Shaken (47 page)

Plus, the money was extraordinary.

“Victor Brotsky sends his regards, Lieutenant,” he says, pointing up at the overhead camera. “He paid me a great deal to be here for this historic event. I find it fitting that he chose me, don’t you?”

Jack screams something into her gag.

“You’ll get a chance to talk soon,” Mr. K says. “I’m going to put you under for a moment. When you wake up, you’ll be on the Catherine Wheel. Then we’ll begin. I must say, I was quite surprised to find that pregnancy test in your bathroom garbage. You didn’t think this is a bit of a late start? Why did you wait so long to have a baby, Jack? Had you done so at a reasonable age, your child could be in college by now. Instead, its life will be over before it has even begun.”

Mr. K opens up the black bag he’s brought along, taking out a syringe and a glass vial.

“Luckily, I still have some friends in town. Medical supplies are so hard to get on short notice.”

He sticks the needle in the vial, filling it with the sedative, plunging it into Jack’s arm. As her eyelids begin to flutter, Mr. K takes another item out of the bag, holding it in front of Jack’s face.

“Take this, for example. You can’t simply waltz into any drugstore and buy a high-grade speculum like this one.”

Jack screams once more as she drifts away to unconsciousness.

Chapter 19

P
hin peered through the food tray slot in the door to the isolation cell. Victor Brotsky sat on his cot. He looked much older than his mug shot, which made sense—he’d been in prison for a long time. Brotsky was grayer, balder, and fatter than he was when first incarcerated. He wore dark blue slacks and a light blue shirt, the buttons straining against his barrel chest.

“You are wasting your time,” he said. “I will tell you nothing.”

Phin clenched his fists. He wanted to wrap his hands around Brotsky’s fat neck and squeeze until he could feel the monster’s heart stop beating.

Warden Miller called for two guards, dressed in riot gear, and they opened the cell door. Both had tasers at the ready. Brotsky didn’t even bother to look over at them. His head was resting against the wall, eyes closed, his fingers tapping against his lap as if he was listening to music.

“Mr. Brotsky, I’m Sergeant Herb Benedict. I’m Lieutenant Daniels’s partner.”

Now Brotsky’s eyes opened, focusing on the new arrivals. “Your partner, she is not looking so good lately.”

“Where is my partner, Mr. Brotsky?”

“She is with an old friend of mine. Though perhaps
friend
is too strong a word, considering the amount of money he charged me.”

“Your friend,” Herb said, “is it Andrew Z. Thomas?”

“I do not know this person.”

“Luther Kite?”

“I hired the best. He is an expert at what he does. Better, perhaps, than even me.”

“I’ve got a deal for you,” Harry said. He’d been quiet for so long, Phin had almost forgotten he’d come along. “I’ve got a hundred cartons of Marlboro Reds.”

“I don’t want your cigarettes,
svoloch
.”

“They aren’t for you,” Harry said. “I’m giving a carton to every man who sticks a shiv in your ass in the shower. Two cartons if they fuck you after they stick you.”

Brotsky smiled, and it was a chilling thing to witness. “I have been in here for more than a third of my life. You cannot scare me. You cannot hurt me. You cannot bribe me. The
sooka
cop will die in agony, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Phin turned to the warden. “I want ten minutes with him.”

Miller looked pained. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

“Just ten minutes. I promise I won’t kill him.”

“He’s human garbage,” Miller said. “I know that. But I can’t willingly let an inmate be abused in my prison.”

“The woman on the iPhone,” Phin said. “She’s pregnant with my child.”

Brotsky barked out a wet laugh at this.

“Please,” Phin said.

He took a step away from the warden, watching the guards in his peripheral vision. If Miller didn’t go for it, Phin figured he could grab one of their tasers, lock himself inside the cell…

“Miller, let’s talk for a second,” Harry said. “In private.”

Phin watched, helpless, as the two men walked down the corridor. Though it was torture to do so, Phin forced himself to look at the iPhone again. Jack was unconscious, and the man in the hat was pulling her across the floor, onto a large circle made of wood. There were straps for her arms and legs.

Phin also saw something small and shiny on the floor, next to Jack. He zoomed in.

It was a speculum.

Once again, Phin eyed the taser. If he hit the first guard in the throat, took his weapon, and fired it at the second guard, that would give him at least a minute alone with Brotsky. Longer if Harry and Herb guarded the door.

“I’ve decided to allow these gentlemen to settle their differences on their own,” Warden Miller said. He was looking at his shoes. “You have ten minutes.”

Phin shot Harry a glance. “Thanks.”

“Make them count,” Harry said. “And make this fat bastard feel every second.”

Phin handed Herb the iPhone and stepped into the cell, hearing the steel door clang closed behind him.

“Now, we’re going to have a little—”

Before Phin could finish, Victor Brotsky, all two hundred and seventy pounds of him, leapt up off the cot and slammed against Phin, knocking him to the floor.

Chapter 20

I
opened my eyes and stared at John Dalton, aka Mr. K. The ball gag had been removed from my mouth, and my arms and legs were strapped to the Catherine Wheel. So was my waist, a tight canvas belt holding me to the circular plywood.

“Good. You’re awake. I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this. I know I certainly have.”

Dalton began to remove items from his bag and set them on the floor in front of me. A blow torch. A filet knife. A box of sea salt. And finally, a sledgehammer. He hefted the hammer, holding it before my face.

“Shall we get started, Jack?”

Chapter 21

P
hineas Troutt was no stranger to being hit.

When he was diagnosed with cancer—cancer that doctors told him would be fatal—he decided to drop out of life. Instead of the rat race, he chose to live in the moment, on the fringe of society, taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. This began with robbing drug dealers and gangbangers, for the sole purpose of getting some quick cash to buy drugs and booze and whores to make him forget about the immediate physical pain, and the emotional pain, of a biological death sentence.

He’d done things, many things, he wasn’t proud of, even though the people he hurt, for the most part, had it coming.

Brotsky had it coming. And if Phin had to endure a broken nose and a few cracked ribs in order to show Brotsky that evil didn’t pay, he was willing to take his lumps.

But he hadn’t expected Brotsky to be so strong. Or so savage.

The older man—he had to be in his sixties—was apparently releasing all the pent-up rage that had built up during his years of incarceration. He tackled Phin, driving him to the floor, pinning him down. Phin took a shot in the kidneys, then was smothered by Brotsky’s flabby, sweaty neck, which smelled like powdered eggs.

Phin tried to heave the larger man off of him, but Brotsky was too big, too strong. Phin reached up, trying to scratch his eyes, but Brotsky craned his head back.

So Phin went for his nose. Making is index finger stiff, he jammed it into one of Victor Brotsky’s flaring nostrils, up past the second knuckle, trying to drive it all the way to the bastard’s brain.

Brotsky recoiled, pulling away, giving Phin the opportunity to slide out from under him.

Phin got onto his knees just as Brotsky rose to his feet. Roaring, snorting a clot of blood from his nose, Brotsky charged again. Phin timed the punch perfectly, catching Brotsky under the chin as he barreled toward him. The uppercut staggered the inmate, but didn’t drop him. Phin followed up with a solid jab between the man’s legs, but Brotsky twisted at the last moment, Phin’s hand bouncing off his meaty thigh.

Phin dropped a shoulder and rolled left. Momentum carried him to the cot. He reached for it, pulling himself up on the frame, which was bolted to the floor, and turned around to face Brotsky.

So far, Phin’s attempt to coerce the killer into a confession wasn’t going too well.

“This cop,” Brotsky said, wiping the back of his hairy paw against his bloody nose, “she is your girlfriend, yes?”

Jack was more than a girlfriend to Phin. In the sinkhole of chaos his life had become, Jack had been a constant, bright light. She was his friend, but also his ideal. To Phin, Jacqueline Daniels represented all that was good about humanity. Simply having her in his world was enough to kick Phin out of his dark depression and bring him back to the world of the living. She’d not only saved his life. She had also saved his soul.

“I love her,” Phin said. This surprised him, because as close as he and Jack had been, he’d never said these words to her.

Now, facing the man who was responsible for abducting her, Phin realized he should have said them sooner. On one hand, he hadn’t wanted to burden Jack with the responsibility of yet another man in her life. She’d had it rough lately, both personally and professionally. Phin didn’t want to scare her away.

But he should have told her just the same. Jack didn’t scare easily. And the mantra of their relationship—taking things one day at a time—had been exploded by the revelation that she was pregnant.

Not much scared Phin. But the thought that he’d never have a chance to tell the mother of his child how much he loved her was easily the most terrifying thing he’d ever endured.

“Did your woman tell you what Victor Brotsky did to her?” The prisoner grinned, blood running into his mouth and staining his crooked teeth red. “I hurt the sooka. I hurt her.
Real good
.”

Acting on anger, Phin threw himself at Brotsky. The larger man had anticipated the move, and his fist shot out, connecting with the side of Phin’s head. Phin staggered to the side, his vision blurring, and then he dropped to his knees.

“And now,” Victor Brotsky said, “I am going to hurt you.
Real good
.”

Chapter 22

“R
emember how it feels to break a bone, Jack?”

I blinked, my vision of John Dalton blurry. He was older, tanner, but the dead eyes and expressionless face were the same.

I swallowed. My wrists still burned, and my jaw ached. The ball gag was gone, but wearing it for so long had made my mouth tender.

“Is this you being the hero in the movie of your life, John?” My voice sounded strange, echoey. A side effect of the drugs, I guessed.

“Ah, yes. I remember that conversation. That was my way of saying we’re all very good at justifying our actions. But as for heroes…I’m afraid there are none. You’re a perfect example of that. Dedicating your life to catching despicable villains. Giving up everything for your endless pursuit of evil. And where has all of that gotten you? Dying in agony.”

Dalton moved closer, until we were almost cheek to cheek. “You’re not a hero, Jack. You’re an unhappy ending. A Greek tragedy. An object lesson for those who try to lead a selfless life.”

“You going to get on with this, Dalton?” I said through my clenched teeth. “Or are you going to talk me to death?”

Dalton took a step back, raising the sledgehammer. “The leg first, I think,” he said. “Which one did Victor Brotsky break? It was the right one, wasn’t it?”

There was no way I could brace myself for it. So I didn’t even try.

When the hammer connected with my tibia, cracking the bone, the pain was so bad that darkness overtook me.

Chapter 23

O
n his knees, Phin looked up at the bear of a man eagerly approaching. Lust sparkled in Brotsky’s bulging eyes, and his clenched fists were the size of hams and ready to serve up more damage. Dizzy from Brotsky’s last punch, weak from the chemotherapy, Phin realized he wasn’t only going to lose the fight, but he’d probably be killed as well.

Sorry, Jack. You deserved so much better.

Then Victor Brotsky halted in mid-step, his whole body vibrating. His mouth opened, and he dropped like a redwood tree, his spine ramrod stiff, the two thin, silver wires sticking out of his chest trailing a small puff of smoke. Phin heard a crackling discharge of electricity, then followed the wires and turned to see—

—Harry McGlade, standing in the doorway, holding a taser gun.

“I bribed the warden ten grand to watch you get your ass kicked,” Harry said, “and now just blew another K on the guard’s taser. Find out where Jack is.”

Phin didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto Brotsky, sweeping away the electrodes, pinching the man’s chubby neck.

“Where?” he demanded.

“Da?”

He squeezed harder, seeking Brotsky’s trachea through the flab. “Where is she!”

“Meester K has her. He…is going to kill her.”

Phin slapped the confused Brotsky across the face. The killer smelled of stale sweat and ozone, and his eyes weren’t focused. “Where does he have her, Victor?”

Brotsky stared up at Phin, his expression almost childlike in its honesty. “I don’t know. The man I hired, he did not tell me.”

If Phin had had a gun, or a knife, he would have killed the fat bastard right then and there. Because he believed Brotsky was telling the truth. Jack was about to die, and there was no way to save her.

He focused more pressure on Brotsky’s neck, his forearms straining, his fingers cramping. Putting all of his fear and anger into it. Thinking that if Jack were going to die, this piece of shit would precede her.

Brotsky’s eyes bugged out and his tongue began to protrude. He tried to reach for Phin, but the smaller man had pinned the killer’s arms with his knees.

“If there’s a hell,” Phin said through clenched teeth as he watched the life drain out of Brotsky, “I’ll see you there, so I can kill you again.”