters. She looks up at him with wide eyes, then shakes her long dark hair down her back.
“Sam said you were taking out the trash. Well, I’m here to ensure you do a good enough job. Is that him?” Her focus moves to Hastings, her face pinching in disgust as she takes in his bloodied appearance.
Sam appears from the passenger seat. She walks over cautiously. I watch her eyes move around, taking in the situation before her. She comes to my side, and I pass my arm around her waist. “Are you okay, Trouble?” I ask. She mumbles positively, but I’m not convinced this was Connor’s best idea.
“Sam,” my brother calls to her, then waves for her to go to him standing next to Hastings, who’s lying on the ground barely breathing.
I release her. As she reaches him, he takes both her hands and pulls her close, then places a soft kiss on her lips.
“I told you we would get justice.” She looks from him to Hastings on the floor, then to me.
“I want to be part of this,” she says, her voice clear. The request is deliberate. “What can I do? I need to be part of it.”
Although I knew it was an option, I’m surprised by her immediate request but bizarrely proud that she wants to take some ownership of what we’ve done tonight. My girl wants to be part of the sentencing we've passed on our convict, whether the means are legal or otherwise.
“You can help us bury him,” Connor tells her.
The ready-to-mix concrete is prepared. Hunter pulls Hastings to his feet, and Harrison stands behind him, keeping him steady.
One leg at a time, Connor places one of Hastings’s feet into the waiting plastic buckets then passes a shovel to Sam.
“Fill them up,” he tells her, and she lifts some wet concrete from the ground then slides it into the bucket.
Hastings focuses on her and leers; she ignores him.
We all stand and watch as the concrete sets fast around his feet. I hobble over, pull a hankerchief from my pocket, then pass it to Sam. Without any need of instruction, she takes it and stuffs it in his mouth. His eyes bug in surprise, and she flicks a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder.
“Goodbye, Jasper,” she says sweetly before turning and walking away. Violet runs over to embrace her friend. The two women pull back and stare at one another.
“Have you seen what you needed to see?” my sister asks, and Samantha nods. “Good, then let’s go.” Violet looks at us all standing in a circle with a man ready to be thrown in the river. “You boys clean up,” she says. “Us girls are going to celebrate.”
“Violet Waite,” Harrison growls. “Go straight home. I want you to be there when I return.” She blinks at him then cocks her head to the side. He bristles at her defiance. “You shouldn’t fucking be here.”
“No, I should be here. I am supporting my friend, and we are going for a drink,” she replies sharply. She takes a step toward the waiting car.
“Do you not think you’d be better returning to The Level?” Connor suggests to Sam as she turns away. “We can all celebrate later. Together.”
“Perhaps we should just go back to The Level.” She turns to Violet, who narrows her eyes, annoyed. Samantha laughs, then looks between us all.
“Fine,” Violet says. “We will head off and meet you there.”
We watch the two women climb into the little sports car and drive off.
“Do you think they’ll be going where we told them to?” I ask.
“Not a fucking chance,” Harrison responds, then pulls his phone from his pocket. “Luckily, I have systems to keep control of my argumentative wife.”