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I don’t feel anything in particular about the actual killing process, not that I hate unloading the weight off my shoulders on someone’s internal organs, but it’s only a tool taking me to the ecstasy that makes me feel the most… death.
“Serpent…” The piece of shit hisses through bloody teeth the moment I open the heavy metal door to the room, which has seen more death than the cemetery downtown.
But this is not the same piece of shit I wanted to see in here. He’s connected enough that he could be useful. He’s tied to a metal chair bolted to the floor, on the opposite side of the door, the only in and out of this concrete box. Carter and Madds stand next to the only other piece of furniture in this space, a metal table holding a few… instruments.
“Mr Crowley, pleasure to meet you in person.” I peel off the suit jacket and hang it on the hook on the door, pulling on one of the long, clear plastic robes from there. I don’t plan to burn these clothes later, so this is a smart choice. I do take off my shoes, though. I like them.
As the slapping sound of my bare feet on the finished floor resonates through the room, Crowley’s eyes grow bigger. He knows what this means… the robe covering my clothes.
And with my last step, my fist connects with the side of his face with a force that makes his neck crack, blood spouting out of his mouth and straight onto Carter’s shoes, seven feet away.
“Oh, come on! They’re new fucking shoes!” He walks toward us and lands another punch to the other side of Crowley’s face, the blood now staining the bottom off my trousers where the robe doesn’t reach, and my bare feet.
“Happy?” I look up at him from under the shadow of my eyebrows.
“Quite, yes.” Carter turns and goes back next to Madds, pulling a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and wiping his shoes. Sometimes I wonder about him, he loves that… the style of another era, another century. The brogues, the waistcoats, the handkerchief, even the pocket watch. But the son of a bitch pulls all of them off.
“You can kill me now. I have nothing to say to you.” Crowley draws my attention back to him, before he spits blood on me.
I can’t help the rumble vibrating from my chest, through my throat, coming out in a menacing laugh.
“I’m not entirely sure why you believe that the moment you die is a decision you make. No, Mr Crowley, we have exactly”—I lift my left hand to look at the simple Vacheron watch wrapped around my wrist—“thirty-four minutes until I have to get ready to go out to dinner. So, ten, maybe fifteen minutes, seems like a good amount of time for you to share where the fuck Boseman is. I seem to remember a deal we made, when a certain transgression of yours was suddenly forgotten by the police. You have not delivered on your end of that.” I shove both hands in my pockets, my back slumped slightly, head cocked as I regard the fat man before me.
It’s interesting, sometimes just silence makes people talk. A look is enough, and the constant unbroken eye contact makes them squirm. Their pupils dilate, they shift uncomfortably in the metal chair, their throats bob as they swallow invisible lumps. The anticipation of pain is sometimes painful enough, and they think they can avoid the physical pain by spilling their secrets.
It’s more time-consuming for sure, but… so much more satisfying.
Mr Crowley is already starting, his eyes shaking from left to right as my gaze makes him feel increasingly uncomfortable, but he fights the urge to submit… nothing like Miss Morrigan O’Rourke yesterday.
Morrigan… I narrow my eyes as that intrusive thought of the fiery redhead penetrates my mind.What the fuck?!No, I don’t have time for this. I slam my fist into the man’s gut, somehow with more anger than I needed to exert, but her image invading my mind triggered it.
“Joanne. Fifteen Harrigan Road. She’s home right now, cooking dinner. I believe it was beef roast, your favorite.” Crowley flinches, his pupils dilating for a split second as he regards my words about his wife.
I walk to the table, running my fingers over the few, but effective items we hold here—the disposal instruments, some chains, a couple of pliers, a cleaver, then right at the end, two knives, one serrated and one smooth. I pick the smooth one and head back to the man with his wrists tied, palms up. He can turn them face down if he really wants to, but the rope burn will be a bitch if he tries.
Clasping his left hand in a handshake, I bring the blade to the side of his wrist, sinking it into his skin. He holds in a scream, and grips me hard… at first, but as I slice deeper, moving toward the other side, splitting open veins and tendons, his fingers give out, and his tongue too, screaming through gritted teeth, as he spits out blood and saliva.
His teeth are no longer clenched as his screams fill the room when I repeat the process on the other wrist. I like doing this; it’s a guide mark on the skin for where to cut later when we remove the hands completely. After all, we need to ensure we get rid of the fingerprints.
“I guess the thought of us killing your wife doesn’t move you.” I smirk. “Figures.”
His breaths stagger as he fights through pain and blood loss, but I carry on. One by one I slice the skin between each of his fingers, using his pleas to stop as motivation. This is what a lot of them fail to understand—they do not make the decisions here. Even if they are ready to talk, it only matters if we are ready to listen.
When I’m done and I raise my eyes to him, his mouth is tightly closed, fury and fear staining his eyes, blood vessels broken as red spreads through the white.
“Scott is there too,” I say as I bring my blade to the left corner of his mouth and sink it in before slowly dragging it into a half smile as tears mix with the blood pouring out with his swallowed screams. His close-mouthed cries are strong as blood pours out of his fat cheek. He leans his head over his shoulder, forcing his mouth to stay closed, his light blue shirt turning purple fast, as his whimpers begin to bore me.
“Please… please stop.” Defeated sobs scrape my ears, as he tries to speak with his mouth barely open.
“I lied…” He spits the blood pooling into his mouth, ready to talk now his son is being threatened. Not his wife, though. From what I hear, he would throw his wife to the wolves in exchange for much less than his own son. Not because there’s something wrong with her. His misogynistic, abusive ass doesn’t need a reason, and from what we’ve heard… his son has learned a lot from him.
“I don’t know where Boseman is. I thought I could find out before you came to collect. I lied… I just wanted to get out.” I can barely understand what he’s saying, gurgling blood.
“And here we were, thinking you knew who you were dealing with. Who we are!” My patience is wearing even thinner. “We are the fucking Sanctum! Do you think that if it would have been that easy to find this motherfucker, we would have had any need for you?!” I land a fist so hard in his cheek, the slice opening farther, and I could have sworn I felt teeth dislodge under my knuckles.
His cries bounce off the concrete walls, and somewhere deep in my soul, I do feel a little bit of pity for him.
But he deceived us; and unfortunately for him… it negates that tinge of pity.
