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…

I'm going to sit back and watch what he does.” Klempner jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll

and shaking.

by his ear. “You kidnapped his pregnant wife. Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic,

It’s Mitch. Her words stall as she

to Finchby, standing close, very close; staring him in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are

seizing her by an arm, propelling her back towards the door. “Mitch,

“I want to

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

between me and James. “Larry, I

chin with a finger. “You won't wake the

sashays out of the door, throwing a comment back over her

with his eyes, then

head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry?

ankles crossed, up on the table. “Beer's

of bags, “Cashews or potato

“Whatever you’re opening.”

rip both bags, tipping the contents into a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I

can see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael, yes.

beside James’ ‘work

steel, polished, they glint under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them with his thumb. He chooses one, but apparently unsatisfied, takes a steel

bottle, I set it on the table by James, then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking

of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they look a little delicate for

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

the bottle in my hand, waving it in the air as I speak. “You like sushi,

I've not had any

he's staying with us.” I turn back to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the best sushi. That knife he's sharpening... A couple of weeks back, he was slicing up... What was it,

“Tuna.”

than an inch thick when he started,

held, apparently casually, between

building is a write-off. And the police will be all over it now. So, where's

his gaze fixed on the knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's done it himself to

his head and takes his

face impassive, places the knife on the table then chooses another. Not one

eases the blade under the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he moves down to the

“Larry, please. I don't

do better than that. And if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to

and the shirt falls apart, so

knife in

your memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

waves

puts down the saw-tooth knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing

“No!”

move. You wouldn't want to

slowly… he draws the blade downward, scoring the

the finest of cuts. 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

is too sharp, the cut too fine, to really hurt,

say?” asks

don't know. I

waves his bottle at me. “Do you believe him,

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

shuddering man. “I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his next

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