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…

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

and shaking. “Oh,

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

is everything…” It’s Mitch. Her words stall as she takes in

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

by an arm, propelling her back towards the

resists. “I

your life, but I can tell you what you're not doing. And you're not

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

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

sashays out of the

his eyes, then

cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or

ankles crossed, up on

up a couple of bags, “Cashews or potato

“Whatever you’re opening.”

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

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

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

his box: a set of knives: stainless steel, polished, they glint under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the

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

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

these are my sushi knives. I brought them

hand, waving it

although I've not had any

“You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the best sushi. That knife he's

“Tuna.”

inch thick when he started, but you

sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his fingers.

stands, moving closer to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a

Larry.” He’s babbling, 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

shakes his head and takes his seat again. “All yours,

the table then chooses another. Not

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

I don't know

can do better than that. And if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see either of these two

across the shoulders and the shirt

pauses, knife in hand, looks to

your memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

waves

Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the point to the hollow in

“No!”

want

very, very 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 the

too fine, to really hurt, but

to say?” asks

know. I don't

you, Finchby.” Klempner waves his bottle

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his next

draws it down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the spine.