Jimmy kept stumbling and crying, trying to stop, but a hard poke from the shotgun barrel kept him moving. The wind was picking up, the sky was heavy with clouds, and the first big flakes of snow began to fall. A blizzard was coming.
That was a double-edged sword. Good, because it would cover their tracks. Bad, because if these guys had backup, they were either very close or they’d be stuck for a long time, turning this into a siege.
When they reached the porch, Mike stopped. The cabin was dark and silent. The door was pulled shut.
Inside were two men. One with a concussion, one with a blown-out knee. Were they dangerous? Absolutely.
A cornered animal is twice as lethal. “You go first,” Mike told Jimmy. “If you twitch or yell to your buddies, Blue will hit you before I even pull the trigger. Got it?”
Jimmy nodded frantically. He was broken. The encounter with the “monster” in the woods and the old man’s icy calm had destroyed his spirit.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth. The scene inside hadn’t changed much, but the air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and fear.
Tiny was still where he’d fallen by the stove. He’d made a makeshift tourniquet out of his belt and was sitting against the woodpile, pale and sweating. His face was twisted in pain, but his eyes were full of malice.
Scar was starting to come around. He was groaning on the floor, trying to push himself up. His jaw was swollen, turning his face into a mask of bruises.
“You’re back, old man,” Tiny rasped, seeing Mike. His hand twitched toward his boot, where a knife might be hidden, but he froze when he saw the shotgun and the massive dog entering behind Mike. “Sit!” Mike barked—not at the dog, but at the thugs.
He shoved Jimmy toward the wall where Tiny sat. “In the corner. Next to your friend. Hands where I can see them.” Jimmy slid down the wall, cradling his arm.
The trio was back together. Mike quickly assessed the room. Weapons collected.
The enemy was demoralized and physically impaired, but he couldn’t relax. The veteran knew the most dangerous moment is when you think you’ve already won. He walked to the table, keeping the thugs in his sights, and lit the kerosene lamp.
The yellow light revealed the mess they’d made. Spilled flour, overturned chairs, books tossed on the floor. Mike winced; he liked order.
The chaos annoyed him more than the presence of the enemies. “Well, boys,” he began, sitting on the edge of the heavy oak table and resting the shotgun on his lap. “You had your fun. Now let’s talk business.”
“I know who you are. Punks who thought the woods were a playground. But who tipped you off about my place? That’s the interesting question.”
Scar finally managed to sit up. He spat a glob of blood onto the floor. Speaking was hard for him, his jaw wouldn’t cooperate, but he was still full of rage.
“You’re dead, old man…” he lisped. “People… are looking for us…” “Let them look,” Mike nodded calmly. “The mountains are big, the bears are hungry. But while they’re looking, I’m right here. And I decide if you see tomorrow morning.”
He looked at Tiny. The big man seemed the toughest, despite the injury. “You’re a big guy. Knee hurting?”
“Go to hell,” Tiny spat. Mike stood up, went to the stove, and stuck a poker into the embers. “In my old line of work, we learned that pain is a tool.”
“It opens doors that the mind wants to keep shut. You have a bad knee. If it’s not treated, you’ll lose the leg.”
“I can help. Or I can not help.” He pulled out the poker. The tip was starting to glow dull red.
Mike didn’t intend to torture them. That was barbaric and beneath him. But the psychological effect was necessary. The fear of pain is often stronger than the pain itself.
“Jimmy!” Mike snapped, focusing on the weakest link. “Your arm. The dog’s mouth isn’t clean. Infection is already setting in.”
“You want to lose that arm?” Jimmy started shaking. “I’ll tell you! Don’t! It was Lefty. Lefty sent us!”…
Comments are closed.