Page 96 of Fury
"Your organization thinks you're still at the motel," I interrupt, securing his ankles to the chair legs. "By the time they realize you're missing, there won't be enough left of you to identify."
Fear finally registers in his eyes as he takes in the implements arranged on the table—pliers, knives, a blowtorch, chemicals in unmarked bottles.
"You're making a mistake," he tries again, desperation clear in his voice. "I can offer you money, protection?—"
"I don't want your money." I select a pair of bolt cutters from the table, testing their weight in my hand. "And I don't need your protection."
Wilder and Torch take up their positions by the door, silent witnesses to what's about to unfold.
"What I want," I continue, approaching Volkov with measured steps, "is for you to experience exactly what you put Livie through. The fear. The helplessness. The absolute certainty that your life is in someone else's hands."
"This is justice," I cut him off. "For every scream you tore from her throat. For every tear you made her shed. For every moment of peace you stole from her." I place the edge of the bolt cutters against his pinkie finger. "She wakes up shaking every night, you know. Dreaming of what you might have done to her. To me." I apply just enough pressure to dimple the skin. "Now you get to live it."
I start with his fingers, one by one. Not cutting them off—not yet—but dislocating each joint. Volkov's screams echo against the concrete walls as I bend each digit backward until the pop of separation vibrates through my fingertips. His pinkie, ring, and middle fingers—each one a payment for Livie's terror.
"This is just the beginning," I tell him, voice detached as I move to his right hand. "We have hours ahead of us."
Volkov's eyes bulge, sweat streaming down his face. "Please," he gasps between screams. "Whatever you want?—"
"I want you to suffer," I reply simply, reaching for the pliers. "I want you to know what it feels like to be utterly helpless."
I use the pliers to grip the nail of his thumb, applying steady pressure until it separates from the flesh beneath. The sound he makes isn't human anymore—a high, keening wail that satisfies something inside me.
When I've removed three nails, I pause, allowing him a moment to anticipate what comes next. Fear can be more effective than pain itself.
"Your men," I continue conversationally, selecting a thin, curved blade from the table, "they touched what's mine. Put their hands on my woman."
I press the knife against his cheek, just deep enough to draw blood. "So now I'm going to take your face. Piece by piece."
Torch shifts uncomfortably by the door but doesn't interfere. Wilder's expression remains impassive, his eyes hard as he watches Volkov's punishment unfold.
I carve a thin strip of skin from Volkov's cheek, not enough to kill, just enough to make him understand what's coming. His screams have given way to sobbing now, pride abandoned in the face of true terror.
"Do you know what they would have done to her?" I ask, leaning close to his ear. "If they'd had more time with her? If I hadn't gotten her out?"
I describe the possibilities in graphic detail, each potential violation, each degrading act they might have inflicted. With each scenario, I inflict a new wound. Small, precise cuts across his chest, his arms, his face. Nonfatal, but all excruciating.
When the blowtorch comes out, Volkov loses control of his bladder, urine soaking through his expensive pants. The acrid smell mingles with the copper scent of blood already heavy in the air.
"Please," he begs, voice raw from screaming. "Kill me. Just kill me."
"Not yet," I promise, igniting the torch. "Not until you understand exactly what you took from us."
I apply the flame to the wounds I've already created, cauterizing them one by one. The sizzle of flesh and Volkov's renewed screams create a symphony of retribution that should satisfy me, should quench the rage burning in my chest.
But it doesn't.
Because no matter what I do to him, it won't erase the fear from Livie's eyes. Won't stop her nightmares. Won't restore what he stole from us.
Hours pass, marked only by Volkov's diminishing capacity for pain. I've worked systematically, ensuring he remains conscious, ensuring he feels everything. I've removed three toes, shattered his kneecaps with a hammer, dislocated his shoulders, and carved intricate patterns across his torso.
Through it all, I've narrated exactly why each punishment is being inflicted, connecting each wound to a specific moment of Livie's terror.
"This," I say, pressing the blade beneath his eye, "is for the gun they held to her head."
The knife sinks in, not deep enough to damage the eye itself, but enough to create a perfect half-moon scar beneath it—a permanent reminder he'll never live to display.
"And this," I continue, moving to his other eye, "is for making her watch while they touched me."
