Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
He moves away from the window—only to flip the lock. Stupid bastard.
The moment it's open a crack, I force my way in, shoving him into the kitchen table. “Hi, Christian,” I grunt, grabbing him by the back of the neck and holding him bent over the table when he tries to run. “We need to talk.”
“Who are you? What do you want? I don’t have—”
“Shut up.” I smash the side of his head against the wood beneath him. “You have what I want. It’s not money. It’s information.”
“What sort of information?” He’s already on the verge of tears, his eyes glued to the gun I’m holding close to his face. It takes nothing to break a weak man.
“Information on New Haven.” Leaning down, I ask, “You don’t recognize me, do you? I guess time has changed me. But I recognize you, even with the extra pounds and thinning hair. Time hasn’t been your friend.”
“Wh-Who are you?”
“I’ll give you a hint, though I doubt you’ll be able to pick one kid out from so many you tortured.” I raise my pitch and make my voice breathy. “Please, Christian, let me out. I didn’t do anything wrong. I promise. Stop beating me. Stop locking me in the fucking dark.”
He whimpers when I press the gun to his temple. “Ring a bell? It doesn’t matter. You’re going to tell me what I need to know, or I’m going to blow your fucking head off. Now. Show me where to find duct tape around here and remember there’s a gun to your head.”
By the time I have his hands and ankles bound, he’s sweating like a pig, blubbering and whimpering when I throw him onto his leather sofa. “I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Just please, don't hurt me.”
“Wrong choice of words.” I bring the part of the gun down in a wide arc and smash it against his cheekbone. Like magic, the skin splits and blood begins to run down his face. “How many fucking times did I beg you not to hurt me? To please, stop hurting me?”
“I'm sorry!” All that earns him is another hit, another, until hardly any clean skin is left on his face.
“Now.” I crouch in front of him, waiting for him to lift his head. His eyes are already swelling, and blood dribbles down his chin thanks to split lips. “You're going to give me the codes to access the security gates at New Haven. I'm driving out there tonight, and I'm leaving you here, like this, while I do. If they work, I’ll call the cops and have them come out here to help you.”
I pause, smiling at the spark of hope in his eyes. “If they don't work, I will return, and I will paint the wall with your brains. Do you understand me?”
“What are you going to do there?”
“It’s none of your fucking business, is it?” I pull back my hand, prepared to strike him again, but his miserable whining stops me.
He must buy my bluff because he blurts out, “I'll tell you whatever you want to know. I'll give you the codes for the gates. Just please, please stop hurting me...” He trails off with a miserable sob that reminds me I’m here to get information. Otherwise I’d put a bullet in his head simply to shut him up.
Ten minutes later, I have what I need. A list of codes, including the code for the shed where the weapons are kept. The guard schedule, even the specifics of where Rebecca and her son sleep. Because I'll be paying them a visit, as well.
By the time I'm finished, Christian is on the floor, unconscious, the growing wet stain on the front of his gray sweatpants evidence of his terror before he lost consciousness—before I lost my temper.
I have to believe he believes me. That I will come back here and kill him if I find out he crossed me.
He doesn't know I have no intention of returning any more than I intend to let him see the next sunrise.
He's so pitiful now, but then he always was. It was only because I was smaller that he seemed larger than life, looming over me, wearing that patented bland expression. Telling me he took no pleasure in punishing me when I suspected even then, as a child, that he enjoyed it.
Now I’m in control. And I have everything I need. “Goodbye, Christian,” I whisper, standing above him with the gun in my hand.
This is it. All I have to do is pull the trigger to end his misery and mine. Call it closure.
I wrap my index finger around the trigger, my hand steady, my aim true. A single bullet to the head. That's it.
All I have to do is squeeze, even if my finger doesn’t seem up to it.