Page 22 of Room One Hundred and Seven: Catch and Claim

When I get him strung up, the zip ties still around his wrists looped over the hook hanging from the ceiling, I flash the guy a smile. It’s all teeth and, I’m sure, not in any way reassuring.

His lips thin as he presses them together like he’s trying to hold back words. While I might admire him for it, I’m too annoyed and frustrated that I even had to go and track this dickhead.

“Well,” I clap my hands together, the sound echoing around the room and making my captive flinch, “since you don’t seem willing to start the conversation, I’ll put you out of your misery.”

He barks out a laugh, clearly not understanding the meaning of my words. “I told you I wouldn’t say anything.”

“Oh,” I hold the word out like he’s an idiot, “you think I mean that I’ll just go ahead and kill you and put you out of your misery.” The cocky look on his face drops like a fucking stone in water and I can’t help but laugh. “Naw,” there’s a tease in my voice, “I’ll just tell you what I know already.”

“Fuck you,” he chokes out.

The way his arms start to shake is comical, but I don’t comment on it. He’s already getting enough shit and is starting to feel the pain. I don’t need to rub his face in it. It won’t change what is about to happen here.

“I know you’ve been dealing for Mikhail Morozov.” I pause, watching as his face pales, but he doesn’t say anything. I almost admire his resolve, even if it is stupid. “I know you’ve been telling people that Volkov and his crew are behind the drugs hitting the streets instead of baby boy Morozov.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I do work for Volkov.”

He puffs his chest up like he’s a big man, but it’s a front. It’s in the way his eyes shift around the room. He’s nervous and it fucking shows.

I make a humming sound and stride over to the other side of the room where there’s a cabinet made for a garage workshop which holds a whole host of tools of the trade. I almost bark out a laugh as I realize just how similar the tools are when it comes to what I’m about to do and what you would find in a workshop. I guess there’s no need to fix something that’s not broken when it comes to storage.

I take in the multiple hammers, the sledgehammer, the rubber mallet, the various wrenches and shears mixed in with the knives like they belong next to each other. The nail gun and blowtorch both catch my eye. When I glance over my shoulder, I make eye contact with my captive and grin wide.

He’s trying to peer over my shoulder to see all the options I have in front of me. My frame is blocking most of his view. Which is only going to make his fear ramp up.

I tap my chin like I’m thinking and mock him, “There are so many choices. I don’t know where to start.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he tries to sound tough, “I’m not going to talk.”

I hum softly as I shift just enough for him to see what I have to work with. It’s not easy to stop myself from barking out a laugh when I hear his audible as fuck gulp. A rapidly growing wet spot on his jeans has me twisting my face up.

“Thank fuck you didn’t piss yourself in my truck,” the disgust is clear in my voice. “I would have been pissed as fuck.”

“You don’t need to do this,” he tries to bargain with me, but it’s far too late for that shit.

I grab a pair of metal shears and let out a sigh like I’m torn on what I’m about to do. I’m not.

“You’re the one who asked for this,” I justify to him.

“I didn’t,” he insists.

With a slow shake of my head, I step up to him, steady his hand and cut off his pinkie all while staring at him, a neutral mask on my face. His screams ring out in the room, making me internally cringe. He’s loud as fuck and shriller than I was anticipating.

If only I could wear earplugs in, but that would kind of go against being able to hear him spill his guts.

“You’re the one who said that I couldn’t get you to talk. I don’t do well with challenges. You,” I fake concern for him, “asked for this.”

Only when his screams die down do I grip his other hand and cut that pinkie off as well. I swear he screams even louder the second time. His arms are shaking, then his entire body. When he droops, his head falling forward, I heave out a heavy sigh.

“They always go unconscious,” I mumble to myself.

I walk to the other side of the room where there’s a big sink. I drop the shears into them, knowing they’ll be cleaned or disposed of properly. I lift a bucket and fill it up, making sure the water is on the cold side.

After tossing it over him, he comes to with a gasp. Immediately he starts whimpering in pain and I roll my eyes. His eyes are bloodshot when they meet mine and I give a little wave in greeting.

“Welcome back,” my voice is chipper and whatever color was left in his face drains completely.

Good. He needs to know just how deep the shit is that he’s waded in.

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