Page 14 of Tainted Love

CIARAN

I follow Callum as he storms into the warehouse like the hounds of the devil are snapping at his heels.

My brother has a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Rushmore and often behaves like he has to justify himself. I’d like to believe it’s not because he’s the younger twin since the few minutes that separate us are meaningless… except, of course, where our Da used to rub it in the most - the leadership of our organization. To me, that’s a moot point because it’s not a role I want to take on alone.

Thankfully it’s never caused any bad blood between us, despite our old man using it as a point of competition in his misguided aim to spur us on. Our twin bond has always been stronger than any rivalry, though, and we worked out at a young age that we were stronger as a united front than pitted against each other.

The bigger problem is Callum perceives that because of his sexual proclivities, despite those being a well-kept secret, he constantly has something to prove.

It’s the only thing he’s ever kept from me, never coming clean and telling me outright. And it’s also the one thing he doesn’t realize I already know.

But so many years of repressing his true identity has made Callum vicious.

Not for the first time, I wish he would come clean, and I wonder for what must be the hundredth time if I should broach the subject… but I want him to trust me enough to make his own declaration.

I push all those thoughts aside. There’s no place for them here and now. It’s time to concentrate on the job at hand.

Inside the warehouse there are three men strung up naked from the steel-reinforced beam, installed for precisely this purpose. Their straining bodies already show evidence of abuse. They haven’t been treated kindly, that's for sure, but things are about to get a whole lot worse for them.

Callum, in his rage, picks up a crowbar and swings it at the closest guy, a young, cocky-looking fucker, using the whole of his rage-weight to thrash it against his undefended abdomen. The dangling man lets out a sickening wheeze, chokes up a mouthful of blood, and loses control of his bowels before hanging, limp and lifeless, in his bonds.

“Feck. Have you killed him already?” I ask, suppressing my rebuke so I’m not openly reprimanding my brother in front of our men, and covering my lower face with the crook of my arm to defend against the stench permeating the space. It’s enough to pull Callum out of his dangerously trigger-happy head space and get him with the program. We need these men alive - at least for now - so we can find out the details.

For all that, he’s still wound up though, and takes the bar to the next man, although admittedly with slightly more moderation. But still too gripped by rage to allow any methodical approach to getting the intelligence we need. Blood spurts and bones crunch, but there’s no tactical approach. This is simply Cal purging the anger from his system. And this is neither the time nor the place.

“Take care, Cal," I whisper, my voice not audible above the clamoring of metal and the agonized screams of the hostage. "These people are our only means of communication and information until we know what’s going on.”

Callum clenches the crowbar tightly, his knuckles showing white as the ridges dig into the skin of his palm hard enough to draw blood. Beads of sweat drip down his forehead, as much from anger as exertion, and he takes a deep breath to compose himself. Making a conscious effort, he releases the tension in his shoulders and fixes his gaze on his next target. It's clear he's itching with the need to inflict the maximum amount of torment, but the light of reason weighing his decisions now the first surge of anger has been purged.

With a roar, Callum reluctantly throws down the crowbar and it clatters to the cold concrete floor while the men above groan in pain, their limbs contorted and twisted from the unyielding restraints. Their cries echo through the abandoned warehouse, a constant reminder of the carnage that has been wrought.

"You're right," Callum admits finally, a veil of steely detachment settling over his features.

It’s not all bad. The third man of the trio is shitting himself… literally, after witnessing Cal go off on one. He’s already starting to blab even though no one’s asked him anything yet.

“Please dude, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just ask, I’ll tell you.”

Next to me, Callum bristles. There’s nothing he detests more than a weakling. If one of our own men gave it up so easily, my twin would end them. I put my hand on his forearm before his hard-won control threatens to break because we need this intelligence. It’s vital.

“Let him talk,” I say nonchalantly. “And if we don’t need to work so hard for the information, then I can get back to the nice, warm woman stashed in my bedroom.”

Amid guffaws from our men, Callum takes the hint and takes a step back, happy for me to take the lead while he stands in the background looking menacing. He can have his fun when we’ve found out all there is to know.

“So, you encroached onto our territory to run drugs,” I say, scrunching my nose at the overwhelming scent of excrement. “In what universe did you think that was a good idea?”

“I-I d-didn’t have a choice,” the man stammers. He’s older, his bearing cowed. There’s none of the swagger I’m used to seeing with the kind of punks who usually think they can set foot onto our patch and peddle shit. Jumped-up little gits who make the mistake of believing they're invincible.

They aren’t.

This guy is different though, and that makes me want to hear his story.

“Talk,” I demand tersely, not allowing any of my thoughts to show on my face.

“I was working, doing my normal job, minding my own business, like every other day…”

“What’s your job?” I interrupt, thinking there must be something about it that’s relevant.

“I’m a s-street sweeper, nothing special.”

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