Page 27 of The Trap

Delilah Rivera

Blair Van Tassel

Carmine Moretti

The only name that remains uncrossed isRaiden Ramos,but I’ll deal with her later. This piece of shit in front of me needs my undivided attention.

I navigate the control panel, switching from the view I have of the escape rooms–both the legitimate ones and the ones the elite clientele use for their personal fuck fests–to the special room I have set aside for people like Brett Cromwell. People who arrive here by force and have their time spoiled by being tied up, bloodied, bruised, and rendered in no condition to talk. Not like that will stop me from making him talk to me one way or another.

He’s a rich, spoiled, overprivileged narcissist who’s been trained by his father, and his father before him, and so on, to believe that money can solve all problems. Perhaps that’s true in the real world, but here, beneath the pavement that busy New Yorkers walk upon daily, too busy to notice or care… money buys you nothing.

Pressing the intercom, I speak. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy, haven’t you?”

Brett’s eyes jolt open, as if I, the anonymous voice through the speaker, will save him.

Wishful thinking.

“Let me go,” he whimpers, barely audible.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I deadpan.

“Please,” he whimpers again, thrashing his restrained body against the chair, which naturally topples over.

I scoff, annoyed. Speaking to him is already insufferable, but having to get anything out of him while he’s wailing about on the floor? No fucking thank you. Still, I need to bring a weapon of some sort with me. It’s not like he’ll be able to defend himself, but it just helps get my point across. Makes it more entertaining. Moving from the control panel, I take a step back to the storage closet in the corner of the small room. I scan my options: loaded Glocks, sharpened machetes, and my personal favorite, the wooden baseball bat covered in rusty nails and spike-lined chains.

Securing the handle of the bat in my palm, I burst through the door that separates Mr. Cromwell from me.

I stalk towards him. Fire floods my veins as I fantasize about how good it will feel to watch his skin tear into fleshy, crimson pieces with one swift swing of the upgraded bat. To warm up, I swing the bat in front of his face, stopping mere inches from his nose.

“No!” he screeches.

Clicking my tongue, I bend my knees, lowering myself to his level.

“I’m going to ask you once. Why?” I bite.

“Wh-wh-whyy wha–” he stutters. His words morph from scattered mumbles to agonizing and inaudible bellows as my swinging graduates from practice to the real thing, alternating harsh blows to each of his thighs.

“Stop” he cries.

This fucking guy.

“More?” I ask, uninterested in an answer.

“No!” he pleads.

“Coming right up.” I smash another blow into his already bloodied leg.

“Tell me it was you,” I bite, lifting the bat, separated shreds of flesh dangling like ribbons. Winding up once more, I crash down on his leg. His screeching is music to my ears. I should stop. Poor fuck has had enough, but one more blow won’t hurt anyone…except for him. I wind up, mid swing, adrenaline fueling me just as the intercom beeps, robbing me of the moment. I lower the bat instead of slamming it into him like I wanted to.

“They’ve got her,” one of my associates announces through the speaker.

Excellent.

“And the brother,” they add.

“The brother as inhisbrother?” I point to a weakened Brett Cromwell.

“Yes. Apparently, he was in her bedroom. Should I tell them to drop him off?”

---