Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
The hose shuts off, and Coyne looks to me and then back at Farrell.
“He’s fading.”
Farrell nods and then retrieves another pill from his pocket. I don’t like the pills. Anything but the pills. I squeeze my lips together, but he forces it inside my mouth anyway. It tastes bitter on my tongue, and there’s no choice but to swallow it.
My heart beats too fast, and my eyes feel like they are going to pop out of my skull. Farrell walks around behind me and pulls the noose around my neck again. It’s tied to the wall behind me, with just enough give that I have to stand completely straight.
He slaps me on the cheek and they walk towards the door. The one that leads to places I’ve never seen before. The one I sometimes think about when they aren’t looking at me.
“Don’t fall asleep, little fella,” he says. “Or you’ll never wake up again.”
***
Unfastening the buttons of my suit, I hang the black jacket over the usual hook on the wall. Everything in this room is precisely the way I fancy it. Clean and organized, a workspace suited for my needs. I have a ritual when I walk into this room. And even with the anticipation thrumming through my veins at the moment, I ensure that I perform to my exact standards.
Every object has its place. Every step must be taken carefully and deliberately.
My watch comes off, followed by my undershirt. Two buttons on the remote, and Bach’s Cello Suites flow through the speakers. Always sixty-two decibels, the perfect volume. I’m not particularly keen on music, or noises of any sort for that matter, but this doesn’t bother me so much. When I was still a young lad, Crow’s mammy taught me that this music could help me to concentrate. Which is precisely what I could do with at the moment.
Everything is where I need it to be. That list includes my current client. Donovan is already strapped to the steel table I use for occasions such as these. His eyes are black, spewing venom at me, but he can’t manage a word with the cloth stuffed in his mouth. That’s the way I prefer it. I’ve got no notions to hear any more out of him.
“I know ye think this is for the betrayal,” I tell him as I reach for my tool case and unroll it. “It isn’t. At least, not for me.”
He attempts a mumbled response, which goes ignored. I continue to set up, running my fingers over the shiny metal pieces that feel familiar, comforting. Donovan and I haven’t had many conversations over the years. He was a part of the syndicate, but I’ve never trusted or liked him.
In general, I don’t feel the need to communicate as others do. I speak when necessary, and that does me just fine. Most of the clients who find themselves in this room don’t ever hear my voice. Only if I need to extract information from them.
But this evening, with Donovan, I’ve a few things I intend to get off my chest. I select a scalpel and hold it up to him in question. He only blinks at me.
“Ye’re right.” I turn back to the tools with a nod. “Too easy. I think you and I both know it wouldn’t do to let ye go easy.”
Outwardly, I’m calm. Always calm. There’s no need to put on a show. I will not allow him to see how deeply he has affected me. But tonight Donovan will feel the gravity of my long festered rage. Tonight, I will do what I’ve yearned to since I discovered this prick touched Sasha.
Blood drips from my palm, and I glance down to find the scalpel crushed in my fist. The dark crimson stokes the tempered fire inside of me. But I can’t allow it to take over. Because if it takes over, it will end too quickly.
And Donovan deserves no such kindness from me.
Rightly so, I’d have gutted him slowly and painfully simply for being a rapist pig. But that isn’t what motivates me to see his blood dripping onto the floor. It was who he touched. The one person he knew he couldn’t.
And she let him.
Closing my eyes to take a breath, I count the steps to the door out of habit. Repeating them backwards twice more, I am calm.
I pluck a pair of pliers from my tool case and a dental mouth gag from the drawer below. Since the room is small, built for function, the distance between the table and myself is only five steps. I count them twice as I lay out the necessary tools on the tray table and retrieve my rolling chair.
The table itself is adjustable, and I lower it to a more appropriate position before taking my seat. Donovan attempts to jerk away from me as I strap his head in place. They all do this, and I always find it irritating. They should know once they are strapped to my table there is no sense in fighting the inevitable. This is the difference between men like Donovan and men like me.