PART 5
I took out my plate carrier. No plates in it right now, but the pouches were ready. I took out a set of zip ties, the heavyduty kind used for flexing cuffs. I took out a KBAR knife, the blade black and non-reflective. I didn’t take a gun. Not yet. A gun is loud. A gun is quick. A gun is mercy.
Victor and his seven sons didn’t deserve mercy. They deserve to feel every second of what was coming. I looked at my reflection in the small mirror mounted inside the safe door. My eyes looked different. The blue was gone, replaced by a dark, dilated pupil. The husband was asleep. The Delta operator was awake. I needed to know where they were.
I needed to track the pack. And I knew exactly who the weak link was. Mason, the youngest, the one who was shaking in the hospital, the one who held the coffee cup like it was a grenade. He was the one who held her legs. He was the one who watched. And tonight, he was going to be the first one to speak.
I closed the safe, grabbed a black hoodie, and walked out into the night. The silence of the house didn’t bother me anymore because I knew very soon the silence would be broken by the sound of Mason screaming. The night air was biting, but I walked with the windows of my truck down. I needed the cold. I needed to keep my temperature low, my pulse steady.
I drove to a secluded spot, an old overlook near the quarry that teenagers used for drinking and that I used for thinking. It was dark, silent, and dead. Perfect. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, just breathing. The digital recorder was in my pocket, burning a hole through the fabric against my thigh.
I had paused it right before the real horror began. I knew I had to listen to the rest. If I was going to do what I planned to do, I needed fuel. I needed to hate them more than I loved my own freedom. I pulled the recorder out. The small red light blinked once, a single mechanical heartbeat in the dark cab of the truck. I pressed play.
The sounds that filled the truck were worse than any war zone. In war, there is chaos, shouting, explosions. This was intimate. This was the sound of heavy breathing, of fabric rustling, of leather gloves creaking as hands tightened their grip. “Please,” Tessa gasped. Her voice was strained, like someone was pressing a knee into her chest. “Dad, please don’t do this.
I gave you a choice, Tessa.” Victor’s voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm. It sounded like he was lecturing a child about spilled milk. I told you the business comes first. The family comes first. You chose him. You chose the outsider. He’s my husband, she screamed, a sound that cracked in the middle. He’s a liability, Victor said.
And you? You are a disappointment. Hold her head still, Dominic. Then the counting began. Thud. A wet, sickening crunch. It wasn’t the sound of wood hitting bone. It was the sound of metal crushing cartilage. One. Victor counted softly. Tessa didn’t scream immediately. The first hit must have shocked her system into silence.
Then a low guttural moan that didn’t sound human. Thud too. She’s moving too much. One of the brothers, Evan maybe, grunted. Grab her hair. Pin it to the floor. I gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked. My knuckles turned white. I could see it in my mind. My wife, my beautiful, strong Tessa, pinned to the floor of the house we built together, looking up at the faces of her brothers while her father beat her. Thud, thud, thud. Five, six, seven.
Victor wasn’t rushing. He was taking his time. He was pacing himself. You wanted to go to the feds, Tessa? Victor panted slightly between swings. You wanted to tell them about the shipments, about the crates in warehouse 4. Well, here is your subpoena. Thud 8. Tessa was crying now, begging. Mason.
Mason, help me, please. There was a pause on the tape. A hesitation. Don’t you look away, Mason. Victor snapped. Look at her. This is what happens to rats. This is what happens to traitors. Hold her leg tight or I will break yours next. I’m holding it, Dad. Mason’s voice. Weak, trembling. But he didn’t let go.
He held her leg while his father shattered her. That was the moment I marked Mason for death. Cowardice is a sin, but participating in the torture of your own sister to save your own skin, that is a soul rot that cannot be cured. The counting continued. The sounds of the hammer hitting flesh became wet, squishy.
The crunching of bone stopped because there was no bone left to break in that spot. 20 21 I forced myself to listen to every single number. I etched each one into my brain. Every number was a promise. Every number was a debt I would collect. 30 31. Victor let out a long breath. The metal hammer clattered to the floor.
That’s enough. Victor said she’s done. Is she dead? Kyle asked. Doesn’t matter. Victor replied. If she lives, she’s a vegetable. If she dies, we bury her. Either way, she can’t talk. Clean the hammer. Get the bleach. Make it look like a breakin. Break the back door lock. What about Hunter? Dominic asked. He’s coming back tonight.
Let him come, Victor laughed. It was a cold, dry sound. He’s a soldier. He follows orders. He respects authority. I’ll talk to the chief of police. We’ll spin a story. Hunter will be too busy crying to ask questions. And if he does, well, accidents happen to soldiers all the time. The recording ended. I sat in the silence for a long time.
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He follows orders. That’s what they thought. They thought I was a dog on a leash. They thought the uniform made me obedient. They didn’t understand what Delta Force really was. We don’t just follow orders. We are the ones they send when the orders are illegal. We are the ones they send when the law isn’t enough.
I wasn’t a soldier anymore. Tonight, I was an insurgency of one. I put the recorder away and started the truck. I didn’t go back to the hospital. I didn’t go back to the house. I drove to a 24-hour hardware store three towns over. I walked the aisles under the buzzing fluorescent lights. I looked like any other guy working a late shift, maybe a contractor fixing a leak.
