Chapter 25
Seth
We take him to an abandoned storage yard twenty minutes out. Corrugated metal units sit rusted and half collapsed while weeds push through the cracked concrete. The place has no cameras and no neighbors.
Travis stands near the open doorway, looking around the interior of the unit like he just realized what kind of night this is going to be.
Dante sits zip tied to a metal chair bolted into the floor. His breathing has already started to speed up as he looks between the three of us.
Travis clears his throat. “Are you guys going to torture him?”
Beau and I answer at the same time.
“Yes.”
Travis blinks.
He shifts his weight and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t think I’m built for this. My stomach is too weak. I can’t watch.”
Beau jerks his thumb toward the outside of the building. “That’s why you’re supposed to be the lookout in the getaway car.”
Travis nods quickly. “Cool. Thanks. Yup, I’ll be out there.”
He pauses and looks back at Dante.
“Good luck, Dante.”
He takes two steps toward the door, then stops again.
“Actually, fuck you. You’re a piece of shit.”
Then he turns and jogs out of the storage unit toward the car.
The second Dante hears the door slam outside, Beau steps forward.
He doesn’t wait for introductions.
Beau drives his fist into his face with full force.
Dante’s head snaps sideways. Blood sprays across the concrete.
Before he can recover, Beau grabs his shirt, yanks him upright, and hits him again.
The crack of bone shifting carries through the room.
Dante gags, breath ripping out of him in a wet wheeze.
“I’m going to reset your expectations,” Beau says calmly, hitting him again. “There’s no negotiation happening here.”
Dante chokes on blood and spit.
“There’s just pain,” Beau adds, letting him slump back against the chair. “And how fast you decide to stop it.”
Beau steps back.
“Now, where is Elliot’s manor?”
Dante’s shirt is soaked through with blood. The gunshot wound in his foot has drained the color from his face, leaving his skin gray and slick with sweat. Every breath comes shallow and frantic, but his teeth stay clenched like he believes he can hold himself together through pure stubbornness.
I light a cigarette and watch him.
Dante blinks through the blood running into his eyes and forces himself to focus on Beau again.
“You think you’re getting shit out of me?” he rasps. “Go fuck yourself.”
Beau reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. A second later the opening riff of “Hunted Down” by Soundgarden rolls through the warehouse.
I exhale smoke slowly.
Beau always likes music when he works.
Back when we were deployed overseas, he used to blast it before interrogations. Loud enough to drown out the screaming.
Beau tilts his head slightly.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Dante lets out a weak laugh that turns into a cough. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t make it out alive.”
Beau walks toward him without responding.
He grabs Dante by the hair and yanks his head sideways. Dante tries to twist away, but the zip ties hold him tight against the chair.
The knife flashes once.
Dante’s scream tears through the music as Beau slices clean through the cartilage of his ear. Blood pours down the side of his neck while the severed piece of flesh hits the concrete with a wet slap.
Beau picks it up and holds it up between two fingers, studying it for a moment.
Then he leans down until his mouth is next to Dante’s remaining ear.
“Since you’re not hearing us clearly,” Beau laughs, “I had to check for myself.”
Luke’s presence flickers faintly at the back of my mind, not loud yet. Just watching.
Dante’s scream tears through the warehouse.
“MY EAR. YOU CUT OFF MY FUCKING EAR!”
His body thrashes violently against the zip ties. The metal chair rattles against the bolts in the concrete as blood pours down the side of his neck and soaks into his collar. His breath comes out in broken, panicked gasps while he tries to twist away from Beau.
Beau holds the severed ear between two fingers, turning it slowly like he is examining a strange coin. Blood drips from it in thick, slow drops that hit the floor beside Dante’s boots.
Dante gags and shakes his head, trying to focus through the pain.
Beau laughs as he holds the severed ear close to his mouth.
“Can you hear me now, Dante?”
He flicks his wrist and tosses the ear forward. It slaps wetly against Dante’s cheek and slides down into his lap.
Dante gags again, his stomach heaving.
I step forward behind him.
Dante lifts his head slowly, one eye already swelling shut.
“You’re wasting your time,” he rasps.
“No,” I say. “You’re wasting mine.”
I exhale smoke toward the ceiling and let my gaze drop to the table positioned directly in front of him.
Blades. Pliers. Lighter. Needles. Belt. Wire cutters. Bone saw. Salt.
Everything is laid out with intention. Nothing hidden. Nothing accidental.
His eyes track each item despite himself. His shoulders tighten. The chair creaks softly as he shifts.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he spits, forcing the words out.
I step closer. “Yeah. That’s fair. I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of guys like me, tall, tattooed, pissed off, making threats they never follow through on.”
I lean down until we are eye to eye. “But I’m not most men, Dante. I’m a man of my word.”
He says nothing.
“I assume you know who I am.”
He swallows. “Seth Kincaid.”
I nod once.
“Then you know my family history too.”
“I know enough,” he says, trying to straighten like his name still means something. “I’m Dante Valero. You know what happens to me if I talk.”
“I do,” I say. “I just don’t care.”
He scoffs, then breaks into a cough that bends him forward, pain ripping through him.
I crouch in front of him. “What you don’t know is I’m about three weeks off my antipsychotic medication. I haven’t slept. My girlfriend is missing. And my patience is pretty fucking thin right now.”
I let the words sit.
“I need to find this manor. The faster you talk, the faster we wrap this shit up.”
Dante turns his head away. “Fuck you.”
Luke stirs closer.
“Stop asking, Seth.”
I stand and move behind Dante, pressing the lit cigarette to the back of his neck.
The reaction is immediate. His flesh hisses as his scream fractures halfway through as his breath fails him, body jerking against the restraints. I hold the cigarette there until the skin blisters and splits, until his legs kick uselessly and the chair rattles against the bolts.
Then I pull it away and take a slow drag.
“One of the side effects of me being unmedicated,” I say calmly, watching him shake, “is hallucinations. Impulsive behavior. Poor judgment.”
I flick ash onto the concrete.
“When that happens,” I continue, “I tend to get creative with my methods of torture.”
I step back into his line of sight and tap the edge of the table once.
I pick up the knife. “And actually, right now, I’m hallucinating my dead brother standing behind me, and he’s giving me ideas. None of them are quick or painless.”
Luke’s grin presses against the inside of my skull.
I drive the knife into the soft space just above his collarbone, pushing until I feel the blade scrape bone. Skin splits with a wet, tearing sound. Blood surges immediately, running down his chest.
Dante screams. The sound bounces off the walls.
His body jolts violently against the restraints, muscles spasming beneath the blood. His chest heaves, breath breaking into shallow, frantic bursts.
“FUCK,” he gasps, voice cracking. “Shit, if I tell you, they’ll kill me!”
The knife stays where it is, trembling faintly from the way his body shakes.
I press down just enough to remind him what comes next.
“They’re going to kill you anyway,” I step into his line of sight. “You’re already dead. But I can give you options. A slow death or a quick one. Your choice.”
He shakes his head hard. “You fucking idiot, I can’t. Elliot has…”
I backhand him across the face. The chair rattles beneath the force. Blood sprays from his mouth, hitting the concrete in wet streaks.
Before he can recover, I grab his face, fingers digging into his jaw, forcing him to look at me.
“You don’t get it,” I snap. “I’m not fucking around. I will flay your skin off piece by piece if it brings me one inch closer to finding her.”
Luke purrs approval.
“You’re wasting time,” he whispers. “Start with the eyes.”
“I’m going to ask one more time,” I say evenly. “Where is the manor?”
Dante coughs and spits. “You’ll never get in…”
I don’t blink.
I walk to the tool rack and take down the bone saw, its serrated edge catching the light.
“That foot is already useless,” I turn it in my hands. “Not worth saving, is it?”
His breath hitches. “No. No. Wait. Wait.”
I crouch beside his leg, the one Travis has already blown apart.
The boot is soaked through, leather split and glued to what used to be skin.
Blood has dried in thick black crusts around the laces.
The foot inside is no longer shaped like a foot.
It is swollen, split, bone pressing white through torn muscle.
It twitches when I touch it.
“You’re lucky,” I say quietly. “I’m doing you a favor.”
“No. Fuck. Don’t. Elliot will kill you.”
His voice cracks into something desperate.
I grab his ankle. The joint shifts wrong in my grip. I set the saw just above the worst of the damage, teeth resting against skin that is already split open.
Dante starts screaming before I even move.
Then I push down.
The first drag of the blade splits what is left of the flesh. It doesn't glide. It snags and tears. The teeth chew through skin and fat in jerking strokes that vibrate up my arm. Blood spills instantly, pumping out in heavy bursts that coat my hands and the concrete beneath us.
He thrashes against the restraints, chair legs scraping uselessly against the floor.
I saw deeper.