XIII
▬▬▬▬▬●●▬▬▬▬▬
Gurgling noises echoed round the dark, empty room as the beaten and battered man struggled to bring his head out of the blue vessel filled to the brim with water.
The thick veins in his neck popped and throbbed as they ran through his head, growing smaller as they approached his temples. He could feel the energy left in him abating as the seemingly powerful arm held his neck firmly.
Unable to hold his breath anymore, he blew out a breath through his nose but that had been a ghastly mistake on his part as consequently, he ended up losing a bit of his resolve, causing a stream of water to rush into his mouth and nose.
He sputtered painfully as he could feel more water entering his mouth and nose, making their way into his brain; his struggles intensified as the panic for his life became frantic. Tightly shutting his lips albeit, it was probably too late, he kicked and shook in hysteria but all to no avail.
His hands had been tightly bound behind his back with his legs firmly buckled against the metallic chair; the bloodthirsty chains digging into his wrists and ankles as he tried to fight but he knew. He knew it was pointless — inane even — for the thought of escaping to merely skip across his mind because where he was being held was far — far more tormenting than hell itself. He could tell.
He shut his eyes as his mind began conjuring jumbled and incoherent words of prayer for something — anything to save him; he could feel his body going numb, his lungs screeching for something as meagre yet as tectonic as a whiff of air, his mind finally succumbing to the darkness that was starting to embrace him into its gelidity and emptiness.
As he felt his eyes drooping, his body going still in defeat as his resolve dissipated into thin air, his head was suddenly pulled out of the water and immediately, an uncontrollable rush of air filled his lungs as he gasped and began wheezing for air.
His lungs were screaming in pain but not from the water, this time, they were screaming because the rush of air he desperately inhaled was too much for him to handle. For a few minutes, he was left alone to recover from the near death experience until he heard footsteps coming closer to him.
Almost instantaneously, his head was abruptly pulled back, hard and fast enough to cause his neck to snap into two but by some miracle, it didn't. A pained groan slipped past his lips as he felt the arm grip his hair even tighter. Slowly opening his eyes, he looked into the eyes of the owner of the death grip.
Eyes shielded from view by familiar dark shades stared back at him as he continued to heave, his chests rising and falling as he inhaled as much as he could because he knew what he had just been through wouldn't be the last of his torture.
“Are you ready to speak now?” the man with the dark shades, who he perfectly recognised as Owen Skull asked, his bone–chillingly deep voice echoing round the dismally and depressingly dark and murky room.
In response, he could only stare into what he presumed were his eyes through the shades as his eyes drooped in immense fatigue.
“I ask again, are you ready to speak now?” the voice was even harder and deeper now as his tone went an octave lower.
He knew what was coming; he knew he would have to pay a dangerously heavy price for his silence. He was well aware that he couldn't and wouldn't leave this hellhole alive. No one had ever left the den of this unforgiving Beelzebub, not before, not now, not ever.
He, better than anyone, knew they were more than rumours seeing as how more than half of his gang members had disappeared into thin air with no hope of ever returning with their spirits still abiding in them.
This Mafia clan — where he was being held — he knew perfectly well that they weren't the type to kill and hide. All of their unfortunate prey were always returned to their various gangs with callous and soulless inscriptions on some parts of their bodies.
On their last mission, more than twenty of his fellow gang members were killed and two had been abducted — most probably taken in for interrogation — but when they were returned, their bodies had knife carvings on them, someone had tried to do an artistic work by using their flesh as canvases and the most prominent word of them all had been the devil's own name. J.K.
He didn't need to be told that it was just a matter of time before his end arrived. The moment the trigger had been pulled and the bullet had embedded itself in his right leg and not going straight into his skull, he had known that his death would be a torturous one.
Skull — seeing as their captive had no intention to speak — could only do his best to try to prolong the captive's life because the boss was becoming impatient and annoyed and everyone, even from the heavens down to the pits of hell, knew that an impatient or angry J.K. screamed terror.
With that thought, Skull raised his right hand and sent a jawbreaking punch towards his face, causing his neck to snap to the side as he fell to the cold bare ground, taking the heavy, metallic chair with him. Not giving him any second to recover from the hit, Skull dragged him back into his previous position before throwing another punch to his other cheek.
The already battered man let out agonizing groans as he coughed hoarsely and spat out blood from his bruised mouth.
Skull once again, dug his hands into the man's hair, taking large fists of it into his palms in order to steady his wobbly head. He looked him dead in the eye as he reiterated his question,
“Are you prepared to speak now?”
The injured man lifted his bloodshot eyes to stare into Skull's. For a few minutes, he said and did nothing before suddenly, a wide grin spread across his face, showcasing his bloody teeth as a sardonic laugh slipped past his lips.
Skull gritted his teeth and raised his fist to bestow upon the man another series of punches before he stopped abruptly on hearing steady and calculated footsteps approaching them.
Everywhere turned eerily silent as the few guards present there stiffened like ramrods. Skull looked over his shoulder and saw his boss approaching in his signature black three piece suit. He looked just like the Lucifer walking out of a fiery furnace unscathed as though the conflagrant heat in there was nothing more than the temperature of the water in a hot tub.
He looked calm, unearthly calm as he took tauntingly slow yet predatory steps towards them with his hands buried in his pockets. Skull stood straight and moved out of the way, his eyes going back to see their captive who had gone ramrod stiff and appallingly pallid as he stared eyes wide open at the approaching figure.
Skull could see him visibly shaking as trails of sweat ran down his temples to his collarbones and down his torso. He looked away, knowing now that there was nothing he could do for him anymore. If only the man had gently cooperated with him, his life would've probably been spared; it wouldn't have gotten to such an extent but alack, either way, it was already too late.
Jordan finally stopped in front of his captive and stared intently at him before signalling to one of his guards to get him a chair. Taking his seat gracefully before his prisoner, he crossed one of his legs over the other and removed his sunglasses before resting his hands on his knees.
His prisoner was no longer brave enough to look him in the eye and resultantly, his eyes stayed glued to Jordan's sleek black shoes.
“Details,” his glacially deep voice resonated round the place, softly yet dangerously bouncing off the walls.
“Name — Patrick Domino, known as the Python by his clan. Age — 39. Status — Single. Been with the Timos for as long as 25 years,” Skull stated as Jordan's eyes continued to scrutinise his next prey.
“Family status?” he asked.
“Orphan. Neither in a relationship nor married,” Skull reported again.
Jordan nodded as he tilted his head impishly, his eyes gleaming with a deathly murderous glint.
“Patrick,” he spoke after agonizing moments of silence.
The man before him shook intensely at the sudden call of his name. The mere sound of his name on the boss's lips were bone–chilling and he didn't want to live to experience what his actions could do to him if his mere words could invoke such Brobdingnagian torment.
“So I heard that you and your fellow gang members broke into one of my warehouses. Yes?” Jordan asked but was only met with silence in return.
Skull immediately attempted to move towards the stubborn prisoner but with one index finger raised by Jordan, he stilled and returned to his former spot.
For a few minutes, Jordan continued to stare at the man before him. He took in his appearance; his hairy torso glistened with sweat as his chest rose and fell — a sign of fear. He had a bloody nose that left a trail of the red pigment slowly flowing into his pursed busted lips. He was sporting one black eye and one swollen eye.
Letting his gaze fall down his body, he saw his untreated leg injury, where he must have been shot. A small bullet hole with dried up blood surrounding it — it was an ugly and disgusting sight to behold but Jordan wasn't irritated. He was used to seeing such things.
Giving the man's body a general survey, he arrived at a conclusion; the punishment was not enough. He needed to break him, to destroy every ounce of resolve he had and since this man had no family whatsoever, the predictable option of using the lives of his family members to threaten him would be null and void so there was only one thing to do.
Make him go through hell and back.
With that thought, Jordan raised his hand and signalled at Skull, who nodded once before collecting a black metallic briefcase from one of the guards.
As Skull stepped closer and began opening the case, Patrick couldn't control the recalcitrant palpitations of his heart against his chest. His heart was beating so fast that he could hear the out–of–rhythm tempo in his ears.
Bile rose up his throat as his eyes remained glued to the briefcase. Anything, just about anything could be hidden inside that roguish receptacle but he didn't want to stick around to find out and suddenly, his earlier prayer to God that had been about being saved was nowhere to be found. The reiterating prayers that went through his mind now were prayers for fast death to arrive.
He didn't want to die in the hands of this Beelzebub before him and if he were to die in his hands, he wanted a fast and painless death but he knew that was a far-fetched dream, a mere fairytale wish that could never come true.
This man before him was no wishing star to grant the ignorant wishes of a child, he was the type of man who would crush the hope in a child awaiting his wish. He was the type of man that would tell the child straight away that that was a meteor and wasn't some shit–ass wishing star.
He was snapped out of his hopeless thoughts when the last lock on the metallic hell cage popped open and the lid was lifted. His eyes shifted to the boss's face to try to fathom or unravel the mystery the briefcase held but as expected his expression was indecipherable as it gave nothing away.
He looked at the boss's right–hand man, Skull but his expression was just the same as the boss's as he stared straight at a far off wall, awaiting his boss's decision.
Patrick gulped thickly, his heart beating even quicker, if possible as he noticed the inhuman glint in Jordan's eyes as they glimmered with murderous intents while an evil smirk spread across his lips.
Finally, the mystery the briefcase held was finally revealed. A well sharpened silver dagger. Patrick's lips began trembling as Jordan's evil smirk widened into an emotionless smile, showing off his beautifully aligned white set of teeth.
Jordan moved closer to him while staring at the dagger as he twirled it around in his hand.
“I'm sure you know I'm not one to give second chances and you already let the first opportunity slip past your fingers but being my merciful self, I will grant you one more chance. Now I'll ask again. . .” his eyes became serious as he looked at the panic-stricken man who had frozen in place out of fear.
“. . . Did you or did you not break into my warehouse?” he stilled as he awaited his response but once again the man gave no reply as his lips continued to tremble in horror.
“I see you've refused to grasp onto my once in a lifetime mercy,” and swiftly, his hands moved and the next thing everyone knew, the blade of the dagger was embedded in Patrick's lap as immediately, an ear splitting shrill broke out of his lips.
Pained, hot tears ran down the corners of his eyes as his dread spread when he saw Jordan reach for another dagger. This one was a tad smaller than the one that was currently in his right thigh.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Patrick. I'm starting to get pissed off and when I'm pissed off. . .” he left the sentence hanging as he circled round his prey while playing with the new dagger before leaning towards Patrick's left ear.
“. . . All hell breaks loose,” he whispered, making Patrick shiver and release another deafening scream as the second dagger collided with his left thigh.
▬▬▬▬▬
A persistent ringtone pierced through the eerie silence in the dark torture room. The familiar lone figure was seated on his chair with his usual catatonic stance. His eyes were empty as they stared at the limp body of the dead man bound to the chair before him.
Few minutes ago, the man was still breathing — in unimaginable pain, yes, but still there was life in him until he happened.
He continued to torture himself as he stared at the state the now dead man was in; the state he had put him in. The daggers were still in both his thighs and there was dried blood all over his ripped and dirty black slacks.
This sight was nothing compared to what he had done to successfully get the information he needed out of him. He looked at the spot where the man's eyeballs were supposed to be and what was left of that spot was an empty space void of the organ of sight.
He had gouged out both his eyeballs. Like a perfect carver, he had carved out his prisoner's eyes. The man had begged to be killed. He had begged Jordan to end his pain and suffering but as far as his heartlessness could carry him, he had not listened and had only laughed sadistically as he watched him plead for death.
Ultimately, the man had bled to death and just then, a certain realisation had dawned on Jordan.
The man's existence had been wiped out. His lineage had ceased to exist on the face of the Earth.
And he let himself dwell on that piece of information as he let the overwhelming guilt eat him up and consume his entire being.
Some minutes later and the phone had not stopped ringing. Jordan could already guess who the persistent caller was. There was only one person that had the guts to call him and that was his beloved sister, Carolyn but he didn't want to speak to her when he was still in such condition. When his hands were still stained with the man's blood.
Having no other choice, he wiped his bloody hands off with a black handkerchief, leaving patches of dried up blood all over his arms as he reached for his phone in his pocket but as he pulled it out, the implacable caller finally relented as everywhere went silent again.
As Jordan inhaled a deep breath and exhaled, a message entered his phone. It was a text from Carol.
‘Ignore me all you want. Dinner tomorrow at Masa. 5p.m prompt. Do. Not. Be. Late.’
He heaved a tired sigh.
