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…

and watch what he does.” Klempner jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against a wall, arms and

breaks. Weeping and shaking.

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,

open. “James, is everything…” It’s Mitch.

face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you

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

“I

you what you're not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll throw you

and James. “Larry, I do believe these two are rubbing off

under the chin with a

pat on the cheek, then she sashays out of the door, throwing a comment back over her shoulder. “Have

follows her with his eyes, then

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

his feet, ankles crossed, up on the table. “Beer's good for

a couple of bags, “Cashews or potato

“Whatever you’re opening.”

bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer?

table where Finchby can see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael, yes. A beer would

tray on the table beside James’ ‘work area’, passing

the contents 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,

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

knives, James. Well cared for, I can

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

waving it in the air as

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

“Tuna.”

have been more than an inch thick when he started, but you

held, apparently casually, between

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

Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's

and takes his

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

slices. The button pops

please. I

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

arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it away, tossing it

in hand, looks

memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

He waves in a

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

“No!”

wouldn't want to jolt my hand,

slowly… he

stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of

too fine, to really hurt, but Finchby

say?”

know. I

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

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

behind the screaming, panicking, 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 tool from the ice

the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the