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“I’ll leave the country. I’ll disappear.”
“Shirt. Off,” I spit out from between clenched teeth, and the guard who’s been standing at the ready to help dispose of Jonathan comes forward. Within seconds, he rips the bloody garment from Jonathan’s body, the fabric digging into his skin and my old friend hisses, feebly attempting to push my employee’s hands away. But then again, he’s always been a weak man. Once done, the guard looks at me, and I nod in appreciation. “Stand back.”
“Yes, sir.”
My thumb rubs against the handle, feeling the small button there, but I refrain from pressing it.
Instead, I take two steps back while dragging the thick leather against the harsh concrete, my eyes on the man I once called family. There are cuts and bruises, the holes on his cheek are a nasty color already, and his chest bears the brunt of an earlier kick to his sternum.
“Don’t. Come on, mate...not—” He doesn’t get to finish as my wrist flicks forward and the first lash lands across his upper torso, the skin there welting and in some spots ripping. And this was a soft strike. No real force was applied. The second and third are much the same, but now his abused body crawls away from me—he drags himself toward a door to the left he’ll never make it to.
I follow at a leisurely pace.
For each step forward, I bring down the whip with precise strikes across his slim build: back, legs, and even the pads of his feet, all while ignoring his sad attempts at swaying my emotions. His tears and pleas mean jack shit to me; it’s his blood I am after.
“No more. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Each slash slowly releases his life’s essence. Each pays one drop at a time for each pound he stole.
“You held a gun to the head of a Jameson employee.” Another direct hit, this one down over the center of his spine, and he arches, a silent scream catching in his throat a second before losing control of his bodily function, once more. Jonathan throws up, the bile liquid escaping from both his mouth and the tear on each cheek. Disgusting. “You threatened his mum and twelve-year-old sister. You told him you’d put a bullet between the eyes of a minor if he didn’t transfer half a million pounds into an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. Am I lying?”
“No.” Jonathan’s trembling, arms giving up as he falls forward. He’s face down and mumbling, fingernails digging into the concrete, and that only serves to break each to the flesh. The meaty stumps leave tracks across the floor as he fails to escape.
His words—the low mutterings—reach my ears, and I know what they are. What they represent.
I let him pray.
Honor the one thing he grew up with; what his mum wouldn’t forgive me for if I interrupted. They are devout Catholics, and I’m granting him mercy by letting him speak to his maker one final time.
After a few minutes, a shuddering breath escapes him. “Will you forgive me?”
“Already did.”
“Will you end me, then?”
“Almost.” Bending my knees, I lower my body beside his and place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, something I’ve done over a million times. “But before I do, I need you to answer one thing.” His barely perceptible nod is agreement enough. “Why?”
Jonathan swallows hard, fat tears rolling down the corner of his untouched eye. “The truth?”
“Anything but, and I’ll make your last breath excruciating.”
His response is quick and just as bloody idiotic as I thought it’d be.
“Because I never thought you’d kill someone who’s been like a brother to you.”
“And that was your biggest mistake.” My hand grips the back of his neck and I pull him up, forcing him into a painful kneeling position at my feet. Then I take a step back and the whip falls over Jonathan’s left shoulder. Just lies there as I walk around him and say my own silent goodbye. I’ll see you again someday. Stopping behind him, I bend and put my mouth near his ear while gripping the leather end hanging against his body. One end in each hand. “Your cockiness landed you here; I’d kill my own father if he betrayed the family.”
His mouth opens, lips beginning to move but then snapping shut as I press the button on the handle. At once, two-inch blades—surgically sharp pieces of steel—pop out, and I pull them tight to his neck.
“No!” Bryce thrashes and tries to pull the whip away, but my grip is unmoving. Instead, I embed them deeper—each blade piercing his skin and cutting through as if it were butter. “Have mercy. Don’t kill me like this!”
“All debt will be erased and your family protected.” Those are my last words before I give one hard pull across his flesh and the blades slides through, sawing down to the bone without pause. His head falls back, and horrified vacant eyes stare back at me.
One second, you’re here.
The next you’re not.
A reality for those who let greed overtake their common sense.
