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,

breaks. Weeping and shaking.

“You kidnapped his pregnant wife. Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call

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

close; staring him in the face. The vein at

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

“I want

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 my shoulder and carry you upstairs if I

me and James. “Larry, I do believe

then 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

eyes,

head for the cooler.

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

of bags, “Cashews

“Whatever you’re opening.”

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

see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box,

James’ ‘work area’, passing around

one, he inspects the edges, testing them with his thumb. He chooses one, but apparently unsatisfied, takes a steel from its

take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back a handful of nuts before

sips his drink. “That's a wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they look a

holds 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

speech with the bottle in my hand, waving

do yes, although I've not had any for

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

“Tuna.”

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

the violently trembling Finchby, the sushi knife held, apparently casually,

stands, moving closer to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police will be all over it now. So, where's Baxter

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

and takes his seat again. “All

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

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

I don't know

if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use

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

your memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves

standing square on, he sets

“No!”

wouldn't want

very, very slowly… he draws the blade downward,

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

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

say?”

know. I

waves his bottle at me. “Do you believe

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

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

of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the spine. As he moves, slowly, deliberately, Finchby’s face raises, his mouth