Page 113 of Princes of Carnage

The sniveling cries of the two men left alive in the shipping container I’m working in break the peace a bit. But that’s a part of the job right now.

There were five of them that I went after late last night, catching them unawares. I knocked them each out and brought them here, bound and gagged and helpless. Just the way they seem to like their victims.

Then I waited patiently for them to wake up, wanting each of them to be awake when they realized what was happening—wanted them to see me standing over them, ready to strike.

The one in front of me now trembles as I stand in front of him. His hands are bound with rough rope, pulled forward over the metal table placed conveniently inside the shipping container. I brought it here before I got started, wanting the space set up just how I like. There’s a gag stuffed in his mouth, but it’s not doing much to muffle the whimpers coming from him.

With precision, I lift the cleaver in my hand and then bring it down, sharp and hard, hacking through the man’s wrists and severing his hands.

Blood spills over the table, joining the pool of red that’s already coating the surface, and the man howls through the gag, the sound echoing around us.

I don’t flinch from it, and I barely hesitate as I scoop up his severed hands and set them aside. Then I pull my gun, silencer on, and put a bullet right between the man’s eyes.

It’s quicker than he deserves, but time is running short.

His body slumps down to the floor, no longer bound by the rope now that his hands are gone, and I kick him over to the small pile his comrades make in the corner. Three of them are already dead, their hands removed and tucked away. They’re bleeding in their pile, still bound at the feet and gagged like they were when I dragged them in here.

Among them, there’s one man left alive.

His eyes are wild, and he tries to scoot away from the growing mound of his dead friends. He screams behind the gag, shaking his head, wrenching his arms to try to get them free. The rope cuts into his skin, and it’s already stained with blood from how he’s pulling and twisting his wrists in the binds.

I frown, unmoved by his clear panic.

There’s nothing special about him.

There wasn’t anything special about any of them. They were all average men with unremarkable features. Members of a small gang that never amounted to anything much, who felt the need to throw their weight around and hurt someone else.

Just because they could.

None of them seem to be enjoying getting a taste of their own medicine now.

I walk closer to the man I’ve left for last, and he flinches—hard. He’s terrified, and the smell of blood and rank sweat is thick in the shipping container. There’s another scent too, acrid and sharp. The coward has pissed himself in his fear, apparently. There’s not much airflow to wash the smell away, but this far out from any potential witnesses, it doesn’t matter.

And it doesn’t bother me.

I lean down and use the tip of the cleaver to lift the man’s chin up so he can meet my eyes. He flinches again, trying to jerk away, but the cleaver is razor sharp, and just that movement nicks his chin, setting blood flowing.

He breathes hard, his nostrils flared and his chest heaving as he garbles out something that sounds like, “Please…”

I just hold his gaze, my face impassive.

“Did she say please when you grabbed her?” I ask in a quiet voice. “Did she beg you to let her go?”

Confusion flashes through his eyes, which are still wide and afraid. He tries to speak, maybe attempting to ask who I mean, and I press the cleaver harder against his skin.

“There was a girl with teal hair,” I tell him. “You and your friends violated her in an alley. She would have fought like hell to get away, but there were more of you and only one of her.”

There’s recognition in his gaze now, and I nod.

“Good. You remember. Then you should know that this isn’t a random attack. This isn’t about gang posturing or anything like that. This is about that girl. You never should have touched her. If I’d known about it sooner, I would have taken care of all of you sooner. I hope you enjoyed those extra years. I hope you made the most of them.” I pause, then shake my head. “But you probably wasted them. Because that’s all you are. A fucking waste.”

I stand back up and grab his bound hands, yanking him to his feet and dragging him over to the table. He tries to resist, digging his heels in, but it’s not much use. He isn’t strong, isn’t powerful. The only reason he and his friends were able to take on Quinn was because she was badly outnumbered.

Their numbers didn’t help them this time.

I slam his hands down on the table and hold them down. He fights me as best he can, which isn’t very well at all. He gains no ground and gets nowhere.

I raise the cleaver with my other hand, and he screams again, begging wetly through the gag. It’s soaked with spit and tears, snot running down his face.

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