Page 45 of Cold Heir

With a quick nod, he reached inside his jacket and retrieved a large, brown envelope. It seemed to take him forever to unclasp it, only to remove a single USB drive from inside. He connected the small device, and within seconds, audio played through the speakers.

Next, he pivoted the screen back toward me, and there was a visual reference for the disturbing sounds that came through the speaker—a scream ghastly enough that evenIshuddered to hear it.

“What on Earth am I watching?” Before my eyes was one unfamiliar face, but the other I recognized right away.

The Butcher.

“Well, it proved more difficult than expected, finding someone willing to give up information on their beloved Blackbird,” Jon explained. “So, I had to do a bit more persuading than originally planned. Hence the reason you see our good friend, the Butcher, starring in this particular video clip.”

When the man onscreen yelled out, I nearly turned away as a finger on his right hand was pulverized beneath the head of a heavy mallet.

“I had it on good authority that this particular Ianite, who goes by the name of Spencer, has been known to aid Blackbird in some of the disappearing acts she pulls with the donors. While he wouldn’t say exactly what part he plays, or where they generally meet, I did get a pretty convincing confession out of him.”

It wasn’t until Jon revealed that he’d been present at this torture fest that I was even aware. Finding it hard to imagine witnessing this event take place firsthand, it painted him in a new light as I realized he had the stomach for it.

His voice came in then, as he held a clear photo of Corina before Spencer. As the bloodied man lie wounded on a metal table, he opened the one eye not swollen shut by the ordeal. With the agony I knew he must have experienced, it was strange to see the calm that came over him as he examined the image. While the physical pain was apparent, it was only now that the emotional torment was present as well.

“Is the woman in this image Blackbird?” Jon inquired.

I was grateful not to have witnessed hisentiresession with the Butcher because, from the looks of things, this had been a lengthy, and gruesome ordeal.

Spencer continued to stare at the picture, but said nothing.

“Another round then,” Jon ordered from offscreen. The next sound I heard was that of a buzz saw whirring in the background. Whoever manned the camera zoomed in on the agony that flooded Spencer’s already tormented expression, capturing his increasingly desperate screams.

“Is this her?”Jon asked again, this time speaking loudly over the terrible buzz and sickening squish of a bloody limb being severed.

“Yesssss!” Spencer finally cried out, unable to withstand it any longer.

“Yes, what?” Jon asked, seeking clarity. Per Ianite law, a confession obtained by any means should be plainly stated, and devoid of doubt.

“Yes,” Spencer panted when the unpleasant buzzing finally came to an end. “Yes,that’sher,” he confessed. “ThewomaninthatphotographisBlackbird.”

As soon as the admission left his mouth, he mumbled a few inaudible words before Jon formally thanked him for his help in bringing a fugitive to justice. Unable to look away, I watched as Jon went on to light a match, tossing it onto Spencer’s mangled body, bringing his life to an abrupt end.

The screen went dark then, and we sat in silence. The only sound to be heard was the faint, mechanical whir of the jet’s cabin as it hummed.

“Do you have any idea what this means?” Jon asked quietly, while I processed the onslaught of terrible images and screams that had just bombarded my senses.

There were no words that would leave my mouth.

Jon studied me a moment longer. “I know that was difficult to watch, but—”

“What were his last words,” I interrupted, caring very little to hear him justify the scene I just witnessed.

“Pardon me?”

He’d become so hyper-focused on an interrogation he deemed a success that he failed to comprehend my question.

“He mumbled something, before you set him on fire,” I reiterated through gritted teeth. “I want to know what the man’s final words were.”

Peering up, I was able to observe the extent of Jon’s callousness, when he had to put a tremendous amount of effort into recalling this particular detail. I wondered if I’d asked how many limbs they removed from their subject, if he would have quoted it to me within seconds.

“Uh … I believe it was something along the lines of‘Forgive me. I tried’.Or something close to that. My guess was he meant the words for Blackbird, but it’s impossible to know for sure,” he added dismissively.

“He was an Ianite.”

Stating this fact seemed to cause Jon offense. Perhaps because he’d managed to justify his actions during his visit to the Butcher’s funhouse.

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