Ultimate Kill (Book 1 Ultimate CORE Trilogy) (CORE Series) (20 page)

Good. The man didn’t show fear, not yet. But he would. In the end, they always did. And the fun he’d have proving who held the power…

“A man who wants to make it in this world needs to be dressed for success,” he said to the smart brother and eyed his faded, worn jeans, scuffed sneakers along with the graphic t-shirt he wore beneath an unbuttoned flannel. “That includes making it to the barber on a regular basis.”

The smart brother knocked his scruffy bangs from his forehead with a defiant jerk of his head. “Thanks for the advice. Maybe you can give me the name of your tailor and when I have a billion dollars I’ll give him a call.”

Chuckling, he ran his finger along the mahogany lion’s mane. “Money is definitely a good thing. But do you know what’s even better? Power. When the renovation was completed on the third floor of this warehouse and the rooms were fully furnished, I decided I needed something in this great room that screamed
power
. I paid a furniture maker twenty-five thousand dollars to create this.” He rapped his knuckle on the throne chair’s armrest. He was, after all, king of his castle, owner of a shipping company worth billions and had needed to make sure that anyone who visited him was fully aware of who was in charge. Right now, the impertinent shithead sitting across from him was in need of clarification.
 

“Next to blowing up innocent people, it’s definitely a conversation piece,” the smart brother said, his tone filled with contempt.
 

He laughed and touched his chest. “Ouch. That little barb stung.” Ric approached carrying a tray filled with water bottles, fruits and a variety of Danishes. “Maybe a snack will help change your attitude and make you less passive aggressive.”

“I wasn’t being passive aggressive,” the smart brother said, reaching for a cheese Danish. “I was being aggressive.”

Laughing again, he shook his head and looked to Ric. “It appears that me and the smart brother have something in common.”

“Yes.” Ric grinned. “You’re always aggressive.”

“Harrison,” the smart brother said, and took the cap off of the water bottle.
 

He turned to Ric. “What do you suppose he wants me to do with that information?”

Ric shrugged. “I think the smart brother would prefer if you called him Harrison.”

“Is that true?” he asked Harrison.

The other man nodded. “Yes, sir. I might be smart, but my brother isn’t dumb. You can also call him Mickey.”

While he knew their names, he’d become quite fond of calling them either dumb or smart. Giving them nicknames gave him power over them. He’d concede though. Not because he needed Harrison to send the signal from the laptop to the devices—he’d already had the man show Ric how to perform this task. He’d call Harrison by his given name…for a price. He would pay dearly for his impertinence.
 

“Ric,” he began, “have Vlad bring Mickey into the room. I’m sure Harrison’s brother would like to see what’s become of the devices he helped plant.”

Harrison’s eyes widened a fraction and he set the water bottle on the table. Hands on his knees, his body tensed, Harrison looked as if he were preparing to jump up and run. He’d love to see him try. The hour between setting off the signal from one device to the next had become boring. He’d already sat through three full hours, listening to the bleeding heart news anchors and reporters, viewing the destruction, watching the body bags being lined up outside of each establishment he’d bombed. He didn’t give a shit about the dead and injured, or the millions of dollars in damage he’d caused. They were a means to an end.

They would give him Rose.

Grunts of pain caught his attention. He turned just as Vlad escorted a limping Mickey into the room. Eerily pale, the dumb brother looked as if he was already knocking on Death’s door. Maybe he’d lost too much blood. He focused on where he’d shot Mickey. Whatever Vlad had used as a tourniquet for Mickey’s leg looked as if it had been dipped in blood red paint. What a fucking mess. Maybe Ric was right. Maybe he should just kill the brothers and finish the job without them.
 

The droning voice of the news anchor he’d been listening to buzzed in the background. No. He wouldn’t kill them yet. After all, he needed something to do to occupy his time. Besides, if they ran into a computer glitch, he’d need Harrison’s expertise.

“Santiago,” he said to the Columbian. “Bring me a pair of scissors and a garbage bag.”

Harrison jumped from the couch. “I don’t know what—”

Ric shoved him back onto the sofa. “Sit. You’re not to get up unless you’ve been given permission. Understood?”

Harrison didn’t answer and kept his gaze riveted on Mickey, who didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. Considering the end result the last time he’d asked for a garbage bag, he thought for sure Mickey would have reacted. Then again, maybe he really was dumb.

When Santiago entered the room carrying the scissors and a garbage bag, he rose from his throne chair. “Vlad, bring Mickey over here,” he said, motioning to a spot on the hardwood floor that was near the TV, but far enough away from the area rug and furniture. “Santiago, have Mickey stand on the garbage bag and hand Vlad the scissors.”

“Look at the TV,” he ordered Mickey and used the remote to raise the volume. “Look at what you’ve done.”

When Mickey didn’t obey and kept his head down, he nodded to Santiago. The Columbian grabbed the dumb brother by his hair and yanked, forcing Mickey to watch the TV.

“Much better,” he said and turned to Harrison. “Why don’t you fill your brother in on all the excitement?”

Harrison’s jaw clenched. He drew in a deep breath and stared at Mickey. “We, ah…” He cleared his throat and blinked several times. “The devices you and Santiago planted are explosives. At seven o’clock our time, the first device exploded and blew up the Rosewood Bar & Grill in San Francisco. No one was hurt.” Harrison ran a shaky hand along his forehead, shoving his bangs aside. “The second explosion went off at eight and took out a large part of the Sun Valley Hotel and Convention Center in Henderson, Nevada. Last we heard, fourteen people are dead.”

The depths of grief, clearly written all over Harrison’s face, both fascinated and disgusted him. He hadn’t mourned his parents’ deaths, or his grandparents’ for that matter. In his defense, it was rather hard to grieve for his father, considering he’d been the one to kill him. His mother had been a decent woman, but he certainly wasn’t heartbroken when she died. Her inheritance belonged to him. Still. How could Harrison feel an ounce of pity for people he didn’t know? The dead, the injured, were mere casualties in his cause.
 

“In Idaho,” Harrison continued. “We blew up a middle school. So far nine are dead.” His Adam’s apple worked along his throat as he hardened his jaw. “One was a twelve-year-old kid.”

Mickey had yet to move, but a tear slipped down his pale cheek.

“And,” he prompted Harrison to continue torturing Mickey with the deadly results.

“And about fifteen minutes ago another explosion destroyed a nursing home. We haven’t heard how many people are dead or injured yet, but I…it doesn’t look good.”

More tears streamed down Mickey’s cheeks as he stared at the carnage showing on the TV.

“Nothing to cry about,” he told Mickey. “Those people were old and in a nursing home for a reason. If anything, I did Americans a favor. Now we have less people feeding off of Medicare and Social Security.” He pointed to the tray of refreshments Ric had brought out earlier. “Care for a Danish?”

His face twisting with hatred, Mickey slid his gaze to him. “Fuck you.”

Vlad and Santiago gripped Mickey by the arms and jerked him. He held up a hand and motioned for them to stand down. “Fuck
me
? Is that anyway to treat the man who gave you a good paying job, who brought you into his home and offered you shelter, food and drink? Your manners are atrocious. Both you and your brother need to understand that I do not tolerate belligerence from anyone. You—”

“You’re a fucking murderer,” Mickey shouted. “A monster. I didn’t sign us up for any of this. Because of you,
we
killed innocent people.”

The wave of rage coursing through him momentarily blurred his vision. He backhanded Mickey in the face, then grabbed the man’s chin. “How dare you interrupt me when I’m speaking,” he said, pressing his thumb and index finger, forcing Mickey’s mouth to contort and open slightly.
 

The dumb brother lived up to his name and spoke. With the way he held Mickey’s face, he couldn’t decipher what the man had said. Letting go, he took a step back and reached for a napkin setting on the refreshment tray. “Didn’t quite get that,” he said, wiping his hand. “Dare to repeat it.”

Although Mickey started at him with defiance and hatred, he kept his mouth shut.

He turned and dropped the used napkin on the tray. “I didn’t think so. You and your brother are both a couple of puss—”

“Fucking crazy son of a bitch,” Mickey shouted.

He froze. Time to show the piece of white trash just how crazy he could be. Straightening his tie, he faced the dumb brother. “Open your mouth.” When Mickey didn’t comply, he nodded to Santiago. The Columbian threw his fist into Mickey’s stomach, causing him to double over. “Other than blowing up another eight places, I have nothing on my schedule. We can end this quickly or I can drag it out all day. Your choice.”

“Do it,” Harrison encouraged. “Please, Mick. Just do what he tells you.”

He jerked his head toward Harrison, but kept his eyes on Mickey. “See? That’s why he’s the smart brother. You might want to listen to him.”

Mickey shifted his gaze toward Harrison, then opened his mouth.

“Good. Now stick out your tongue.” He looked to Santiago. “Hold his tongue in place.” Once Santiago complied, he nodded to the scissors Vlad held. “Vlad, cut off his tongue.”

“Wait,” Harrison cried over Mickey’s fearful grunts. “Please, don’t do this. You’ve proved your point. Please. I’m begging you
not
to do this.”

Oh, but he really wanted to cut the shithead. Make him understand that no one interrupted with him, that
he
was the one who held the power.
 

With a shrug, he turned to Ric, who said, “He deserves it.”

The sadist
would
say that. But Ric was also right. Without a tongue, the dumb brother could no longer utter a word and the smart brother would likely change his tone, too.

“Agreed, he does deserve it. Vlad, do it.”

The Russian used his thumb and index finger to open the scissor. As he rested both blades on either side of Mickey’s tongue, the dumb brother jerked his head and struggled against the grip Santiago had on his slippery flesh. As he fought, the sharp blade nicked and scraped Mickey’s tongue. If he kept it up, he’d sever the damned thing off himself. Although the irony would amuse him, the process would result in a bloody mess.
 

“Ric, hold a gun to Harrison’s head. Let’s see if Mickey feels his tongue is worth his brother’s life.”

Mickey stopped struggling the moment the barrel of Ric’s .38 touched Harrison’s temple. “Now there’s some brotherly love, eh? Vlad, do it.”

“He’ll bleed all over the place,” Harrison said, his eyes shifting from him to Mickey.
 

“Not if Santiago duct tapes his mouth shut.”

“Then he’ll die of asphyxiation. He’ll choke on his own blood.”

The smart brother had a valid point. And he wasn’t ready for Mickey to die. Yet. Although Harrison had showed Ric how to send the signals to the devices, if he ended up needing Harrison’s computer skills, he might also need to use Mickey as motivation and leverage.
 

Nodding, he held out his hand toward Vlad. “The scissors.” Once he had them in hand, he motioned for Ric to drop the gun. “Again, this is why you’re the smart brother. You’re right, I don’t want a mess and I doubt the garbage bag would keep the blood contained. So, why don’t we keep it simple?” He stood in front of Mickey, who now had his mouth pressed shut, his tongue safely inside. “You’d like to keep your tongue intact, correct?”

Mickey nodded. While his face regained color, his eyes held a strange combination of hatred and gratitude.

“I don’t blame you. But I still need to set an example.” He grabbed Mickey’s scruffy blond hair and held his head in place. “Just one that’s a little less bloody,” he said and stabbed the scissors into his left eye.

Mickey gaped, but no sound escaped from his mouth. Thank God. Harrison’s screaming and yelling was more than enough noise. He looked away from the blood oozing down Mickey’s cheek and turned to Vlad. “Take him back in the room. Remove the scissors and throw duct tape over his eye. I’d like to keep the mess to a minimum.”

Dazed, the color drained from his face again, Mickey didn’t move and Vlad, with the help of Santiago, had to practically carry the man from the room. Disappointed that ramming scissors into a man’s eye socket had ended up being anticlimactic, he took a seat in his throne chair. With a bored sigh, he rested his elbow on the mahogany armrest and his chin in his palm. He eyed Harrison. The man’s head hung and he held his hands over his face. His shoulders shook, leading him to believe Harrison wept for his brother. Touching.

“So,” he began, “are there any other smartass comments you’d like to make about my chair or the people
you’ve
blown up?”