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…

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 admit,

Weeping and shaking. “Oh,

softly 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, Finchby, but

door creaks open. “James, is everything…” It’s Mitch. Her words stall as she takes

close; staring him in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going

her by an arm, propelling her

“I want to

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

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

chin with a finger. “You won't wake

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

her with his eyes, then closes the door

the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or there's wine if you'd

feet, ankles crossed, up on the

of bags, “Cashews or potato

“Whatever you’re opening.”

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

up from where he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael, yes. A beer would

the tray on the table beside James’

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

Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back

cared

serrated blade. “That's because these are my sushi knives. I brought them down from the kitchen for the

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

although I've not had any for a

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

“Tuna.”

an inch thick when he started, but you know he sliced it so fine. Four slices, was

held, apparently casually,

“Your building is a write-off. And

don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing.

his head and takes his seat again.

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

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,

sobs. “Larry, please. I don't know

we can find him, well… what

one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste

pauses, knife in hand, looks

memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves

his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he

“No!”

Don't move. You wouldn't want

then slowly… very, very slowly… he draws the blade downward, scoring

the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood dribbles down through scattered body hair drawing a thin

cut too fine, to really hurt, but

to say?”

don't know. I don't

his bottle at me. “Do you

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting

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