Previous Chapter (11) - Chloe | First Chapter - Camila
The bedroom was a work of art, a carefully curated stage. Soft, ambient light from a dozen scented candles cast flickering shadows on the tastefully minimalist furniture. The air smelled of vanilla, sandalwood, and a woman's budding arousal. It was a place that felt safe, intimate, and a million miles away from the damp, industrial rot of the West District.
Marco 'Scout' Santori was also a work of art. He lay on his side on the Egyptian cotton sheets, propped up on one elbow, his torso a roadmap of lean, hard muscle that spoke of discipline and power. He smiled, a slow, charming curve of his lips that had disarmed a hundred women before this one.
Jessica, the woman beside him, was completely captivated. She was in expensive lace lingerie, her skin flushed, her breathing shallow. She was a pretty girl, an art gallery assistant with a taste for handsome, mysterious men who drove expensive cars and didn't talk about their jobs.
"You're incredible," Marco whispered, his voice a low purr. "So responsive. But you're so... distracted."
Jessica blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Distracted? I'm not... I'm right here with you."
"Your eyes," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "They're always looking, checking. You can't truly feel if you're watching. True sensation starts when you take away the distractions."
He reached to the bedside table and produced a long, black silk scarf. He let it run through his fingers like water.
"Trust me," he murmured. "Sight is overrated."
Jessica bit her lip, a thrill of nervous excitement running through her. "Are you sure?"
"Just a game," he promised, his smile disarming. "If you don't like it, say the word."
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Okay."
He tied the blindfold gently but firmly, plunging her world into darkness. She giggled, a breathless, vulnerable sound.
"Now," Marco whispered, his voice moving around her. "Let's see what makes you tick."
His exploration began. He didn't kiss her. He didn't caress her. He mapped her. His fingers traced her ribs, finding the gaps. He squeezed her flanks. He ran his thumbs up and down the arches often her feet. He wasn't a lover; he was a cartographer, logging data points.
"That tickles!" she gasped, jerking her leg back as he brushed her sole.
"Does it?" he murmured, making a mental note. Very sensitive feet. Perfect
"You know," he whispered, leaning close to her ear. "You react beautifully. But you're so jumpy. Imagine how intense it would be if you couldn't move away. If you had to just... feel it."
Jessica’s breath hitched. "Tied up? Marco, I don't know... that sounds intense."
"Just soft silk," he soothed, kissing her neck. "You're in control. Just a game. We tie you up, we heighten the senses, we see what happens."
She melted under his touch, the forbidden thrill of it overriding her caution. "Okay. But... be gentle."
"Turn over," he instructed softly.
She complied, rolling onto her stomach. She felt him moving around the bed. She felt the cool touch of silk on her left wrist, then her right. He looped the scarves around her ankles.
"Okay," she breathed, her heart hammering. "When do you tie them to the bed?"
The gentle touch vanished.
With a sudden, brutal efficiency, Scout yanked the silks tight. He didn't secure them to the frame. He pulled her wrists together behind her back, knotting the scarf with a professional speed that allowed no wiggle room. He did the same to her ankles, binding them tightly together.
"Marco? What are you doing? That's tight."
Scout leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. The warmth was gone from his voice. The charm had evaporated, replaced by a cold, predatory growl.
"I'm tying you up," he whispered.
---
The loading bay of the Old Print Works was a study in grim industrial grey. Rain drizzled from a slate sky, slicking the concrete and forming oily puddles that reflected the gloom.
A sleek black sedan rolled into the bay, the engine purring softly before cutting out.
Marco "Scout" Santori got out of the driver's side. He didn't look like a lover anymore. He looked like a man clocking in for a shift. He walked around to the trunk of the car and popped the latch.
Inside, curled into a tight ball in the spare tire well, was Jessica.
She was no longer the excited woman in the bedroom. She was a package. Her silk bonds had been reinforced with heavy-duty zip-ties. A thick black gag was strapped tightly across her mouth, muffling her terrified whimpers. The blindfold was still in place, dark and wet with tears.
"Welcome home," Scout murmured.
He reached in and hauled her out with the casual ease of a man handling a sack of laundry. He slung her over his shoulder, ignoring her feeble struggles, and pressed the trunk shut.
He strode towards the main factory door, kicked it open, and stepped inside with a theatrical flourish.
"Ta-daaaa!" he announced to the empty space. "Special delivery for Mr. Romano! Fresh off the line!"
He stopped.
The main floor of the factory looked like a bomb had hit it. A small, contained, but very violent bomb. Crates were overturned. A table was on its side. There were fresh, ugly pockmarks in the concrete walls and the rusted sides of the machinery. The air, usually just stale and damp, now had a sharp, acrid tang of cordite.
"Yo," Scout said, his cheerful demeanor evaporating instantly. He lowered Jessica to her feet, holding her upright by the arm. "The fuck happened in here?"
Scout’s eyes scanned the wreckage, his mind racing.
He heard a sound from the direction of the main studio. A strange, deep laugh, followed by the low murmur of voices. He started walking toward it, pulling the stumbling, blindfolded Jessica along with him. Someone had some explaining to do.
Just as he passed the corridor leading to the holding cells, the door to the clinic swung open. Dr. Atkins emerged, his face a pale, tight mask of pure stress. He held a small medical bag in a white-knuckled grip.
"Yo! Doc!" Scout called out, relieved to see a familiar face. "I got the new girl. What the hell's going on? Place is a mess."
Dr. Atkins didn't stop. He didn't even look at Scout. He walked right past him, his eyes fixed on the stairs that led up to Frankie Romano’s private office, his steps quick and full of a nervous, frantic energy.
"Doc?" Scout called after him, confused.
The doctor didn't break his stride. He disappeared up the stairs, leaving Scout standing in the middle of the factory floor with his new, whimpering captive.
"The fuck is going on…?" Scout muttered to himself, a cold knot of unease tightening in his gut. This was wrong. The whole vibe was wrong. The order of things—the clean, predictable, profitable rhythm of their operation—had been shattered.
Scout’s jaw tightened. First things first. He couldn't deal with this chaos while babysitting a package. He readjusted his grip on Jessica's arm and half-dragged, half-carried her towards the cellblock.
He kicked the main door open, the heavy steel banging against the interior wall. He expected to see the usual—a few broken women staring back at him with dead eyes.
He saw nothing.
The cells were empty. All of them. The thick, wire-mesh doors hung open at odd angles, their heavy-duty padlocks shattered and lying in pieces on the concrete floor.
A cold, furious dread washed over Scout. This wasn't just a mess. This was a catastrophe.
"OH FOR FUCK SAKE!!!" he roared, his voice echoing in the empty, silent cages. "WHERE'S THE BROADS!!?"
He stormed back out onto the main floor, Jessica stumbling to keep up. He was no longer just confused; he was pissed. He headed for the studio, following the sound of the voices, which were growing louder now.
He could see into the main staging area. He saw Nails, the small, wiry sadist, standing at the foot of one of the medical tables.
"Good," Scout muttered to himself, a sliver of relief cutting through his anger. He smirked. "At least we still got th—"
He rounded the corner of the soundproof wall and the words died in his throat. He stopped dead.
The sight that greeted him was so completely, utterly bizarre that for a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.
On the medical table, fully strapped down, was not a terrified woman. It was a man. A giant of a man, built like a Soviet-era tractor, with a landscape of old scars on his muscular arms and a look of amused boredom on his face.
At his feet stood Nails, looking flustered and furious. He was futilely scratching at the sole of the big man's left foot, but it looked less like torture and more like a frustrated monkey trying to open a coconut.
"HA-HA-HA!" the big man boomed, his voice a deep, resonant Russian accent that filled the studio. "Oh, you Americans. So delicate. That is tickle? No, no. Not a real tickle. Between the toes, please. Very itchy." He wiggled the toes of his right foot. "Your doctor friend, he make my feet very pretty, yes? But itchy too. So itchy!"
Nails let out a hiss of pure frustration and jammed his long, lacquered talons between the big man's toes, scraping aggressively.
"OOOOOOH, that is it!" Wardog roared with what sounded like genuine pleasure. "Ooooh, you are good, lady-man. Very nice."
Then, Wardog's eyes, sharp and intelligent, swiveled and locked onto Scout. He saw the struggling, blindfolded Jessica. A wide, surprisingly gentle smile spread across the big Russian's face.
"Ah! A new friend!" he boomed. "Do not worry, little bird. You will not be harmed while I am around, da? These simple men, they think they can break me? ME!?" He let out another hearty laugh.
Scout’s gaze shifted from the un-breakable captive to his associate. He noticed Nails was holding his right arm awkwardly, keeping it close to his body.
"Yo, you okay?" Scout asked, gesturing to the arm.
Before Nails could answer, Wardog chimed in again, his voice full of mock sympathy. "AH! That was me. I am very sorry. I just give your friend a little handshake, yes? And his little girly wrist goes snap." He looked at Scout, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Eh, new guy. You want to give him a hand? Oh… sorry. Too soon?"
Scout ignored him, turning to Slick, who was leaning against a wall, a massive, purple bruise blooming on his chest. "Where are the broads?" Scout demanded.
"They are safe," Wardog interjected cheerfully. "That is all you need to know, yes?"
Slick shot a murderous glare at the man on the table. "We were ambushed," he snarled, his voice a pained rasp. "Three-man professional team. We got this one. He'll talk. Eventually."
Just then, Knuckles stormed into the studio from the direction of the workshop. He wasn't just angry; he was radiating pure, unrestrained fury. In his massive fist, he held a pair of industrial-grade pliers.
"ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice bouncing off the studio walls. "ENOUGH FUCKING AROUND! WE DO THIS THE OLD SCHOOL WAY!"
He stomped over to the table, shoved the fuming Nails aside, and loomed over Wardog. "You think this is a joke, asshole?"
"I think it is very funny, yes," Wardog replied with a serene smile.
Knuckles didn't say another word. He reached down, grabbed Wardog's right hand, and with a grunt of effort, clamped the serrated jaws of the pliers onto the nail of Wardog's middle finger. He looked the big Russian dead in the eyes, a silent challenge. Then he YANKED.
The nail tore free from the nailbed with a wet ripping sound.
Wardog didn't even blink. He looked down at his bleeding finger, then back up at Knuckles, his expression one of mild disappointment. "Oh, sorry," he said, as if remembering his lines in a play. "You wanted me to scream? OOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW. Is better?"
Knuckles let out a wordless scream of pure, impotent rage. He dropped the pliers, grabbed Wardog's pinkie finger, and bent it backward with all his might.
CRACK.
The sound of the bone snapping was sharp and sickeningly loud.
"AAAAAH, NOW WE ARE TALKING!" Wardog bellowed, a genuine, ecstatic grin spreading across his face. "This is real pain! This is good!" He looked at Knuckles' technique with a critical eye. "But you do it all wrong. Too much effort. THIS… this is how you break a finger."
Before anyone could react, Wardog made a fist with his other hand, wrapping his four fingers tightly around his thumb. With a grunt and a horrifying, internal CRUNCH, he dislocated his own thumb, the joint popping out of place with an audible tear of ligaments.
"SEE?!" he roared triumphantly, waving the mangled hand as best he could in the restraints. "THAT IS HOW IT IS DONE! CLEAN! EFFICIENT!"
Nails, who had been watching in stunned silence, finally snapped. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" he shrieked, and in a fit of pure, frustrated rage, he lunged forward and slashed his good hand's talons across the sole of Wardog's foot, leaving four thin red lines.
Wardog looked down at his foot, then back at Nails, his expression turning to one of fatherly concern.
"Careful, lady-man," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You could break a nail."
He paused for a beat, then exploded into a new round of boisterous, delirious laughter at his own joke.
The three enforcers just stood there, staring at the laughing, bleeding, self-mutilating man on the table. They were completely and utterly out of their depth.
Scout, still holding the whimpering Jessica, looked at his three associates, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Does this fuck ever shut up?" he asked, exasperated.
Knuckles, Slick, and Nails all turned to him at the same time, their faces a perfect portrait of shared misery.
"No," they replied in perfect, defeated unison.
Wardog looked at the men standing around him "wait. I thought whole point was to make me talk. Now you want me to not talk? Make up your minds!"
Wardog was still chuckling to himself when Scout saw a flicker of movement. Dr. Atkins was emerging from the stairwell, walking quickly, almost running, back towards the clinic, clutching the medical bag he'd taken upstairs. He looked even worse than before—ashen, his eyes wide with a terror that seemed to go beyond the current crisis.
"Doc! Hey!" Scout yelled, taking a step forward. "I got the n—"
SLAM.
The heavy steel door of the clinic slammed shut, cutting off Scout's sentence.
Scout stared at the closed door, bewildered. "What the hell is eating him?" he asked, turning to Slick.
Slick winced as he shifted his weight, the bruise on his chest making him groan. "Frankie," he rasped. "Frankie is fucking PISSED. He wants this asshole talking an hour ago. He was screaming at the Doc over the intercom, blaming him for not having a chemical solution ready. He's putting the screws to him to come up with… something. Something to make this mountain of shit shut up and talk."
"Shit," Scout murmured. The boss being angry was bad. The boss leaning on the creepy doctor to get creative was worse.
Just then, Jessica, the girl beside him, let out a terrified whimper and lost her balance. He’d almost forgotten he was still escorting her. He grunted, hoisting her back up.
"Oh, right. The cells. Be right back."
As he turned to leave, Wardog's booming voice called after him. "Birdie! Remember, you are safe while I am here, yes?!"
Scout just shook his head and walked away, half-dragging, half-carrying the new girl back to the empty, echoing cellblock. He surveyed the damage. All the locks were shattered, useless, except for one. The last one on the right. Elena's old cell.
He opened the door, which still had its heavy padlock, and unceremoniously threw Jessica inside. She landed in a heap on the thin, stained mattress.
"Welcome to the team," he muttered, slamming the mesh door shut and locking it with a loud, final CLANG.
He turned and walked back to the studio, the sound of Jessica's muffled sobbing already fading behind him. He needed a drink. He needed a cigarette. He needed to be anywhere but here.
As Scout re-entered the studio, the scene had devolved even further into a kind of gruesome, absurd spectacle. Knuckles, having apparently given up on fingers, had retrieved the pliers. He had managed to force Wardog's mouth open and was now attempting to get a grip on one of his upper incisors.
"Hold still, you motherfucker!" Knuckles grunted, sweat beading on his forehead, his massive body straining to hold the Russian's head in place.
“You… dentish now?” Wardog forced out, his voice tight around the pliers. “Many talensh, big man. Real jack-of-all-tradesh, da?”
Knuckles roared in frustration and gave a final, brutal twist and pull.
There was another sickening crunch, followed by a wet, squelching plop as the tooth, root and all, was ripped free from the gum. Blood squirted from the empty socket, spattering Knuckles' face and the front of Wardog's vest.
Wardog spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor next to the table. He then grinned, a horrifying, bloody jack-o'-lantern smile with a new gap in the front.
"HEY! Do you have dental license for that?" he yelled, his voice a little whistly now. "I think not! HA-HA-HA!"
He threw his head back and laughed, a full-throated, blood-flecked bellow of pure, unadulterated amusement.
Scout just stood there, staring at the bloody, laughing man on the table. He looked at Knuckles, who was panting and covered in another man's blood. He looked at Nails, who was cradling his broken arm. He looked at Slick, who was clutching his bruised chest.
They weren't interrogators. They were clowns in a slaughterhouse, and their captive was the only one in on the joke.
Scout just shook his head, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and lit one up. It was going to be a very, very long night.
Next Chapter (13) - Mikhail
The bedroom was a work of art, a carefully curated stage. Soft, ambient light from a dozen scented candles cast flickering shadows on the tastefully minimalist furniture. The air smelled of vanilla, sandalwood, and a woman's budding arousal. It was a place that felt safe, intimate, and a million miles away from the damp, industrial rot of the West District.
Marco 'Scout' Santori was also a work of art. He lay on his side on the Egyptian cotton sheets, propped up on one elbow, his torso a roadmap of lean, hard muscle that spoke of discipline and power. He smiled, a slow, charming curve of his lips that had disarmed a hundred women before this one.
Jessica, the woman beside him, was completely captivated. She was in expensive lace lingerie, her skin flushed, her breathing shallow. She was a pretty girl, an art gallery assistant with a taste for handsome, mysterious men who drove expensive cars and didn't talk about their jobs.
"You're incredible," Marco whispered, his voice a low purr. "So responsive. But you're so... distracted."
Jessica blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Distracted? I'm not... I'm right here with you."
"Your eyes," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "They're always looking, checking. You can't truly feel if you're watching. True sensation starts when you take away the distractions."
He reached to the bedside table and produced a long, black silk scarf. He let it run through his fingers like water.
"Trust me," he murmured. "Sight is overrated."
Jessica bit her lip, a thrill of nervous excitement running through her. "Are you sure?"
"Just a game," he promised, his smile disarming. "If you don't like it, say the word."
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Okay."
He tied the blindfold gently but firmly, plunging her world into darkness. She giggled, a breathless, vulnerable sound.
"Now," Marco whispered, his voice moving around her. "Let's see what makes you tick."
His exploration began. He didn't kiss her. He didn't caress her. He mapped her. His fingers traced her ribs, finding the gaps. He squeezed her flanks. He ran his thumbs up and down the arches often her feet. He wasn't a lover; he was a cartographer, logging data points.
"That tickles!" she gasped, jerking her leg back as he brushed her sole.
"Does it?" he murmured, making a mental note. Very sensitive feet. Perfect
"You know," he whispered, leaning close to her ear. "You react beautifully. But you're so jumpy. Imagine how intense it would be if you couldn't move away. If you had to just... feel it."
Jessica’s breath hitched. "Tied up? Marco, I don't know... that sounds intense."
"Just soft silk," he soothed, kissing her neck. "You're in control. Just a game. We tie you up, we heighten the senses, we see what happens."
She melted under his touch, the forbidden thrill of it overriding her caution. "Okay. But... be gentle."
"Turn over," he instructed softly.
She complied, rolling onto her stomach. She felt him moving around the bed. She felt the cool touch of silk on her left wrist, then her right. He looped the scarves around her ankles.
"Okay," she breathed, her heart hammering. "When do you tie them to the bed?"
The gentle touch vanished.
With a sudden, brutal efficiency, Scout yanked the silks tight. He didn't secure them to the frame. He pulled her wrists together behind her back, knotting the scarf with a professional speed that allowed no wiggle room. He did the same to her ankles, binding them tightly together.
"Marco? What are you doing? That's tight."
Scout leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. The warmth was gone from his voice. The charm had evaporated, replaced by a cold, predatory growl.
"I'm tying you up," he whispered.
---
The loading bay of the Old Print Works was a study in grim industrial grey. Rain drizzled from a slate sky, slicking the concrete and forming oily puddles that reflected the gloom.
A sleek black sedan rolled into the bay, the engine purring softly before cutting out.
Marco "Scout" Santori got out of the driver's side. He didn't look like a lover anymore. He looked like a man clocking in for a shift. He walked around to the trunk of the car and popped the latch.
Inside, curled into a tight ball in the spare tire well, was Jessica.
She was no longer the excited woman in the bedroom. She was a package. Her silk bonds had been reinforced with heavy-duty zip-ties. A thick black gag was strapped tightly across her mouth, muffling her terrified whimpers. The blindfold was still in place, dark and wet with tears.
"Welcome home," Scout murmured.
He reached in and hauled her out with the casual ease of a man handling a sack of laundry. He slung her over his shoulder, ignoring her feeble struggles, and pressed the trunk shut.
He strode towards the main factory door, kicked it open, and stepped inside with a theatrical flourish.
"Ta-daaaa!" he announced to the empty space. "Special delivery for Mr. Romano! Fresh off the line!"
He stopped.
The main floor of the factory looked like a bomb had hit it. A small, contained, but very violent bomb. Crates were overturned. A table was on its side. There were fresh, ugly pockmarks in the concrete walls and the rusted sides of the machinery. The air, usually just stale and damp, now had a sharp, acrid tang of cordite.
"Yo," Scout said, his cheerful demeanor evaporating instantly. He lowered Jessica to her feet, holding her upright by the arm. "The fuck happened in here?"
Scout’s eyes scanned the wreckage, his mind racing.
He heard a sound from the direction of the main studio. A strange, deep laugh, followed by the low murmur of voices. He started walking toward it, pulling the stumbling, blindfolded Jessica along with him. Someone had some explaining to do.
Just as he passed the corridor leading to the holding cells, the door to the clinic swung open. Dr. Atkins emerged, his face a pale, tight mask of pure stress. He held a small medical bag in a white-knuckled grip.
"Yo! Doc!" Scout called out, relieved to see a familiar face. "I got the new girl. What the hell's going on? Place is a mess."
Dr. Atkins didn't stop. He didn't even look at Scout. He walked right past him, his eyes fixed on the stairs that led up to Frankie Romano’s private office, his steps quick and full of a nervous, frantic energy.
"Doc?" Scout called after him, confused.
The doctor didn't break his stride. He disappeared up the stairs, leaving Scout standing in the middle of the factory floor with his new, whimpering captive.
"The fuck is going on…?" Scout muttered to himself, a cold knot of unease tightening in his gut. This was wrong. The whole vibe was wrong. The order of things—the clean, predictable, profitable rhythm of their operation—had been shattered.
Scout’s jaw tightened. First things first. He couldn't deal with this chaos while babysitting a package. He readjusted his grip on Jessica's arm and half-dragged, half-carried her towards the cellblock.
He kicked the main door open, the heavy steel banging against the interior wall. He expected to see the usual—a few broken women staring back at him with dead eyes.
He saw nothing.
The cells were empty. All of them. The thick, wire-mesh doors hung open at odd angles, their heavy-duty padlocks shattered and lying in pieces on the concrete floor.
A cold, furious dread washed over Scout. This wasn't just a mess. This was a catastrophe.
"OH FOR FUCK SAKE!!!" he roared, his voice echoing in the empty, silent cages. "WHERE'S THE BROADS!!?"
He stormed back out onto the main floor, Jessica stumbling to keep up. He was no longer just confused; he was pissed. He headed for the studio, following the sound of the voices, which were growing louder now.
He could see into the main staging area. He saw Nails, the small, wiry sadist, standing at the foot of one of the medical tables.
"Good," Scout muttered to himself, a sliver of relief cutting through his anger. He smirked. "At least we still got th—"
He rounded the corner of the soundproof wall and the words died in his throat. He stopped dead.
The sight that greeted him was so completely, utterly bizarre that for a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.
On the medical table, fully strapped down, was not a terrified woman. It was a man. A giant of a man, built like a Soviet-era tractor, with a landscape of old scars on his muscular arms and a look of amused boredom on his face.
At his feet stood Nails, looking flustered and furious. He was futilely scratching at the sole of the big man's left foot, but it looked less like torture and more like a frustrated monkey trying to open a coconut.
"HA-HA-HA!" the big man boomed, his voice a deep, resonant Russian accent that filled the studio. "Oh, you Americans. So delicate. That is tickle? No, no. Not a real tickle. Between the toes, please. Very itchy." He wiggled the toes of his right foot. "Your doctor friend, he make my feet very pretty, yes? But itchy too. So itchy!"
Nails let out a hiss of pure frustration and jammed his long, lacquered talons between the big man's toes, scraping aggressively.
"OOOOOOH, that is it!" Wardog roared with what sounded like genuine pleasure. "Ooooh, you are good, lady-man. Very nice."
Then, Wardog's eyes, sharp and intelligent, swiveled and locked onto Scout. He saw the struggling, blindfolded Jessica. A wide, surprisingly gentle smile spread across the big Russian's face.
"Ah! A new friend!" he boomed. "Do not worry, little bird. You will not be harmed while I am around, da? These simple men, they think they can break me? ME!?" He let out another hearty laugh.
Scout’s gaze shifted from the un-breakable captive to his associate. He noticed Nails was holding his right arm awkwardly, keeping it close to his body.
"Yo, you okay?" Scout asked, gesturing to the arm.
Before Nails could answer, Wardog chimed in again, his voice full of mock sympathy. "AH! That was me. I am very sorry. I just give your friend a little handshake, yes? And his little girly wrist goes snap." He looked at Scout, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Eh, new guy. You want to give him a hand? Oh… sorry. Too soon?"
Scout ignored him, turning to Slick, who was leaning against a wall, a massive, purple bruise blooming on his chest. "Where are the broads?" Scout demanded.
"They are safe," Wardog interjected cheerfully. "That is all you need to know, yes?"
Slick shot a murderous glare at the man on the table. "We were ambushed," he snarled, his voice a pained rasp. "Three-man professional team. We got this one. He'll talk. Eventually."
Just then, Knuckles stormed into the studio from the direction of the workshop. He wasn't just angry; he was radiating pure, unrestrained fury. In his massive fist, he held a pair of industrial-grade pliers.
"ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice bouncing off the studio walls. "ENOUGH FUCKING AROUND! WE DO THIS THE OLD SCHOOL WAY!"
He stomped over to the table, shoved the fuming Nails aside, and loomed over Wardog. "You think this is a joke, asshole?"
"I think it is very funny, yes," Wardog replied with a serene smile.
Knuckles didn't say another word. He reached down, grabbed Wardog's right hand, and with a grunt of effort, clamped the serrated jaws of the pliers onto the nail of Wardog's middle finger. He looked the big Russian dead in the eyes, a silent challenge. Then he YANKED.
The nail tore free from the nailbed with a wet ripping sound.
Wardog didn't even blink. He looked down at his bleeding finger, then back up at Knuckles, his expression one of mild disappointment. "Oh, sorry," he said, as if remembering his lines in a play. "You wanted me to scream? OOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW. Is better?"
Knuckles let out a wordless scream of pure, impotent rage. He dropped the pliers, grabbed Wardog's pinkie finger, and bent it backward with all his might.
CRACK.
The sound of the bone snapping was sharp and sickeningly loud.
"AAAAAH, NOW WE ARE TALKING!" Wardog bellowed, a genuine, ecstatic grin spreading across his face. "This is real pain! This is good!" He looked at Knuckles' technique with a critical eye. "But you do it all wrong. Too much effort. THIS… this is how you break a finger."
Before anyone could react, Wardog made a fist with his other hand, wrapping his four fingers tightly around his thumb. With a grunt and a horrifying, internal CRUNCH, he dislocated his own thumb, the joint popping out of place with an audible tear of ligaments.
"SEE?!" he roared triumphantly, waving the mangled hand as best he could in the restraints. "THAT IS HOW IT IS DONE! CLEAN! EFFICIENT!"
Nails, who had been watching in stunned silence, finally snapped. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" he shrieked, and in a fit of pure, frustrated rage, he lunged forward and slashed his good hand's talons across the sole of Wardog's foot, leaving four thin red lines.
Wardog looked down at his foot, then back at Nails, his expression turning to one of fatherly concern.
"Careful, lady-man," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You could break a nail."
He paused for a beat, then exploded into a new round of boisterous, delirious laughter at his own joke.
The three enforcers just stood there, staring at the laughing, bleeding, self-mutilating man on the table. They were completely and utterly out of their depth.
Scout, still holding the whimpering Jessica, looked at his three associates, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Does this fuck ever shut up?" he asked, exasperated.
Knuckles, Slick, and Nails all turned to him at the same time, their faces a perfect portrait of shared misery.
"No," they replied in perfect, defeated unison.
Wardog looked at the men standing around him "wait. I thought whole point was to make me talk. Now you want me to not talk? Make up your minds!"
Wardog was still chuckling to himself when Scout saw a flicker of movement. Dr. Atkins was emerging from the stairwell, walking quickly, almost running, back towards the clinic, clutching the medical bag he'd taken upstairs. He looked even worse than before—ashen, his eyes wide with a terror that seemed to go beyond the current crisis.
"Doc! Hey!" Scout yelled, taking a step forward. "I got the n—"
SLAM.
The heavy steel door of the clinic slammed shut, cutting off Scout's sentence.
Scout stared at the closed door, bewildered. "What the hell is eating him?" he asked, turning to Slick.
Slick winced as he shifted his weight, the bruise on his chest making him groan. "Frankie," he rasped. "Frankie is fucking PISSED. He wants this asshole talking an hour ago. He was screaming at the Doc over the intercom, blaming him for not having a chemical solution ready. He's putting the screws to him to come up with… something. Something to make this mountain of shit shut up and talk."
"Shit," Scout murmured. The boss being angry was bad. The boss leaning on the creepy doctor to get creative was worse.
Just then, Jessica, the girl beside him, let out a terrified whimper and lost her balance. He’d almost forgotten he was still escorting her. He grunted, hoisting her back up.
"Oh, right. The cells. Be right back."
As he turned to leave, Wardog's booming voice called after him. "Birdie! Remember, you are safe while I am here, yes?!"
Scout just shook his head and walked away, half-dragging, half-carrying the new girl back to the empty, echoing cellblock. He surveyed the damage. All the locks were shattered, useless, except for one. The last one on the right. Elena's old cell.
He opened the door, which still had its heavy padlock, and unceremoniously threw Jessica inside. She landed in a heap on the thin, stained mattress.
"Welcome to the team," he muttered, slamming the mesh door shut and locking it with a loud, final CLANG.
He turned and walked back to the studio, the sound of Jessica's muffled sobbing already fading behind him. He needed a drink. He needed a cigarette. He needed to be anywhere but here.
As Scout re-entered the studio, the scene had devolved even further into a kind of gruesome, absurd spectacle. Knuckles, having apparently given up on fingers, had retrieved the pliers. He had managed to force Wardog's mouth open and was now attempting to get a grip on one of his upper incisors.
"Hold still, you motherfucker!" Knuckles grunted, sweat beading on his forehead, his massive body straining to hold the Russian's head in place.
“You… dentish now?” Wardog forced out, his voice tight around the pliers. “Many talensh, big man. Real jack-of-all-tradesh, da?”
Knuckles roared in frustration and gave a final, brutal twist and pull.
There was another sickening crunch, followed by a wet, squelching plop as the tooth, root and all, was ripped free from the gum. Blood squirted from the empty socket, spattering Knuckles' face and the front of Wardog's vest.
Wardog spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor next to the table. He then grinned, a horrifying, bloody jack-o'-lantern smile with a new gap in the front.
"HEY! Do you have dental license for that?" he yelled, his voice a little whistly now. "I think not! HA-HA-HA!"
He threw his head back and laughed, a full-throated, blood-flecked bellow of pure, unadulterated amusement.
Scout just stood there, staring at the bloody, laughing man on the table. He looked at Knuckles, who was panting and covered in another man's blood. He looked at Nails, who was cradling his broken arm. He looked at Slick, who was clutching his bruised chest.
They weren't interrogators. They were clowns in a slaughterhouse, and their captive was the only one in on the joke.
Scout just shook his head, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and lit one up. It was going to be a very, very long night.
Next Chapter (13) - Mikhail
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