Page 13 of Twisted

Blankets and sheets and pillows flew around like a stormy, writhing sea, his muffled grunts following them into the hall. Jaeger could feel hot tears against his roughened palm as he continued to drag her backward, kicking open the door to the apparent guest room. Through the struggle, through the noises now issuing from the master room—he could only focus on one thing; the unrelenting power that flowed through him.

He’d never done a job like this before. The first two were just minor—roughing up a few guys who owed debts to his mysterious boss. This one, he knew from the beginning, was far more serious for whatever reason. He’d known he was to take the woman away while they did whatever they needed to do. He’d rehearsed this with his crew about a thousand times, but the emotions that struck his veins were entirely foreign, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the rush, the thrill.

Tossing her like a doll onto the bed, she bounced a few times before she scrambled back and kicked out at him, her ankle-length nightgown fluttering like a curtain in the wind. He whipped the rope from his pocket as she sobbed and screeched, her eyes dilated in fear—fear of him. It was new, to have someone fear him, but a sick part of his psyche enjoyed that as well, the look in her eyes, wavering in and out of blurry focus. Gripping her ankle, he yanked her back across the bed, nestling his hips between her legs to keep her better pinned with his lithe body.

Fighting for control of her wrists, he gritted his teeth and eventually captured her weak arms with more ease than he initially figured. Quick, he used the first length of rope to tie her up—just as he’d been taught, just as he’d rehearsed. He moved a step back, expecting her heel to come flying toward his face. He chuckled, catching her attempt easily, subduing her until she was a sobbing mess all wrapped up. His last task was to gag her, but as he moved forward, the woman—blubbering—spoke, her words quiet, soft, and only making those strange emotions all the more potent in his buzzing body.

“Please,” she begged, plush lips trembling, wide brown eyes glossed with tears. In her gaze, he could see she wasn’t a woman anymore; she was a frightened young girl, seeking any form of compassion possible in this dire moment. “Please, d-don’t…please…don’t hurt me, or…m-my—”

Jaeger, sickeningly loving how she begged, still felt a prick of empathy for the woman. A part of him he hadn’t known existed had been unleashed this very night, but there was still a small part of him that knew he could extend mercy to someone who deserved it. Especially a poor, frightened woman.

“Shh, doll. I ain’t here to hurt ya, alright?” he said, leveling her with a look that belied his age. She blinked a few times, holding her bound wrists up by her chest, the pale light filtering in from the window making her look like a ghost. He could see her mind working overtime, could see that by the tone of his voice alone she was calming. Standing above her still, his knees touching hers, he could feel the spasms of fear wrack her body.

They held one another’s gaze for a long beat, and second by second, she slowly relaxed, taking in a shivering breath before she nodded. She understood—on some level—that she could trust his word. He understood, he realized, that she somehow expected this. Whatever had put a target on her husband’s back was something she was privy to.

Jaeger shifted, backing away a step, and she straightened, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks with her fists.

“Jaeger!”

He tensed. It was Rancho, and he sounded like a pissed-off father ready to reprimand his unruly child. Jaeger’s eyes flicked to the woman.

“You gon’ keep quiet, or do I have to gag ya, too?” he said, gruff in his delivery. He knew that after tonight, this woman would never speak of the events that were transpiring currently. It had happened on each job he’d been on thus far; they would clean up and prepare to leave, and Rancho would sit with either the witnesses or the target for ten minutes—alone. No one had ever ratted on them.

No one ever would.

He wasn’t sure what Rancho’s spiel was, but he knew it had to be sinister for people to keep their mouths shut.

The woman nodded, though more tears leaked from her eyes—silent this time. She knew that whatever was happening, it would alter her life forever. Jaeger felt the shift, too, but instead of fearing it, he leaned into the idea with abandon.

Backing out of the room—quite assured she’d not be able to escape easily—he thudded his way back to the master bedroom. The sight before his eyes had shifted considerably in the small span of time he’d been absent. The man was bloodied, his eyebrow split, his lip busted. He was bound to a chair, his head bobbing as he fought unconsciousness. Jaeger slowed his gait, coming to a stop a few inches behind Rancho—always his shadow now.

Without a word, Rancho shifted, turning around to face Jaeger, to stand at the man’s shoulder. He held out his hand. Jaeger’s eyes flitted down to his beefy, tanned palm, a glint of menacing silver catching his widening eyes. With a heaviness he hadn’t expected settling upon his shoulders, Jaeger knew what his final initiation would be. Nothing could have ever prepared him for this—for the reality of taking another man’s life.

Part of him thought he could close off his mind, his heart and his soul and just do it, but the young side of him became clammy with dread. What would it be like? Would there be a ton of blood, like in those war movies? Would he die right away, or would it take the span of eternity to watch him bleed out? He’d grown up hunting with his grandfather, had taken the lives of deer and boars and birds, but he knew this would be vastly different. Even in hunting, as soon as he loosed the arrow and hit his target, a small part of him mourned the loss of life—innocent life.

Maybe…maybe if he knew why he was killing this man, it would be easier, would be more justifiable. His eyes flicked from the knife back up to meet Rancho’s. The almond slivers narrowed even more at Jaeger’s hesitation. He pushed the knife closer, until Jaeger grasped the hilt, lips parted, eyes wide.

“Carotid arteries, here,” Rancho said, using his thumb to delineate a line on his own neck. “Slice quick, ear to ear.”

The man in the chair garbled an incomprehensible response, sending Jaeger’s heart skidding to a stop. The fact that he was aware of his impending death made this torture all the worse, and though Jaeger wanted to chase that power, part of him couldn’t. His eyes locked on Rancho’s.

“Why?” he said, his voice a choked whisper.

Rancho’s eyes hardened to steel.

“You ask why, you’re out, kid.”

“But—”

“I’m not God. Do your fucking job so I can do mine.”

Jaeger’s jaw clenched tight with an audible snap. Nodding once, his grip on the knife tightened, and his resolve turned to steel. He had no choice. He knew, deep down, that if he backed out now, his life was forfeit. Those that turned their back on El Diablo, as Rancho called their boss, were found dead a few weeks later with the signature brand burned into their right cheek; a sideways Z with a line through it. Jaeger had yet to make sense of the mark and what it stood for, but he felt a congenial familiarity with it all the same. His own father hated him; his chance at redemption, at finding a place in this world, was with these men.

Gulping down his bile, he stepped forward. His body on autopilot, he gripped the man’s sweaty black hair, pulling his neck taut for better access. Bringing the knife forward in a swift motion, his last shred of humanity died as the steel sliced through skin and muscle and tendons as though it were butter.

The man slumped forward as he bled out. Jaeger dropped the knife with a clatter. And when his eyes met Rancho’s, his chest heaving, acid roiling in his gut, he could see the approval there.

Rancho nodded once, reaching out his hand. Jaeger understood what he wanted, clasping his blood-stained hand to Rancho’s. The big man leaned forward until his forehead met Jaeger’s, and he patted the back of his neck with his free hand.

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