Page 84 of Shockproof

Slater

Clamping the industrial grade pliers on the lower portion of The Accountant’s pinky, I slowly pull the digit away from his other fingers, crunching sounds along with gut wrenching howls reverberating around the sector c enhanced interrogation room.

Why hasn’t Reynolds checked in yet?

Were they tailed?

How far?

For how long?

Did they have to reach the outskirts of the city?

Further?

What number of evasive maneuvers did they have to execute to get free?

Are they free?

Hell, have they been home and just forgot to fucking give me a status report?

I abruptly give the appendage a hard twist, not only breaking the knuckle but igniting louder, blood curdling screams.

Didhefucking forget?

Did that asshat forget to inform me she’s secure?

That she’s fine?

That she’s back to reviewing data and drinking afternoon coffee and listening to cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies because it’s that time of the year?

Releasing the digit is followed by me moving the tool over to the space between his thumb and index finger as he pointlessly tries to thrash his strapped down frame around.

Even if Reynolds forgot – which I will chew his ass about the second I know my woman’s safe – Angel Cake wouldn’t have.

She’d call.

Or text.

Or both if I didn’t answer.

She wouldn’t be this quiet or distant.

Not willingly.

Squeezing on the handle is accompanied by meeting his teary blue-eyed stare. “Applying enough pressure here – to your median nerve – could make you piss yourself in pain.”

“He’s probably already close, honestly,” Blu comments from his position near the requested tools.

I release the force to build a false sense of security before using my other hand to unsheathe my tactical knife and jam it straight through his forearm so that the tip sticks in the wooden chair. The Accountant’s screams reach deafening levels lessening his chance of hearing my proclamation. “Thatis your radial nerve.” One small tweak is delivered to ensure it remains in place. “This type of damage to it is gonna make it hard to straighten your elbow…your wrist…your bony little fuckin’ fingers for typin’…”

“Forgive him,” my second in command dramatically insists. “He gets like this when he’s hangry.”

There’s no hesitation to execute another round of pain with the pliers in the very spot they’re lingering.

Our captive cries out to the same steady rate blood is seeping from his arm, prompting Blu to shout, “You did keep us from having lunch!”

“S-s-s-st-st-stoooopppp!” the individual begs, word barely coherent. “Motherofgodpleasejust stop!”

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