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 admit, I'm quite intrigued to see what he has in mind for

breaks. Weeping and shaking.

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 it’s my guess

It’s Mitch. Her words stall as

in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going to do to

seizing her by an arm, propelling her

“I want

Gripping her at both shoulders, “I can't tell you what to do with your life, but I can tell you what you're not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll throw you over

cast between me and James. “Larry, I do believe these two are rubbing off on

under the chin with a finger. “You won't wake the baby, will you. I've just

of the

follows her with his eyes, then

the chairs, then head for the cooler.

crossed, up on the table. “Beer's

a couple of bags, “Cashews or

“Whatever you’re opening.”

bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I imagine you'll be

him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his

beside James’

of his box: a set of knives: stainless 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 from its slot, drawing the

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

cared

the blade up to the light, inspecting the serrated blade. “That's because these are my sushi knives. I brought them down from the kitchen

hand, waving it in the

although I've not had any

forget these Japanese chefs. James here

“Tuna.”

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

held, apparently casually, between

beer in hand, stands, moving closer to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police will be

on the knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s

head and takes his

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

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

please. I

him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see either of these two

up the inside sleeve of one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He

pauses, knife in hand, looks

memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

He waves

his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the

“No!”

You wouldn't want to jolt

he draws the blade downward,

lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of

cut too fine, to

to say?” asks

know.

you, Finchby.” Klempner waves his bottle at me.

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his

long slow gestures, he draws it down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of