Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 133182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Walking over to the rivet gun, I grab it and turn on the air compressor. There’s a loud racket as air fills the machine up, but I grin when it slowly quiets down.
This is going to be fun.
I’ve been dying to do this to someone’s shinbones and I’m positive it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.
Strolling up to the table the old man’s been moved to, I tilt my head to the side.
This fucker is completely naked.
I really didn’t need to see old wrinkly balls today. Not one fucking bit.
“Gross, old man balls,” I mutter as I grab an oily cloth from a nearby bench and cover his dangly bits.
“There, now that I’ve given you some modesty, let’s start again. I’m Doctor James, you’re Andrey,” I say to the old man.
“Fuck you,” he rasps out to me.
“You sound dry, want some water? This will go much easier for you if you talk to me. Otherwise, I’m going to cause you a shit ton of pain. Either way, you’re going to talk,” I say while staring into his eyes.
He gives me no response.
I guess he wants to show me how tough he is. From all the old gulag tattoos all over his chest and body, I can guarantee he’s seen some shit. Probably been in even more.
I’ve got all night though and a lot of methods to make someone talk.
Pain isn’t my only option.
I might just try waterboarding… That shit’s fucked up too. Or maybe the carding method.
A metal comb pulled over his old, paper-thin skin would do a decent amount of shredding…
Fuck, the only problem is he has to be living at the end of this. Fucking dumbass me just had to be smart and now I gotta do the work.
“Okay, since you’re not talking, I’m taking your toenails. Next, I’ll take a finger. The whole fucking thing, not just the nail,” I tell him with cold honesty.
“You will not,” he hisses at me in stuttering English before he mutters something in Russian.
“Just remember that the next time I ask you to talk.” I grin.
Glancing over to the table with all the metal tools, I remember what I said about the rivet gun.
“But first, to show you I don’t lie and expect the same from you…”
I press the gun into his shin and quickly pull the trigger.
The rivet gun makes loud whapping sound.
For a split second, there is only silence.
Then a murderous scream rips out of Andrey and resounds throughout the building.
“Ah, such sweet tones, Andrey!” I shout over his screams and pull the trigger again on a new spot on his shin.
For some reason I can’t explain, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” enters my brain right as I pull the rivet gun away from the screaming old man.
I chuckle quietly to myself at first, trying to keep it together.
Then fail miserably.
Bursting into laughter, I slap the guy on his freshly riveted leg.
“What the fuck is so funny?” Gabriel asks.
“I’ve been working on the railroad,” I say and wag the rivet gun at him.
“For fuck’s sake,” Gabriel groans and shakes his big blond head at me. “You got a screw loose?”
Lifting my left shoulder up at him, I say, “Probably, but you’re doing the finger work.”
“What?”
“The finger work. You get to snip, snip, and give ‘em to Simon. New guy gets the fingers, it’s the rules or something,” I explain.
“Whatever,” he grumbles while I put the rivet gun down.
Grabbing a couple packs of smelling salts, I crack them open and put them under the old Russian’s nose.
“Once you’re clearheaded, we’ll continue. Because whether you want to hurt or just talk, you will answer my questions,” I say to him as I pick up a set of pliers.
Checking the pliers to make sure they’re nice and oiled, I ask, “Why were you in your son’s basement in a medically induced coma?”
His eyes glaze over for a moment, and while I’m tempted to cause more pain, I doubt he has a clear answer for my question. I’m betting he doesn’t know why or when he was put there.
“Fuck you,” he snaps almost instinctually before he looks at me quite seriously. “Where is here?”
“America,” I answer simply.
No need to give him more than he needs to know.
There’s real surprise in his eyes as he takes in my words.
Looking back at John, I ask, “Water bottle?”
Nodding his head, Johnathan walks over to a mini fridge in the corner, grabs a bottle, and tosses it at me.
I catch it.
Looking back at the old man, I stare at him for a couple of minutes, letting him sweat at the thought of what I’m holding in my hand.
“Water?” I finally ask him.
“Fuck you.”
He tries to spit but he doesn’t have the saliva to do it.
Or the breath, apparently, as he starts coughing.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I say as I wait for him to finish.