Page 70 of Rage

Lane steps forward, face impassive.“What we want,” he says softly, “is information.And you’re going to give it to us.One way or another.”

Liam and I step forward.In the van is a case that I keep in there for times like this.

I was trained for this, I can hurt someone and drag out their torture for a long-ass time until I get everything that I need.

The very same training that Liam had.

He stares at my tools, smirking at the sight.“I think you should share with me, son.”

Liam and I exchange a dark look as he opens the case, revealing an array of sinister tools.The cold metal gleams under the harsh light, promising pain and suffering.

“My pleasure,” I tell him, selecting a wicked-looking blade.Its serrated edge catches the light as I turn it, examining it with an almost loving caress.

Liam chooses a set of pliers, testing their grip with a menacing click.“Let’s see how talkative our friend is feeling, shall we?”

Peterson’s father thrashes against his bonds, eyes wild with terror.“You can’t do this!”he wails.“I have rights!”

I lean in close, my voice a low, dangerous rumble.“Rights?Like the rights of all those women your family abused?The lives you ruined?”

The man’s face pales further, if possible.Sweat beads on his forehead.“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers.

Liam’s hand shoots out, gripping the man’s jaw in a bruising hold.

“Wrong answer.”

My father, Wilder, steps forward to join us.His eyes gleam with a familiar darkness, the same darkness I feel coursing through my veins.

“Room for one more?”my dad says, his gravelly voice sending a chill down my spine.

I nod, a feral grin spreading across my face.“Always room for you, old man.”

His weathered hands select a set of brass knuckles from the case.The metal glints as he slips them on, flexing his fingers.“Let’s see if we can jog this fucker’s memory.”

Peterson’s father whimpers, piss staining the front of his expensive slacks.The acrid scent fills the air, mingling with the metallic tang of fear.

“How pathetic, we haven’t even started and he’s pissed his pants.”I sigh in disappointment.I love when they don’t break easily.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking.“I’ll tell you anything.Just don’t hurt me.”

I lean in close, my blade tracing a delicate line along his jaw.A thin trail of blood wells up, bright against his pale skin.“Oh, we’re way past that now,” I purr.“You’re going to tell us everything.And then you’re going to suffer for every life your family has destroyed.”

Liam steps forward, pliers glinting menacingly.“Let’s start with something simple.Where’s your son hiding?”

Peterson’s father shakes his head frantically.“I don’t know!I swear to God, I don’t know!”

Dad’s fist connects with the man’s stomach, brass knuckles sinking deep.The crack of ribs echoes in the small room.Our prisoner retches, bile splattering the concrete floor.

“Wrong answer,” Dad snarls.“Try again.”

I watch, a cold satisfaction settling in my chest as we work.Liam methodically removes fingernails, each wet pop accompanied by agonized screams.Dad’s fists paint a canvas of bruises across once-pristine skin.

And me?I carve our questions into his flesh, each lie earning another stroke of my blade.Blood runs freely, staining the chair and pooling on the floor.The copper scent fills my nostrils—intoxicating.

Time loses meaning.Minutes or hours could have passed.But slowly, surely, Peterson’s father breaks.Names spill from his lips between sobs and pleas for mercy.Locations.Dates.

We have a list of women that have suffered by his hands, and those he knows about by the others’, the ones he helped cover.

It’s fucking sickening the way they’ve ruined lives.

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