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…

lounging against a wall, arms

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, Finchby, but

“James, is everything…” It’s Mitch.

Finchby, standing close, very close; staring him in the face. The vein at

strides across, seizing her by an arm, propelling her back towards

resists. “I want

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 my

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

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

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

eyes, then

chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or

slinging his feet, ankles crossed, up on the table.

of

“Whatever you’re opening.”

then stack everything onto a tray.

Glancing up from where he

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

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

on 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 before passing

wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared

these are my

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

although I've not

to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the best sushi. That knife he's sharpening...

“Tuna.”

It couldn't have been more than an inch thick when he started, but you know he sliced it so fine. Four slices,

trembling Finchby, the sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner, what exactly

Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off.

don't know, 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

takes his

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 at a time, he removes the buttons until the shirt dangles

I don't know

that. And if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see

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

in hand, looks to

memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

He waves

down the saw-tooth knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the

“No!”

want

very slowly… he

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

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

say?” asks

don't know. I don't

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

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

moves 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

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