Ethan Justice: Origins

Prologue

Prologue

I REMIND MY captive of the need for obedience by stubbing out my cigarette on his forehead. The smell of singeing skin is exquisite. He is tightly gagged to prevent the noise from escaping his detached home. His screams are merely loud groans that die inside these walls. The bouncing wooden chair settles as his energy levels deplete, welts red and angry where rope has rubbed against ankles and wrists.

"Are you ready to talk?" I ask.

He nods his head urgently. The pain has done the trick. Compliance will spare him pain. He understands.

"Tell me everything you know about Bradshaw and his invention," I say, pulling up a matching chair and sitting opposite him, taking hold of the spittle-soaked material wrapped tightly around his mouth. "If you make a noise, you will die."

He nods his understanding, and I unwind the makeshift gag.

"Talk."

He is a pen-pusher and doesn't understand the science behind Bradshaw's invention, but my breath quickens at the power he describes. I see vengeance unfolding before my eyes as he continues, without further encouragement, to stammer out Bradshaw's address. I sense truth behind wide-eyed fear, but I need an angle.

"What's Bradshaw's weakness?"

He jerks back in the chair. "What?"

"Little boys, little girls, drugs ... what's his poison?"

"I've ... I've heard ... he gambles heavily," he splutters. "Owes more than he can pay."

Perfect. It's enough, and I should be moving on. I pat him on the head and reapply the gag. He begins to fidget as he ponders my next move. I walk to my black gym bag and remove the hatchet, slapping it against my free palm. It is cold and heavy. I need to know for sure that he has spoken the truth.

"Place your little finger flat on the arm of the chair," I say, pointing to his left hand.

The chair jumps, and the groans return, his eyes fixed on the hatchet. I twist his balled fist sideways so his little finger is against the arm. His mind will not allow his hand to open up and release the finger.

"It's a finger or the whole hand," I tell him, raising the hatchet. "Your choice."

The finger creeps out, and I bring down the axe before he has time to retract it. His eyes close as the cutting edge meets the digit halfway down. The small axe buries itself into the hard wood beneath. The chair shakes and creaks, like it might fall apart, as he thrashes from side to side, tears streaming from his eyes and leaping from his cheeks. I doubt he has ever experienced real pain before. He is lucky I can't hang around to educate him.

I place my foot between his legs, pressing down on the chair, keeping it planted to the floor. "When I come back, I want you to nod if all you have told me is true. Shake your head and you will have a chance to correct your mistake without further pain." I lean down until our faces are close, and I smell the cold sweat that drips from his brow. I feel his shakes travel into the chair and up my leg. I smile. "If I doubt your nod, then I will take another finger, and we'll try again. Understand?"

He nods, red eyes blinking, face slack and drooping in defeat.

In the kitchen I open up the gas valves of the hob and oven, setting the boiler to spark in fifteen minutes. It is an easy adjustment, one that will not survive the explosion and subsequent fire. A deliberate nod greets me as I walk back into the lounge.

I exhale through pursed lips, sorry to be leaving so soon, but I have taken too much of a risk already. There will be other opportunities. I collect my things and leave, confident that the fire will cover my trail and darkness my departure.

It is time to start the dance with Bradshaw.