Page 62 of Chase

“Is there water down here?” I ask Hunter, ignoring the asshole in front of me, wanting to focus on what pain I can inflict next. He signals to a small tap on the wall, a black bucket placed beneath. Harrison moves toward it. We all watch him fill the dirty, disused tub one bucket at a time. My attention turns back to Hastings. “You will regret ever laying a hand on her. These last hours of your life will pass so slowly, you’ll be praying for death.”

Russell stands to one side, leaning against the wall, balanced on his crutches. He rocks slightly as if uncomfortable. “You okay?” I ask him, and he shrugs. “How the fuck did you get down those stairs?”

“With difficulty,” he replies, deadpan. “But it will be fucking worth it to see this bastard die.”

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Hastings says to my brother. “Your reputation precedes you. You’re no angel.”

“I don’t proclaim to be.” Russell limps toward him. “But I never have or will lay a finger on a lady.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Men like us love to see fear in others. Whether that is physical or mental.” He grins disgustingly, leaning forward into Russell’s face. His body turns and bumps my brother’s shoulder with his. The movement is awkward due to his hands still being tied. It mimics the gesture of friends. “You and me are cut from the same cloth.”

My brother turns away, not reacting impulsively as I expect him to. A few moments later, the crutch connects with Hastings's skull. Russell raises the metal tube again, then brings it down hard on his face. Blood spurts from his nose, splattering his shirt then running liberally over his lips. He drops to his knees but continues to smile. Harrison continues to fill the tub as if nothing has happened.

“Say that again,” Russell snarls.

“Men. Like. Us,” Hastings repeats.

This time, it’s me who loses control. I grab Hastings by the collar, pushing him forcefully to the bathtub. Turning the bastard away from me, I kick him hard at the back of his knees and he drops to the floor. Clutching the back of his shirt collar, I push his head down into the freezing water. With his hands still tied to his belt, he flails his shoulders but can’t fight me off. Hunter appears on the other side to apply more pressure. We hold him under the water for thirty seconds. Russell counts in the background, then we pull him from the water. Hastings gasps for breath.

“Men like you,” I say furiously. “Only pathetic cowards mistreat women.”

Hunter pushes his head forward, and I follow. We hold him longer this time, forcing the air from his body and allowing the water to invade his lungs before releasing him again.

“You won’t die by drowning,” Hunter tells him. “That’s a death too easy for a bastard. This is stage one in an exit from this earth so beautiful, and you’ll be your own audience at every stage.” My friend’s eyes move to me. “Again, and this time for one minute. I find any longer than that, they can die by accident. I have too much fun planned for that to happen.”

Chapter twenty-five

Down St. Abandoned Underground Station, Mayfair

Russell

I watch in both horror and awe as my brother holds Hastings under the water level. When he and Hunter pull him out, the bastard gasps violently in a vain attempt to fill his dying lungs with air. Once he seems to settle again, they thrust him back below the water. It’s the cruelest method when conducting any torture—giving your victim a false sense that the ordeal is over only to reenact the brutality. The process is exhausting and exhilarating for all concerned, whether a participant or spectator.

Harrison approaches Connor from behind and taps him on the shoulder. My brother's focus flits to him briefly. He releases his grip on Hastings. “Enough,” Harrison says firmly. “You don’t want to kill him too soon.” Hunter sighs dramatically but pulls his victim from the water again.

“Spoilsport,” he says cheekily. He lets go of the man he’s holding, who falls forward onto the edge of the bath, his shoulders colliding with the metal before he collapses to the floor. “We should stick with water. I don’t think our friend enjoys it. His body vibrates wonderfully with fear.” Hastings doesn’t speak; he shakes his head viciously, trying to clear the water from his ears and face as he lies in a heap.

“Lie him flat on his back,” I suggest, then reach for a dirty rag lying over a metal rail on the wall. It was probably white at one point; now, it’s a morbid gray speckled with black. Heaven knows how long it's been down here. Hunter and Connor maneuver Hastings onto his back. “Fill the bucket, Waite.” Harrison goes back to the tap and twists open the faucet.

I hobble over then drop my crutches onto the floor, offering the dirty rag to my brother. “Pull that over his face,” I tell him, then turn to Hunter. “Pin him down.” My friend moves to kneel on our captive’s chest. “Pass me the bucket.” Harrison walks over, passing me the now full bucket. “I’m going to enjoy this.” I tip the water over the dirty rag, and it soaks it immediately. I keep the stream of water constant as Hastings kicks his legs in panic. “Sometimes, the oldest torture techniques are the best; prepare yourself, you arsehole, because you will experience many tonight.”

Slowly, we refill the bucket and I pour the water over Hastings’s face. As time passes, he fights less. His will to survive ebbing from his body as the reality of what’s happening to him sets in. I imagine his mouth gawping beneath the disgusting fabric only to be met with more liquid.

Once he stills, we remove it and pull him up to sit. He’s limp, and I wonder if we have gone too far already. But then, he coughs aggressively, throwing himself forward from the waist. His face is filthy, covered in remnants of dirty water. Hunter grabs him by the collar, pulls him up to stand, then pushes him to a wooden spindle chair which seems strategically located in the corner of the room. Hastings collapses onto the seat.

Another train passes the station, but we can’t see it. The noise is loud behind the wall. The clatter fills the space, and everyone stops speaking. Once it subsides, Hunter pulls his knife from his belt and walks toward Hastings, who looks up with tired, beaten eyes.

My friend spins the knife between his fingers, then lowers it swiftly and opens our captive’s suit jacket and shirt at the shoulders, exposing flesh. He does the same on the opposite side, then pulls both lots of material down his arms so they bunch at his still-tied hands. “Perfect,” he mutters before driving the blade into his shoulder. Hastings wails in pain, and Hunter pulls the knife from his body then turns and passes it to Connor. “Your turn, Chase. Use him as a fucking pin cushion.”

Connor takes the blade, looks at me, and I nod in encouragement. It would be typical for me to take part in the rough justice we distribute. I’m not embarrassed to admit I find a thrill in physically punishing someone who deserves it. But Connor rarely gets involved. He’s the one who stands back and allows others to take the lead. But today, it’s obvious he wants to be the one who inflicts the pain.

The knife cuts into the flesh at the top of each arm over and over again. Eventually, Hastings’s body gives the impression that his arms are hanging, almost detached.

“Stand,” Connor barks, and Hastings wobbles to his feet. “Follow me.” We all look at each other, unsure of where he’s going with this. My brother walks out into the passageway and heads toward the noise of yet another train. At the bottom of the corridor is a modern sign with an arrow, telling us the Piccadilly line is to our left.

“I thought the tunnels weren’t used,” I asked, signaling to the sign.

“Those were installed for contractors,” Hunter explains. “So they don’t get lost.”

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