Page 37 of Agony

“You used those to touch them?” Fisher sneered.

Blackwell gagged and gasped, breathing hard and unable to stop the screams from ripping out of his throat.

They were music to Fisher’s ears. They played a tune of endings.

The final scene of a sickening movie.

The closing of an FBI file.

The termination of one more sick fuck in the world.

Death was too good for Blackwell. The fucker had to suffer.

Just like he had suffered through endless agony.

You’re weak, you always have been.

That fucking voice from his past echoed in his head and this time when the blackout hit, Fisher was ready for it.

The world grayed out. If asked, he would have said that he became a block of ice, but maybe that wasn’t accurate because there was anger and ice and rage and they all seemed to go together.

Sometime later…Fisher came to his senses when his ass hit the cold floor of the kill shack.

Blinking away the fog, he wiped his sleeve over his face. The masked hood that he wore shifted and he felt wetness soaking through.

Gazing around, he saw a pile of something.

It took a moment for it to register.

The pile was Blackwell. The fucker was a mushy mess of flesh, bones, and blood. Tossing the sledgehammer away, Fisher rolled to his feet.

Stumbling from the building, he made his way to a small creek he’d found the day before and it was there that he dipped his gloved hands and rinsed them until the water ran clean. He dunked his head, mask and all, into the water to get as much blood and brains out of the material.

Tempted to remove his hooded mask, he decided against it, not wanting to risk exposure. There would be time enough for that before he reached his nondescript vehicle.

Arriving at the roadside motel he’d rented, Fisher noticed the curtains of the room he’d rented were open.

He knew for a fact that he’d closed them before leaving.

Could it be housekeeping?

Maybe.

Doubtful.

Good thing he’d buried his bloody clothing in the woods after changing at his vehicle. He still had blood in places that only a shower could remove.

Fisher pulled out his nine-millimeter with its silencer twisted on. Approaching the door, he flipped the key reader card against the lock and when it clicked open, he kicked the door wide before dodging back out of sight.

“Fisher, it’s me,” Rogue called from within the room.

Damn it. He shoved his gun away and stepped inside. Making his way to the washroom, he stripped out of his clothes. Untying his long hair, he turned on the shower. When the water was hot, he stepped beneath the blast.

He’d have time to talk with his best friend after he washed the grime from his body, hair, and mind.

“I’m ordering food,” Rogue yelled. “Chicken and fries, if you don’t have a preference.”

“Get pizza,” he yelled back, dumping shampoo in his palm and massaging it into his long, waist-length hair. It was a bitch to dry, but he couldn’t go another second without scrubbing the strands clean.

---