Page 66 of Power Term

“We do this back at the house, remember?”

“Right. The house. I want him to pay, Tank. Pay for every second he had her, for every cut and bruise. Every foul word he said and every damn fear he implanted in her mind. Is there a punishment that will get back the last twenty-four hours?” I rake a shaky hand through my hair. “He took her. Hurt her. He hurt what’s mine.”

“I have a few ideas,” Smith tosses out. His words hang on the air.

My tight lips curl in a sinister smile. “I knew I always liked you.” Swiveling back around, I slow my long strides toward the man I’m desperate to kill.

No, not kill.

Torture.

Even that might not be enough for him to pay for what he did to Randi.

But I’ve never been a quitter.

One way or another, I’ll extract my pound of flesh from this bastard and savor the knowledge that his last hours of life were terrible. Just like he had planned for Randi and me.

Fair’s fair, after all.

* * *

The return trek takes longer than the initial hike through the woods due to the dead weight I’m dragging. Already exhausted thigh and calf muscles scream and burn with each grueling step, almost giving out completely as I take the last back porch stair. Pausing, I swipe at the rivers of sweat pouring down my forehead and neck, scanning the now empty and quiet clearing.

Fuck, even with the sun down it’s hot as Hades. Guess I should get used to it considering I’ll be spending eternity in hell after what I’m about to do. Well, I guess you could say this is my final nail in the coffin, so to speak, on which direction I’ll go when I kick the bucket. I’m no angel by any means, but murdering a man in cold blood because he hurt the one you love… well, I’m pretty sure that’s a big no-no for the holy one upstairs.

The gagged Whit twists at the end of the rope, trying to break free, the end clutched in my hand swinging back and forth with the movement. A hard flick turns the loose part of the rope into a makeshift whip. It slaps across his scratched and dirty face.

None of us wanted to carry shit-for-brains here. That left us with the only way to get him back to the small cabin being to drag him. Through the woods. Over every rock, stump, and a few piles of animal shit if the smells wafting off him tell me anything.

“Need help?” I shake my head at Smith’s question but immediately turn it into a nod. “Thought so. Beating a man to death takes a lot of energy. You need to conserve.”

“Thanks?” It’s an odd way to show support, but this whole situation is fucked, so I’ll go with it.

Tugging Whit’s leash from my now raw and rope-burned palm, he hauls Whit through the remains of the splintered back door.

Both arms stretched high, I tip my head back and take in the star-filled sky.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tank says behind me.

I stare at the brightest star I can find and think over his words. Swallowing, I nod. “Yeah I do. I’m just fucking terrified by how much I’m looking forward to it.” Dipping my chin, I level a concerned look at my best friend, who wears the same expression. “Does that make me the same man as him? Or Ponder?”

“You already know the answer to that, Benson. You know you’re not, just like I’m not. This fucker deserves everything he’s about to get. It’s not just about tonight, or this past year, or the year before that. The torment and constant targeting of Randi makes him dangerous. If he leaves here today, she’s not safe, and neither are you. We do this tonight to protect her. To protect all of us.”

As the words sink in, I slowly nod. “You’re right.” His wide stance blocks my entry into the house. “But if I get carried away, I want you to stop me. Pull me back.”

Tank dips his chin in agreement, then turns and marches over the pieces of broken wood and shattered glass. I follow hot on his heels.

In the living room area, I pause, taking in the lack of bodies littering the floor. Large dark red blood lakes mark the floor but no dead assholes.

“What did they do with all the dead pricks?” I ask absentmindedly as Smith secures Whit to the decorative column dividing this space from the dining room

“The basement,” Smith responds. “We get to light this place up and ensure it burns to the ground when we’re done with him.”

Stepping back, he slams a fist into Whit’s face. Whit’s knees buckle with the force, leaving him hanging limp from the rope around his chest and shins. He hisses and glares at the man who dared hurt him.

Smith nods at the bindings and steps back. “Sorry, wanted to test the knots and make sure they held.”

“Maybe I should try too,” Tank offers, stepping forward without waiting for our approval. I cringe away from the sound of crunching bones under Tank’s fist colliding with Whit’s ribs.

---