Page 43 of Empire of Carnage
“He drew up the blueprint for the Crows, they werehismen first. This should have all been his. It should have been mine,” Dezmond yelled, the true source of his rage showing its ugly head and letting us know jealousy was her name.
“Maybe so, and then he opened his mouth aboutourMexican whore and found himself on the wrong side of my barrel. Then I fucked her with said barrel while he bled out and his corpse went cold.” Santos pulled his Glock out of his pants and shoved it under Dez’s chin, forcing his head into an uncomfortable position. “Actually, I think it was this one right here.”
He pulled the gun back and licked the rim of it before pressing it back onto his flesh.
“Your traitor piece of shit of a father is dead and gone, but my gun still tastes like her.”
I laughed, remembering just how unhinged Santos could get when he was the one holding our enemies down.
“Quit playin’ with your food Álvarez, if we got all we need from him, let’s end this and go home to our woman.” I clapped him on the shoulder.
“Yeah, run back south of the border to your little bitch. You think he doesn’t know who she is? Why do you think he sold her twice? Why risk killing her when he can just keep selling her and hope someone else will?” He had the audacity to fucking laugh.
Santos smacked his jaw with the butt end of the Glock and his jaw broke, staying lodged on the left side of his face. He wailed, unable to open his mouth to actually speak again.
“Actually, I like him this way,” I said, extending my hand for the gun.
I fired one in each kneecap without waiting.
His scream became a feral plea, nonsensical and completely unintelligible.
“I wonder if we can make him scream so hard it’ll pop back into place?” Santos asked and Fletcher laughed.
“Y’all are sick motherfuckers.”
“I’m not gonna lie, I forgot you were here brother. If this is too much for you…” Santos warned him, but he waved him off, crossing his arms to show he’d be staying put and watching the show till its end. “Let’s cut his toes off and mail them to Sokolov,” Santos said, turning back to me.
I hadn’t seen a grin that big on his face in the last decade.
I wondered if it had something to do with me sayingourwoman.
I nodded my approval and while he stepped over to the table to pick out which tools were the right one for the job, I approached Dezmond Archer Junior. With a quick jab I knocked the end of my gun onto the dislodged side of his jaw, forcing it back in place with a crunch. The feral, animalistic type of scream that came from the depths of his soul tugged at the little bit of love I still had left for the man standing in front of me as I watched the piss drip down his legs.
“What did he promise you? How long had the two of you been working with the Bratvas?” I needed to know, needed to understand how long I’d had rats scurrying under me while feeding them the same food I fed my family at the same goddamn table.
“You better… kill me…I’m not telling you… shit.” He struggled to get the words out.
I guess the guy didn’t quite grasp the concept of torture. There was nothing threatening about a man that had already been tied up and beaten beyond recognition.
“Did he promise you the Crows? That everything would go back to the way it was before the three of us took over the city your father once thought would be his?”
He didn’t answer.
“Oh shit, Santos. I think he promised him more.” I laughed, rubbing my hands together and stepping back to let Álvarez get to work.
He snapped the scissor-like pliers open and shut in front of Archer Junior’s face. He flinched, trying to keep a hardened face but it was evident that he wasn’t brought up to tolerate this life, even if his father had raised him adjacent to it.
“Did he promise you his ugly daughter?” Santos asked with a hushed voice.
His eyes widened, giving him away before he fixed his expression into a pained scowl once more.
“Oof, that’s a rough one. You’ll need a paper bag to stomach giving it to her after what Celia did to her face.” He laughed at our captive, a man we still called brother by habit.
“Not as ugly… as you,” he said through labored breaths, reminding Santos that his face was different now too.
I pulled my tactical blade from its sheath in the holster and plunged it straight into his cheek, pulling it out and doing the same to his other side. He shrieked a louder sound than I had ever heard coming from a Prisoner of War. What we were doing to Archer didn’t even compare to what we put those fuckers through.
But even though my rage was driving the wheel, in the back of my mind all I could see were the flashes of memories, the last seven years fighting side by side with him and his father. The bridges we built together, the army we raised out of nothing to fight for our cause.
