Page 1 of Taunting Tarran
PROLOGUE
THE PUNISHER
There’s a certain thrill in seeing fear dance in someone’s eyes. The way pupils dilate, to drink in more light and sharpen the focus on danger. It’s what I live for. But for now, I have another task in mind.
‘It’s time, ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests. Please return to your booths, and turn your attention to our next item.’
I cradle my glass of amber whiskey in the dimly lit hallway, letting it burn at the back of my throat as a reminder of the peril of what’s ahead. I look around at the other guests, all dressed in tailored suits and elegant gowns – mingling in clusters, and murmuring in hushed tones. The air is fused with the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey, and the tension in the room is thick and suffocating. Clearly, there are some sore losersamongst us. I can practically taste the bitterness of defeat from some disgruntled souls. My hands stiffen, curling into tight fists, my knuckles turning white. For now, I’m trading identity for secrecy. I’m just another guest, and I love the anonymity of it all. As we all return to our booths, I swallow hard.
‘You sure you want to do this?’ Sal, my trusted advisor, asks. His brows are creasing with concern as we return to our booth, and sit behind the single, glass-paned window that frames the stage. His eyes are earnest and questioning.
‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my goddamn life.’ I reply.
These days, Sal claims he’s named after a Submachine gun, ever since some pikey exposed that he was actually named after the famous painter, notorious for his outlandish fascination with eroticism and masturbation.
I offered to shoot the cunt, but Sal reckons I’m too trigger-happy, and shooting a pikey, well, that comes with its own problems.
‘Oi, you’re a tight fooker, ain’t ya?’ the pikey had said. I didn’t understand much of what was being discussed, I couldn’t even say what language he spoke; something like English but not. Pikeys have a reputation for their negotiating persuasiveness, and I didn’t have the patience for that, but Sal got the deal done, added a laxative to his drink, and took his dog.
The underground room is dark, lit only by a beam of light spotlighting a round platform at the centre. Each guest is seated in a private booth on the periphery. Our eyes fixed on thisluminous stage and my heart pounds.
‘As usual,’the voice from the speaker continues with tantalising mystery,‘we’ve saved the best ‘til last.’
Our booth door slams, startling us. A burly man, with eyes blazing with fury strolls towards us.
I lean over and whisper to Sal. ‘I’m fairly certain I said I wanted no interruptions.’
‘Who the fuck, are you two?’ he spits. ‘I’m calling security.’
‘Security?’ I laugh, as I spin around. ‘They’re already dead. And you know what?’ I ask, as I quickly stand to my feet in one smooth, deliberate motion. ‘You’re next!’
I draw my gun from its concealed spot at the back of my trousers, and press the silencer firmly against his temple. I feel his body tense as a bead of sweat begins to form in the centre of his forehead, and I smile as I begin to count down the moments to when the large, oak door to the stage will creak open, and we can get back to business.
‘Are you afraid?’ I ask.
‘No!’
‘Shame!’ I shrug.
‘Look, man, you don’t know who you’re talking to. I’m…’
‘I don’t care if you’re Bruce fucking Lee. Three...... two......one...... off goes my gun.’ I intone coolly as it discharges, its muffled report echoing off the soundproofed walls of our secluded booth. In the silence that follows, a harsh cough and guttural gargle shatters the calm. I glance over at Sal, whose eyesare wide with horror.
‘You all right, Sal?’ I ask, placing the gun back into place.
‘Perhaps a little warning next time, boss?’ he sputters, frantically wiping his face from blood and clumps of brain matter. Anyone else that spoke to me in that tone of voice would get a bullet, but not Sal; he’s like an older brother to me. Instead, I laugh.
‘I’ll wire you ten G’s, and buy you a brand-new handkerchief. How’s that?’
CHAPTER 1
THEBUTCHERBIRD
Twenty years ago, age sixteen
The memory of the sharp, explosive crack of the gun going off jolts me awake. Today I discovered if you shoot someone in the face at close range, I not only had his warm, blood spatter on my face, but the bullet left a gaping, grotesque void at the back of his head. Since then, it’s changed my outlook on lifeanddeath. My life will never be the same, that’s if I survive the fallout. It’s a vision I desperately wish I could erase, an action I long to undo. But it had to be me, and it had to be with a 0.45 calibre – those were the orders I was given, and I followed them to the letter.
My nails dig into the soil as voices enter through my ears. Shakily, I pull myself backwards, pulling my knees beneath me. The rough ground creating impressions into my knee caps. A couple of stilted seconds pass, before I open my eyes.
