Page 56 of Bullet

The concrete has some dubious stains, dark spots that could be blood. We know it’s not, but that doesn’t mean Donny Jacobs does.

He’s hanging from a hook we screwed into a thick beam, tested to make sure it would hold at least two hundred pounds. Donny’s tall, and being that the ceilings are low, he can touch the floor if he stands on his tiptoes.Just.

Raven turns back and runs one gloved finger down Donny’s cheek.

So confident and cocky out on the street, assured of his elite position in the world and his own infallibility, Donny gets the message that he holds no power here. He stammers, blubbering out something incoherent.

“What was that?” Raven coos, like he’s talking to a baby. In his all-black clothing and his jet-black hair, his eyes blown out from the very real pleasure of getting to do this, he’s intimidating as fuck. “We know your dad just wants money. We already know what he has on the club, so the question is why.” Raven grasps Donny’s chin between two fingers and jerks his face violently. “Since we can’t get ahold of daddy dearest—it’s very rude not to return phone calls, you know—you’re going to have to give us the answers we need.”

After the conversation I had with Lynette, I went straight to the club with it. After another meeting, it was decided that pursuing the Donny option was valid if Harold was going to continue to stonewall us and remain MIA.

Wizard gave it his best shot for almost a week, but when he couldn’t find a single thing on Donny, we came up with a plan.

Raven, Reaper, and Smoke went to Seattle and kidnapped Donny as he was leaving his penthouse suite on his way to class this morning. The building had security everywhere, including cameras in the parking garage, but Wizard was able to hack those, and that’s where Raven and Reaper hid. Smoke was outside, keeping an eye on the place, and positioned as a last ditch stop if Raven and Reaper failed to nab Donny down there.

He was easy pickings. They reported that he cried and sniveled all the way back to Hart. Granted, they did tie him up and force him into the trunk of a seven-series bimmer the club owns. Of course, the plates have reflective tape over the letters, so the traffic cameras couldn’t pick them out.

While the hunting party was out, the rest of us set up the basement. We have no real plans of torture, or at least, it’s not our main aim. We’re more about the implied threat.

A metal cart set up with all the scariest looking tools is our primary fear tactic. Picks, chisels, screwdrivers, hammer, saws, a drill, and pliers. We picked a spot at the back of the basement where the drain happens to flow and set the hook up above, like we wanted it to be as mess free as possible.

In short, we went for atmospheric torture, with the real stuff to happen only if Donny refuses to break. Tyrant didn’t feel right about it, but Raven promised he’d just lay some fists into some meaty spots, and Donny would probably crack wide open.

He’s only been down here for five minutes, but so far, all Donny has done is cry.

We’re all dressed entirely in black, with black gloves. It makes quick work of laundry, but we truly look the part of thugs.

Raven shakes Donny’s chin again. His face flaps all over the place and he moans low, a trickle of blood spilling between his lips. He must have bitten his own tongue or his cheek to keep from screaming.

When Raven lets go, Donny’s head slumps forward as though he’s just spent days being tortured, not lovingly caressed for five minutes.

“What did you do, Donny boy?” Raven coaxes. He steps over to the table and goes for the logical first implement. The pliers.

Donny eyes the rusty tool—I don’t even think they’ll open, they’re so old and rusted—and howls. “Nothing! Nothing. You have to believe me! I’ve done nothing. I don’t know anything!”

There’s a very good chance Lynette and I were on the wrong path and Donny truly has done nothing, but if that’s true, we can still hold him for leverage. Harold won’t be pleased, but we’re past the point of playing nice. We’re past the point of playing at all.

“Teeth or nails first?” Raven asks in his sinister low voice.

I have a black Henley on, but beneath the long sleeves, goosebumps form on my arms.

Lynette doesn’t know anything about this. It was agreed that we’d keep this strictly confidential. Tyrant hasn’t even told Lark, and none of the other old ladies know. We’ll have to tell them soon enough, but we’d like to have something first. It’s not that they don’t realize that sometimes we have to resort to doing unsavory things, but this could turn dangerous, and we want to know what we’re up against before we act further. Everyone is already careful. No one goes out alone. If this results inanother lockdown, people will lose their minds. We don’t want to threaten it, if it’s not going to happen.

Raven runs those rusty pliers over Donny’s spittle-covered lips, letting him taste the metallic bite. “Teeth first, then.”

“No!” Donny jerks violently, spinning himself, twisting so the ropes cut into his wrists. We can all see the fresh red marks that form as they chafe away the skin. “No, please! I-I needed money. Money to keep them quiet.”

Raven jams the pliers through Donny’s lips. They clank against his teeth, and Donny screams. He also pisses his pants, the urine soaking through the trousers of a two- or three-thousand-dollar custom tailored suit.

The strong stench of urine fills the basement, an unpleasant reminder of the last time we were down here, mopping up sewage.

Raven pops the pliers out. They’re shiny with spittle. He wipes them on Donny’s pristine white shirt, leaving a trail that looks like old blood across the front.

“What did you have to keep quiet, Donny boy?”

Donny shakes his head in a rare show of bravery that lasts all of three seconds, which is about how long it takes Raven to trail those pliers straight down to Donny’s junk. “Alright!” Donny yelps. “Okay! Stop!”

He’s a pathetic mess, snot dripping from his nose, drool dribbling from the side of his mouth, face mottled red and coated with a sheen of tears.

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