Playing with Fire

Chapter 12 - Brooks

While we walk, I can't help but notice that Lorenzo is sweating profusely. His hair is a mop of messy curls and his white button up is marked with blood.

"Why the fuck are you so out of breath and look like shit?"

Looking down at himself he cringes from his appearance then points his attention to me. His gun is held in his right hand as a madly starts waving his arms around. "That little fucker was fast. Had me running for miles to get him and let me tell you he put up one hell of a fight." My serious face cracks from his remark. "Your just a little bitch," I jokingly add.

"Oh, you'll see," he says.

Once we have reached the room Lorenzo smiles while throwing me the keys. "All yours," he said emphasizing each word. "I'm going to get cleaned up. Have fun."

"Okay," I input sarcastically. Sometimes he exaggerates too much. Rolling my eyes I push the key into the door and open it slowly. In the room nothing but a chair and rope remains in plain sight. Either the fucker got out, which is impossible, or Lorenzo is pulling my leg. Neither would be good scenarios for the two. I pull out my knife and prepare myself for an attack. Taking a few steps in the door slams shut and causes me to turn around. Standing there is a man, not to large, in a fighting stance. Giving me a deadly expression he makes no sounds and begins charging at him. Side stepping he misses me by an inch and almost runs into the concrete wall. "I see we have a little fighter," I comment. I walk backwards towards the other end of the room and point my knife at him. "We can do this the easy way and you sit your ass in that chair or we do this my way, which involves you suffering with your blood splattered everywhere."

The man strolls over to the seat. His eyes never leave mine. Damn it I was really hoping to have fun. But just as I am about to put my knife away the hostage runs towards me and checks me right in the face with his fist. The contact from his knuckles to my skin leaves a sting and has me beginning to fume. My adrenaline has picked up from the punch, which will most likely leave a cut. A sinister smile plays on my face as I retract my hand and swing, aiming at his jaw. He instantly falls back and doesn't appear to be getting up. I hit him hard enough to the point that the skin on my knuckles began to rip open.

Grabbing the man by his shirt I drag him back to the wooden chair and tie him back up. He's still out so I decided to give him a few minutes before I'm at his throat again.

My right side of my jaw aches a bit from the hit I received earlier. Blood steadily trickles into my mouth from my lip. I wipe the blood off with my shirt sleeve and suck on my lip a bit.

After a few minutes have gone by my patience is thin. Stepping closer I lift his head up by his hair forcefully and give him a good backhanded slap with the other hand. His eyes open and his confused reaction changes too pissed.

"Who do you work for," I ask while still holding onto him by his hair. 

With a dark grimace he spits on my face. Saliva drips down from my forehead and onto my left eye. If I didn't need information from him, his brains would have been blown out by now. I let go of him to wipe the spit off of me. My jaw clenches in anger and my fists begin to ball at my sides.

"Last chance buddy, who are you working for and what were you doing sneaking around?"

Still no budge. His face is emotionless and his body is still. Taking in a deep breath I retract my knife from my pocket and flick it open. And still no reaction from him. I guess this leaves me with no other option. Quickly, I plunge the knife into the palm of his right hand. Screams fill the room and leave me in satisfaction. Finally, his screams bringing life to my menacing mood.

"You wanna fucking speak now," I threatned.

In a thick russian accent he spits out "Go fuck yourself."

I nodded my head in approval at his words and rip the knife out of him only to plunge it into his other hand. More screams, joy. While watching him suffer I've decided to keep him alive for the next few days to see if he will speak.

As I'm about to pull the knife out he mutters, "torture me all you want, but your shipment of coke is gone. And everybody who helped... has been killed." His eyelids are beginning to droop. God damn it, I'm just starting to get to him. I slap him again and added, "Hey where not done here." At the end of my statement he is out cold. I place my hand over my forehead in annoyance and grab my knife. Walking out I slam the door and lock it. After hearing his accent I believe it's safe to assume that the man is apart one of the local russian gangs. Finding out which one wouldn't be hard, but my only problem was when he said that they had all been killed. Gangs typically never killed their members unless they betrayed them or failed their task, in this case neither of those happened from what he told me. They had to have been helping someone. Now I feel even more confused than before. "Fuck this," I think to myself. I need a drink and hopefully another distraction.