Page 95 of Kings Fear No One
Surprise lives in hers. She wasn’t expecting me to put my hands on her.
As if I don’t hate her fucking guts for everything she’s done.
“Where is he?” I ask through bared teeth.
“Why would I know?”
“You know more about him than anyone.”
She squirms against me, clawing at my clenched hands. “I don’t know what you’re blathering about.”
A second passes. A single drumbeat.
Then I act. I rip Mandy away from the wall and drag her toward the interrogation chair in the middle of the room. She’s dropped down into it before she can protest. I twist her arms behind the back of the chair and lock the chains in place. A howl of outrage wavers out of her.
“How dare you, boy?! BOY!”
I’ve turned my back on her. I’m cutting across the basement floor to pick up one of the water jugs in the corner. It’s overstock Mick puts down here when he’s out of room everywhere else. On my way, I snatch an old dishrag from the sink.
Mandy’s cussing me out as I return. Her eyes bulge from their sockets, the gleam in them wild. It’s the same look I’ve seen her get when one of her demands are not met. It usually proceeded whatever believer pissed her off being whipped or beaten.
I was on the receiving end more than once. I toss the dirty dish rag over her hideous face and uncap the water jug in my left hand.
“What are you—gulg-gulg-gulg!”
She jerks in place as I wrench her head back and pour the water over her face. Her body twitches like an insect sprayed with Raid while water drowns her out. I empty the jug onto her, then twist my fingers tighter in her thinning strands.
“Tell me where the fuck he is or you’re about to suffer.”
“Don’t you dare use that tongue to threaten me!”
“Have it your way.”
I’m husking out ragged breaths as I stride over to the rest of the water jugs. I lug several across the room, setting them down like ammunition where Mandy’s chained to the chair. A shrill screech rattles out of her as I fist more of her hair and pour another round of water.
The towel’s soaked, so drenched the terry fabric has molded to every contour of her face. As gallons of water flood her, it recreates the feeling of being drowned. She’s suffocating under the water cascading over her like a waterfall.
Her legs kick out in protest. Her tortured screams garbled.
Halfway through the third jug, I stop again to ask the same question. “Tell me where the fuck he is.”
“HOW… DARE… YO—ARGHHH!”
I drench her in the rest of the jug. Then a fourth jug ’til she’s so overcome, she can’t even make any sounds. She’s forced to sit in the chair and take it.
A sick, twisted satisfaction pushes me on. I grit my teeth, relishing the torture I’m putting her through. The pain and discomfort of feeling like she’s drowning again and again. She chokes and coughs and twitches and I only pour more water.
It’s what she deserves.
It’s what she gets for doing what she did. For using me so many fucking times, I’ve blacked them out. For wielding the power she had to ensure any time I stepped out of line I was beat down. I was broken ’til I was just some thing she called upon like a pet.
This bitch deserves what Abraham deserves—to suffer every moment she’s alive. Then to die a death that’s a thousand times more painful.
As adrenaline pulses through me, I’m driven crazy with thoughts of revenge. Brutal barbaric methods I could use to carry it out. I could make her garbled screams seem like a child’s laughter. I could really have her hurting.
My hand slips into my pocket for my Swiss knife.
“Ghost!”
