Page 54 of Breaking Storm

He releases a sinister chuckle, so I hook my foot under the chair rung, and I flip it over. James crashes onto his back and moans. I look over my shoulder at Frankie, who holds a wrench out to me.

I take the wrench, crouch down next to James, and ask, “Where’s my mom?”

James’ eyes meet mine as he says, “Aw, does the little pussy want his mommy?”

Snatching his index finger, I press the wrench against the middle knuckle, twist and yank the finger backwards.

Crack.

He howls and cries, which then turns to curses.

“Make this real easy for yourself, James. Tell me where she is, and you walk away with only one broken finger.”

“Fuck you, you little shit!”

I grab another finger and do the same.

Crack.

He turns his head and vomits on the floor.

“You’re not getting out of here until you tell me where my mom is.” I smack his face. “If you’re a good boy, I might let you live, otherwise, your loyal minions will find pieces of you scattered along the Chicago River.”

James spits up, takes in a huge inhale, and says, “Wait. Let’s come to some kind of agreement.”

“I’m not here for negotiations. Where is she?”

“Fuck! We can work—”

Another finger,crack, and his desperate cries.

James is pale. The pain is swirling its way into his nerves. He squeezes his eyes shut, taking in a large breath of air, and blowing it out.

His head swivels from side to side. “You mother fucking, cocksucker.” He looks me dead in the eyes. “If you don’t kill me, you better fucking hide, because I’ll—”

Crack.

Another finger.

James is swearing and threatening me, but I just smile at him and squeeze his hand with the broken fingers. This spurs on another round of begging and curses.

I tilt my head to the side, and say, “Four broken fingers. How are you ever going to fuck your hand?”

He has smeared snot and blood on his face. I stand, lift the back of the chair, and put it into a seated position. Moving over to Frankie, I fire up the blow torch, take a pair of pliers, and hold them over the flame.

Once they’re red hot, I grab one of James’ broken fingers, placing the pliers near the tip and say, “This is called denailing.” The pliers grab onto the nail, and the skin sizzles from the heat.

“Fuck!”

I tilt my head from one side to the other, move closer to his hand, and keep my voice even. “How about I give you a choice? I can yank them out fast or slow.”

I sneer as he shouts, “Stop!”

“That wasn’t one of the options.”

Gripping the pliers, I tear out his nail, and his screams echo through the empty silo. An evil smile captures my face.

“Fast? Slow? Or are you ready to tell me where you’ve been holding my mother captive?”

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