THE NOTHINGNESS SHATTERED with the booming of heavy footsteps. The familiar scent of bitter almond and leather wafted through the air. It was about time as Slater’s hands and legs shook with pressure. His blood circulation slowed causing his limbs to go numb. A bit longer and he would have collapsed.
Every muscle shrieked in agony as he kneeled on the cold floor with his hands cuffed behind his back. The chain hanging from the evil hook in the ceiling barely reached his shoulder blades. The cuffs attached to the chain forced his arms up into an uncomfortable, strained position. He would have stood up to alleviate the pressure, but the shackles securing his ankles connected to his neck. With every move of his spine, the titan prong collar dug deeper into his throat.
“You are drooling…” Talha spoke in English. His low, husky voice with a heavy eastern accent engulfed Slater. The captive stilled, sensing the air shift. A hot palm brushed against his wet chin. Another hand fisted his hair and pulled backward. Slater’s spine vibrated with pressure as he arched his back. He almost whimpered when a buckle at his nape released, relieving the pain in his jaw. With a sluggish movement of his tongue, he tongued the ball-gag out of his mouth and tried to swallow, but the saliva flood only increased. Cold and sticky, it dripped down his chin.
A few bracing slaps brought his attention to his burning cheeks and his master.
“I have a job for you,” Talha stated in an emotionless voice. “Bite.”
A smell of glue preceded the roughness of paper, and a fat envelope shoved into his mouth.
“Hold.”
Slater squeezed his teeth, and a few drops of sweat skidded down his cheeks from under the leather blindfold. His jaw shook.
Talha tugged the hook, twisting Slater’s arms up even more before he released the hold. Sharp prongs bit deep into Slater’s neck, pushing a groan out of his throat. Doing his best not to drop the envelope, he arched his back, anticipating his master’s hand over his cold skin. After isolation, they always felt so warm, so good.
CLICK. The carabiner connecting his neck to his ankles came undone. Slater smiled, then rolled his shoulders easing the tension. Left then right, he cracked his neck trying to keep his balance. Every muscle in his body responded with the lingering pain of relaxation and prickles of rushing blood. His shackles clanged against the floor, stripping his weakened hands of support. Two doll-like limbs fell forward and hit the coarse concrete. Heavy and unresponsive, they felt alien to his aching body.
He straightened and leaned forward, brushing his face against his master’s knee in an attempt to lift the blindfold that stuck to his eyes. The leather gave in, and cool air hit his heated skin. He blinked the salt off, making out the soft light leaking through the basement door and his master’s masculine frame towering above him.
The paper envelope soaked with his saliva, dissolved in his mouth. Revolted, he leaned forward and dropped it to the floor.
“Thank you, Master,” Slater’s voice came out hoarse. Grinning, he inched forward and brushed his barely responsive tongue against Talha’s shoe. A wet trail marred perfectly polished leather.
“You are gross…” Talha said. The shoe disappeared from under Slater’s cheek, and acute pain blossomed as a heavy sole crushed down on his spine from above. “Clean yourself; you stink. We leave in two hours.”
SITTING IN A PRIVATE JET, Slater stretched his long legs over the black carpet. The gummy bear bag in his hands was half-empty, but he kept sending one candy after another into his mouth, enjoying the rich, juicy flavor spreading over his tongue. He moved his leg; the toe of his shoe touched Talha’s ankle, slid up his beige cotton pants, reached his thigh, then moved over it. Engrossed in reading a paper, Talha slapped Slater’s foot away, then brushed non-existent dust off his pants.
Displeasure twitched in Slater’s chest as having been swatted like an annoying fly. Shaking the irritation off, he sent another gummy bear into his mouth, then picked up the brown envelope and flipped it upside down. A pile of pictures scattered over the small wooden table separating him from Talha. Licking the lingering sweetness off his fingers, he snatched the top one.
A broad man in a business suit with a beer belly and an ugly, fat mole on his upper lip stared somewhere into the distance, beyond the camera. Beady black eyes lurked behind heavy eyelids and bushy brows.
The sour taste of disappointment, mixing with the rich cherry flavor, made Slater want to spit. This didn’t look fun at all. He cocked his head, frowning. Anyone could do this job, why bother me with someone this weak and fuzzy? What did he do to deserve me?
He glanced at Talha, questioning his intentions, but his master was too busy to notice. Picking up the dossier, Slater scanned the paper, his mind photocopying everything he saw. A married businessman with three children and an innocent hobby of bringing underage kids into his private house. Boring…
“What did he do?” Slater folded the top sheet into a paper plane. Gliding his nail over the edges, he raised his hand and sent the plane toward Zaal, who sat in a deep black chair on the other side of the aisle. Broad and muscular, Talha’s Georgian bodyguard irritated Slater from the first moment they had met. He instantly sensed the weakness lurking behind his dead, immobile eyes. No weak person deserved to be by his master’s side. The paper plane hit Zaal’s chest, covered with a bullet-proof vest, then crashed on his thighs. Hand on a holster, the bigger man flinched. His tanned face tensed as he granted Slater a glare full of contempt.
“None of your business,” Talha replied in a calm voice. “And stop irritating Zaal. One day he’ll shoot you, and I won’t blame him for it.”
“Boring…” Slater complained, but even if Master heard him he didn’t show it.
Humming, Slater reached behind his back and fished out his karambit knife. A black matte claw landed into his palm like a natural extension of his hand. He flipped it forward, backward, then forward again; his gaze trained on Talha’s cool composure.
The atmosphere in the private cabin shifted. The discomfort coming from Zaal played on the strings of Slater’s soul. Fear—sour and potent—penetrated the air as Zaal squirmed in his chair. Slater tasted the bodyguard’s anxiety on his tongue, excitement quickening his blood. It would be so nice to paint the jet in red. Too bad Talha didn’t like it messy.
Slater landed his free palm on the table, walked his fingers toward the pile of scattered papers, and picked up the nearest photo. Something in the target irritated him, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. Grabbing the second page of the dossier, he glanced at the text. Except for keeping a money laundering firm and running a brothel, where he provided all kinds of treats for pedophiles and snuff lovers, the man was boring, harmless.
Not so boring, if Master activated me… Flipping the photo around his fingers, Slater stared at the picture. Annoying…
Concentration eluded him as his master’s neglect added to his irritation. Squeezing the handle, he stabbed the image with his knife to see if the sound would make Talha flinch. It didn’t.
Dissatisfied, Slater snatched his bag and pulled out his whetstone. The blade met the abrasive surface with a beautiful, nerve-wrenching screech, over and over again. Slater had never used guns; they were for women and weak people. He didn’t need one. His karambits were his claws, shades of night—his camouflage, and his entire body—the deadliest weapon evolution had ever created. Nothing on earth could chill the blood faster than a swish of a blade cutting through a silent night. Unless…