Chapter 68 – Mitchell
MITCHELL
Tossing the bleeding guy on the floor, I make my way to the cabinet on the side wall. Inside I find an array of medical instruments, restraints and other items that are definitely not used in the pursuit of healing.
Grabbing a set of medical scissors, I turn back around to find he’s managed to roll himself onto his stomach and is attempting to lift himself up.
I watch him struggle for a bit before crossing the basement and using my foot to roll him back on his stomach. He tries to put up a fight, but he doesn’t have the strength to put any effective effort into it. All it takes is a hand to the chest and he’s pinned. Pathetic really.
Without saying a word, I cut his shirt from hem to collar, exposing the gaping bullet wound roughly an inch and a half from his right pelvic bone. Rolling him over, I ignore the groan he lets out as I pull the rest of his shirt away to find the exit wound.
Satisfied, I drop his body and cross back over to the cabinet more than a little impressed with Charlie’s aim.
Digging further through the cabinet, I find what appears to be a custom-made hybrid between BDSM suspension cuffs and heavy-duty metal shackles. I pick them up, testing their weight and durability.
Locking them around his wrists, I study the pulley system Johnathan had installed without the restraints of a poorly angled camera with next to no lighting. It's more than capable of holding this guy's weight.
The bullet wound stretches, oozing a little more as his wrists take the full brunt of his weight. He instantly starts thrashing, trying unsucessfuly to escape but all it manages to do is cause his body to swing out, spinning around and he lets out a scream at whatever that just did to his injury.
The door at the top of the stairs opens and Charlie steps inside. My eyes track him as he descends the stairs, the colour in his face draining as he finds Johnathan’s setup and the man he shot rapidly tiring himself out.
Despite this, he doesn’t make a move to leave, continuing until he’s standing beside me and visibly steeling himself.
“Where are they?” he asks, his voice coming out strained yet strong, determined.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The driver laughs, coughing and grunting, and it pisses me off, but I don’t rise to his bait.
“How’s the kid?” I turn to Charlie, who’s gaze is fixed firmly on the man’s bleeding stomach.
He shakes his head, finally breaking eye contact with the wound he inflicted to look at me. “It’s fucked. Not only does he not recognise or remember his mum, I don't think he even knows what a mum is.”
Absolute rage fills me, especially when I hear the driver's snicker and I move without thinking, driving my fist into the his stomach. Hard.
He flies back, his body spinning wildly and I just manage to step back in time to avoid the vomit that spills out of his mouth, causing him to choke on his own scream.
Charlie grimaces and looks away, but to his credit he still doesn’t make any move to leave.
“Where are they?” I repeat Charlie’s question.
“Fuck you,” he spits out, jutting his chin up and smirking stoically despite the pain filled wheeze that attaches itself to his every inhale and exhale.
“Fuck’s sake! We don’t have time for this,” Charlie curses out, pulling at the strands of his hair.
Not bothering to repeat my question, I walk around the driver, stopping behind him and wrap my arms around his stomach. "Last chance."
"Fuck you."Tightening my grip, I yank him down with every ounce of strength I have. I hear the pop of his shoulders a fraction of a second before his scream reverberates through the basement.
“Oh my God.” Charlie shakes his head, his eyes bouncing between the driver and the closed door at the top of the stairs.
A scoff brings my attention back to the driver and he shakes his head, muttering out, “weak.”
“Not enjoying watching people suffer doesn’t make him weak.”
“And what about you?”
“Oh, I enjoy watching people like you suffer. People like you who think you can take whatever – whoever – you want.
“You took what’s mine. They are mine-” I don’t care that I’m not romantically involved with Jace or Charlie.
Rissa claimed them, therefore I claimed them.
“-and I don’t care if I have to rip you limb from limb and still don’t get any answers from you.
It won't make a difference. I’ll still find them. ”
“She was never yours,” he breathes out weakly, coughing but still managing to smirk at both of us. “She’s finally where she belongs.”