Page 438 of Rage

I follow the man inside, keeping my head tucked low as the rest of the men follow behind me. Inside, I find a man boundto a metal chair. He’s dressed in prison orange, his arms bound behind his back and his ankles tied to the front legs of the seat. There’s a black sack over his head, but this has to be him.

My heart pounds, rage boiling beneath the surface. One of the men hands me a black and white skull mask and instructs me to put it on. “En caso de que lo dejes vivir.”In case you let him live.

Not happening, but I slip on the mask anyway and thank him. “Gracias.”

The mask is cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the fire burning inside me. When they yank the bag off Miguel’s face, I finally see him for what he is—a pitiful, broken man. Tears streak down his cheeks, mingling with the snot running from his nose. The smug arrogance is gone, replaced by raw, naked fear.

“It’s him,” I say, my voice low and deadly.

“What’s happening?” Miguel sputters. “Who are you? Why am I here?”

I ignore his questions.

The man who handed me the mask steps forward. “You have ten minutes to do what needs to be done. After that, we have to return him to the jail where his body can be found.”

“Body?” Miguel jerks in his seat. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He pulls at his restraints, but whoever strapped him down did one hell of a job because Miguel can hardly move.

“Thank you,” I tell the man, grateful for his help. He and the others keep their masks in place as they walk away, giving me privacy to handle this. But before the last of them reaches the door, he turns and makes a sound, drawing my attention.

“Here.” He throws something in my direction, and on instinct, I reach up to catch it. “When you’re done with your fists, you can use this to finish the job.”

I look down at my hands and take in the smooth metal folding knife. Flicking it open, I admire the sharpness of the blade. This will do.

I thank them with a curt nod and return my focus to Miguel. He stares at me with wide eyes, confusion and fear mingling in his gaze.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask, my voice dripping with menace as I step closer. “You should. You hurt someone I care about. It’s only fair that in return, I hurt you.”

Miguel struggles against his bonds, but it’s no use. Without giving him the chance to brace for it, I swing my fist, and it connects with his jaw, the impact sending a jolt up my arm. Pain blooms, but it’s nothing compared to the satisfaction of hearing his pained cry for help.

Drawing back, I punch him again. This time, my fist connects with his nose. Bone crunches and blood pours down his face.

“Whatever you think I did?—”

I strike him again and again, not giving him a chance to speak. “You deserve this,” I tell him. “You deserve this and so much worse.”

Each punch is cathartic, a release of all my pent-up rage. This man hurt the one person who is precious to me. He broke her spirit. He took away her safety. He made her feel weak and helpless. Fuck. He made me feel helpless. I couldn’t fix what he did. I couldn’t take away her pain.

I think of what Allie was like when it first happened. How withdrawn she became. How she was suddenly afraid of even the people she knew. People she was friends with. Like Dom and Emilio and even me. It took months for Allie to come out of her shell. For her to smile again. For her to feel safe.

And this asshole is the reason behind it.

Fuck him. Rotting in a prison cell is too good for him. He needs to rot in hell.

I channel every ugly emotion swirling inside of me into every blow, again and again, until my hand goes numb and my knuckles are split and bleeding.

A sharp whistle draws my attention, and I look over my shoulder. One of the men makes a motion with his finger, signaling me to wrap it up. Chest heaving, I stumble back on my feet.

Miguel’s face is a mess of blood and bruises, but I’m not done. Not yet.

“Please,” he sputters, his teeth stained in blood. “Have mercy.”

I pull the knife from my pocket, the blade glinting in the dim light. He whimpers, a pitiful sound that only fuels my determination.

“Mercy is ending your pathetic life before making you suffer the same pain you’ve inflicted on others,” I snap, plunging the knife into his side. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, my vision narrowing to the sight of my own hand and the blade now buried in Miguel’s stomach.

His scream echoes through the empty warehouse, and I grit my teeth. Finish this.

I twist the blade, and Miguel cries out again, this time softer. His chest heaves at first, but as the seconds pass, his breathing begins to slow. I tear the knife out, and he gasps as I step back, the knife now dripping at my side.

---