Hot Revenge Box Set 2

Michael

The Ahhh marches across Klempner's face.

Footsteps sound outside, drawing closer and James re-enters.

In a few minutes, he’s changed. From the winter woollens, heavy jeans and boots he was wearing before, he changed into a fresh shirt, suit and polished shoes. His face is clean, barring the swollen eye, and he’s combed his hair. And under one arm, he’s carrying a wooden box. For a second, I can’t think what it is. Then I realise…

To me, this is just my old friend James.

But what will Finchby see?

He flashes a glance at the still unconscious man. “How long before he wakes up?”

Klempner rocks a hand. “I didn’t give him much. Anytime now. Within the next few minutes certainly.”

“Good. Michael…” He snaps fingers towards the cooler. “Ice bucket.” Then he aims a finger towards the table behind our dangling houseguest.

And now I know what he has in mind.

I grin. “My pleasure.”

Klempner, obviously bemused, watches in silence as I scoop ice into the bucket and add water. I place it on the table and James drops in his toys into the chinking mix.

A groan…

Finchby stirs. “What…?”

I eye-point Klempner to a chair. He’s sucking in a smile as he takes his place in the ‘viewing gallery’.

“What’s going on?” Finchby’s eyes blink open, hazy and unfocussed, then his face sharpens as realisation penetrates. His eyes fling wide, showing the whites. “Christ…” Struggling against the restraints, he writhes and twists. But he’s going nowhere.

His eyes settle on Klempner. “Hey… Larry…” He tries for a cheesy grin but fails.

Is he going to piss himself?

Klempner smiles pleasantly. “Afternoon, Finchby. Good to see you’re back with us. Comfortable?”

The man is pasty, his breath short and quick. “Hey, Larry, what are you playing at? It wasn't personal. It was business. You know how it is.”

Klempner lifts his chin, eyes narrowing. Standing, he stalks a few paces to stand by Finchby, speaking to the side of his face.

“Yes, I do know how it is. And for coming after me, I'd have simply slit your throat and called it evens…”

Finchby’s breathing shudders…

“… But it stopped being business the moment you took my daughter and chained her up in your dungeon of a cell. You imprisoned her in conditions calculated to make her sick and to risk her child. You made it your business to demean and humiliate her…”

He draws breath. Any trace of compassion slides from his expression. For the first time, the fury shows. His voice morphs to a hiss.

“… And you planned to sell my granddaughter for parts? This stopped being business some while ago, Finchby. This is very definitely personal.”

Finchby hangs, lungs jerking and juddering. He blinks rapidly, moisture gleaming at the corners of his eyes.

He tries to speak, his throat working, then tries again. “What are you going to do, Larry?”

Abruptly, Klempner’s pleasant expression pastes back into place. “Nothing. Nothing at all…”

Finchby pants, quick shallow breaths, eyes darting here and there…

James, currently lounging against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll admit, I'm quite intrigued to see

and shaking. “Oh, God…

Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic, Finchby, but it’s my guess he doesn’t like you

It’s Mitch. Her words stall

the face. The vein at her

an arm, propelling her back towards the door.

“I want

not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs

eyes cast between me and James. “Larry, I do believe these two are

free, strolls back to Finchby, then scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You won't wake the baby,

then she sashays out of the door, throwing a comment back over her shoulder.

eyes,

him to one of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a

ankles crossed, up

a couple of bags, “Cashews

“Whatever you’re opening.”

stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I imagine

he is

on the table beside James’ ‘work area’, passing around the bottles and the

under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them

I set it on the table by James, then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then

sips his drink. “That's a wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared for,

serrated blade. “That's because these are my sushi knives.

waving it in the air as I speak. “You like

I've not had any for a

staying with us.” I turn back to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs.

“Tuna.”

he started, but you know he sliced it so fine.

the sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his

to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police

his gaze fixed on the knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like

takes his seat again. “All yours,

places the knife on the table then chooses another. Not one of his ‘specials’, this

under the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he moves down to the next. One at a time, he removes the buttons until the shirt

I

don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see either of these two paying for your

other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it away, tossing it to one side, leaving Finchby naked to the

pauses, knife in hand, looks

your memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

waves in a carry-on

down the saw-tooth knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the point to

“No!”

You wouldn't want to

he draws

The most delicate of lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood dribbles down through scattered body hair drawing a thin trail to the

the cut too fine, to really hurt, but Finchby

to say?” asks

don't know.

waves his bottle at me.

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

“I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a

draws it down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the spine. As he moves, slowly, deliberately, Finchby’s