Page 116 of Rage

He sets off at pace, skirting round the back of the house. I have to practically jog to keep up with his long fucking legs.

“Where’s the fucking fire?” I pant out, breathless from trying to navigate the slightly muddy pathway in my work-appropriate heels.

“Huh?” He stops, six paces in front of me, turning as I finally manage to catch up.

“I meant slow down. Where are we going anyway?”

“Oh. I have a woodworking shed back here. My buddy Tino is with our mutual friend.”

I know there’s a look of contempt on my face. I know it. But I can’t remove it, because— “You? Woodworking?”

“Yeah, me.Woodworking.” He’s got a smirk on his face that I’m not sure I like. “With vises, circular saws, jigs, orbital sanders; stuff for carving shit up.Sharpstuff.”

Oh.Oh. “That kind of woodworking. Right.”

There are grins on both our faces right now, and I’m kinda glad I called him. Even if I am starting to feel a little nauseous as well, the pressing realization dawning that I probably couldn’t have pulled this meeting off on my own.

That feeling only gets worse as we draw closer to the shed in question, but I guess Lock must realize, as he takes my arm, bringing me to a halt a few meters from the freestanding structure.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. We can take care of him, if that’s what you need to happen.”

“That’s not what I need to happen.” I need to take it out on something, and my usual catharsis of kicking punch bags is not. Fucking. Working. “I need this, Lockey.”

He takes another glance at the determination on my face, in my stance, then keys in the code and pushes open the door.

There are two guys in there, both of whom turn to look as the door swings wide. One—the very much bigger of the pair—is picking his nails with the point of a hunting knife.

And the other?

He’s tied naked to a dining chair with a leather strap buckled around his head, bound by scarlet ropes around his chest, arms and ankles to the roughhewn surface. It takes me a blink to realize that notallthe rope is scarlet; just the parts where he’s apparently already shed a portion of his life juice. Or someone has, anyway.

Lockey starts with introductions. “Tee, this is Lara, the chick I was telling you about.”

That makes me mad. Fucking enraged, actually. “I’m not a baby fuckinghen.”

They both stop and take stock of me, eyes roaming down my body, taking in the black pantsuit and boots that I carefully selected for this undertaking. Along with the middle fingers thatI’m holding up, which is why I assume Lockey quickly rescinds his description.

“My apologies. The very capable and obstinatewomanI mentioned.”

I decide to let him off with that.For now.He continues, motioning to the giant hulk of dark-haired man, who has at least put the sharp looking blade back in the holster on his hip.

“Lara, this is Tino. He has a distinct knack for finding people and getting information out of them. You can thank him for today’s gift.”

The ‘gift’ in question is looking utterly enraged at the unfolding scene, pulling against his restraints, cords straining in his neck and garbled noises coming out of his mouth around the leather, which I realize must be a bondage gag of some sort. His eyes are bloodshot too, likely from the strain his body has been put under.

Now that I’m fully in view of him, I can see the slight cuts, the contusions from the ropes. Bruising across his pale skin indicates he’s had a rough time of it already.

It’s a pretty horrifying sight, in truth. But I’m glad they hurt him, and more than ready to be horrified, if it means I get to right this wrong.

The big man steps up behind the captive, undoing the buckles from around the back of his head. I’m off to the side, virtually unnoticed, which means Lock is the unlucky one to be standing in the firing line of the great hock of bloody sputum that is expelled onto the Mariners hoodie he’s sporting.

Lockey responds by backhanding the motherfucker across the face. The crack of knuckles on jaw echoes through the enclosed space like a gunshot.

“Now that wasn’t very fucking nice, was it?”

I can’t help but laugh at the calmly posed question. He’s clearly not happy at the befoulment, but is keeping his cool forthe show. He removes the sweater, wiping the vile excretion back across the asshole’s mouth, putting it back where it came from.

Our hostage is not so pleased at this development. “Fuck you!”

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