Redemption (6 page)

“Dude, what the fuck you doing? I’ve got a method and I don’t need some ’roided out freak fucking it up.” Justice faced him with a paintbrush in his right hand and a jar of something oily in the other.

St. John tugged at his mask. “I don’t like this shit. We’re taking too long. I know the cops will be here soon.” He shuffled back on slick soles until he was pressed against the wall facing the door. Both hands on his pistols.

“Good, then you shoot it out with the fuzz, while I get to the bottom of this shit.”

St. John thought about the consequences of what Justice said. Both hands dug into his vest pockets as he contemplated what he’d do if the cops stormed the structure.

Maybe killing Ford was his way of setting me up? Fuck, and I just planted my prints all over this idiot’s face.

The last room in Ford’s home, the one where he’d die, was similar to the chamber room at the clubhouse. It was dark and the temperature had to be below fifty degrees. No windows, a single large computer monitor sat in the corner. BDSM porn pumped across the screen. St. John yanked the webcam loose from its USB connection and shoved it in a drawer.

Ford had an attraction to kink, and it was kink that would be his demise. St. John wondered how experimental Dr. Worthington was. She’d had to decipher Ford-the-freak’s fetish desires. There’d be no way she wasn’t involved.

He leaned forward to watch Justice smear Ford with what looked like olive oil. Whatever perverse games he had in mind, it had already knotted St. John’s stomach.

The small brush slapped about Ford’s pale face. A combination of yellowish freckles and flushed heat rash pitted his complexion. Not a handsome man to begin with, he’d pictured himself cock of the walk and wielded unmerciful insults on fellow employees. St. John had often wondered how no one ever cracked his skull. He smirked as he watched the corrupt cop come to in a flurry of confusion and fear.

“Wha…what the heck. Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Ford challenged.

Justice grinned like a proud pastry chef. “I’m going to have you for a snack. I asked you earlier to get your mind together and give me the information I wanted. You choose to be a dickhead, so I’m going to eat you instead.” he said easily as he continued to baste Ford’s naked body with olive oil.

Ford was bent backward over the footboard of the brass bed. Each foot was tie wrapped around a leg post. His arms were drawn back to each side and wrists secured along the heavy wooden slats beneath the bed. Justice had chosen to leave the wide leather collar around Ford’s throat. The cock harness strained and cut into his chubby belly.

“You with the CIA? What’s with you assholes about eating flesh?”

St. John heard it. He saw Justice’s head snap up to scowl at Ford. It was a millisecond’s hesitation, but St. John knew Justice had caught it also. St. John’s teeth mashed into his tongue as he considered what it would be like to bite through human flesh. Had Justice partaken in cannibalism as a practice or a fascination? He’d really rather not know.

Justice laughed. “You know anyone else in the CIA that enjoys human flesh?”

“No. I just know how sick people like you are.” Ford said.

Justice stopped painting him at that final slight as if he’d taken offense to the insult. Reaching back to the dresser drawer, Justice laid the brush and oil down to don a pair of heavy latex surgical gloves. St. John twisted away at the hips. He assumed there was going to be blood.

“Chubby Bear, you haven’t seen sick yet.”

Justice grabbed Ford’s ballsack with his left hand and pulled down until it looked like the wrinkled scrotum would tear right off. His fingers swirled to wrap a thick black rubber band around Ford’s sack. He wrapped the band until he could no longer twist the loop over it.

Ford sniveled at first. Then he screamed like a child at a spider. What a pussy.

“This ought to help.” Justice smiled while he worked.

St. John shivered, watching the biker’s work flow with ease and pleasure.

This was his environment—it’s what the government had taught Justice to do. He hated it, or at least said he did. But the smile on Justice’s face and low whistle over parched lips demonstrated to St. John that he was now on autopilot. He’d come to bond with Justice, but hoped he sure as hell didn’t end up eating Ford.

The blood trapped behind the rubber band had begun to pool near the surface. Ford’s scrotum turned purplish red. Justice went back to his brush strokes. Ford struggled to lift his head, but there wasn’t any doubt the fat fucker knew he’d gone too far by insulting Justice.

“What’d you do? It burns—take it off.” Ford’s eyes batted fast without glasses. Sweat slicked his upper thighs as his squishy quadriceps muscles quivered under the strain of the odd body position and the pain from the cut off circulation killing his testicles.

Justice continued his olive oil basting. “Ted, this isn’t going to end well at all. Let me be clear. In the end you will tell me everything I want to know. And you will die,” he said, standing up to stretch his back. “How horribly you suffer before dying is entirely up to you. Do you understand me, Ted?”

Ford’s breathing ceased. Justice slapped him. He came out of his stupor.

“Ted, do you understand me?”

“Please, lets talk about this. I’ll pay you and I’ll forget I ever saw you.” Ford begged with a slight grin—or the rictus of sheer panic.

St. John crossed and uncrossed his arms, pacing in a tight loop within the deep corner he’d chosen to isolate himself in. He hung his head, finding it even more difficult to look at Ford. The guy was either too arrogant or ignorant to understand what was about to happen to him.

Justice lifted an aluminum apple coring tool. The twelve sectional separators were sharp. He handled it carefully. St. John’s imagination erupted. Ford’s eyes bulged in their sockets as he tried to look at his flaccid dick.

“Ted, I don’t have a lot of time, so we’re going to get to work. Your little dick down there is probably what you treasure most. I’m going to relieve you of that little issue, Ted.” Justice nestled between Ford’s thighs. “Ted, do you understand?”

“Yes. No. Oh lord, please don’t do it.” Cellulite wiggled across his man tits. The Department of Justice symbol tattooed on his chest above his heart looked disgraceful. He’d fallen so out of shape that the intended design appeared to be a mash-up of colors.

“Ted, can you make your ferocious prick hard for me?” Justice taunted him by tapping his penis with the metal blades. “Do this now, Ted. Do you understand?”

In last ditch desperation, Ford gulped in air, and bellowed for help.

“Ted, do not do that again. Do you understand, Ted?”

“Yes, sir. Please help me.” And there it was. He’d broken that blubbering idiot without leaving a single scratch.

St. John recognized Justice’s pattern of communication. By incorporating Ford’s name in every sentence, it personalized the chat. He also knew that once Justice stopped using Ted’s name, he no longer had any use for him.

“Make it hard, Ted.”

“I can’t.”

“Now, Ted.”

“Stop. This is sick.”

Justice poured olive oil over his gloved hand. He grabbed a few fingers worth of Ford’s limp prick. He started jacking him off. The disgusting fucker’s dick actually started to get hard.

Ford squirmed and pulled violently at his restraints. Terror encased him. He knew a hard cock would mean it’d be sliced into twelve pieces. Then he relaxed in surrender.

“Ted, come on. Let it grow, Ted. You better not cum on me, Ted. I’ll saw it off right now. Do you understand me, Ted?”

The sick bastard’s tongue licked his lips. His face was flushed. He looked like it was pleasurable. St. John looked away.

“Opie, grab the vice grip.”

St. John moved in to reach across the bed for the pliers. He tried to stay above Ford’s head so he wouldn’t get a look at him. Even with the hood on, Ford was familiar enough with St. John to recognize him.

“Here you go, boss.” St. John handed Justice the tool.

Justice looked agitated that he had to stop to retrieve the grips. Both men stared at each other—were they going to squabble at a time like this?

Ford flung his right hand up, causing a slingshot effect. As his hand loosed, he struck St. John across the left side of his head. The mask slid. St. John stumbled, fighting to keep his mask on but Ford’s grip was tight.

“Louis Seals?” Ford gasped. “You’re a fucking cop.” He waved the facemask.

“You’re delirious old man,” St. John exclaimed as he wrestled for the mask. He re-secured Ford’s arm to the bed.

Justice peered at him. “If you were a cop, you ain’t no more.” His threat was low and intentionally intimidating.

“Don’t fuck with me after all the shit I’ve done with you.” St. John’s heart was pounding so hard he was convinced Justice could hear it.

Justice shoved a rag down Ford’s throat to shut him up.

“We’ll settle this later,” Justice growled, brow pinched so tight his eyes looked like they touched.

He pressed the apple corer onto the head of Ford’s dick like a crown. Pushed slightly, allowed the blades to break the surface of his dick.

The whites of Ford’s eyes turned red as blood vessels burst. The marbled fat of his face turned purple like his scrotum. His blood pressure was about to explode. Ford’s entire body quaked—from pain but mostly fear.

“Ted, lets focus. Tell me what I want to know or I’m going to shove this down your prick. Do you understand me, Ted?”

Eyes blinked. Jowls shook. Justice ripped the thick rag from Ford’s busted mouth. He gagged and spit.

“Seals, you’ll die in the electric chair for this. Stop him.”

“Nevada doesn’t use the chair,” St. John countered. “Old man, you’re mistaken, but I’d worry about your dick splitter instead of who you think I am.”

“It’s him. He’s going to bust your outlaw ass,” Ford shot at Justice.

“I’ll kill you both then. Difference is, Ted, you have information I want.” Justice pressed on the aluminum blade. It sunk below the surface.

Ford’s thick torso launched off the mattress. He bucked like a bull as Justice poured rubbing alcohol over his bleeding dick.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. Anything. Stop. Just stop,” he cried. Like a bitch.

“Ted, you’ve got one shot at this. Understand me, Ted?”

Ford nodded, gaze frozen on St. John. His eyes mashed closed against the searing agony in his penis. “Please.”

“Tell you what. I’ll make it all go away. How about I slice it off and bust your nut sack like a tic? Now talk, Ted.” Justice swished another plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol in his hand.

“It was me. I set everything up.” Tears streamed from the corners of bloodshot eyes. His sobbing and gasping made the confession difficult to understand. “Ricky Geneti was a snitch for the agency. He told me you had cash to buy guns. I directed him the whole time on how to go about the details.” Ford’s matter of fact attitude returned despite the pain below.

“Good, Ted. Continue.”

“The agency knew nothing. They have a habit of losing inventory. I helped myself to the military cache we’d seized a few years back. I even got an old agency pilot to fly the ripped-off chopper.”

“Rocky Jones,” Justice whispered.

“Yep. Didn’t know he was such a chicken shit. Offed himself in his bird,” Ford said through hard swallows.

St. John’s heart dropped. He and Rocky Jones had been close friends. He’d even escorted the vet to visit the Vietnam Memorial wall in Washington, D.C. years back. He felt a twist in his gut and the urge to kill Ford personally.

Justice slapped Ford hard with a solid palm. “Be respectful. The man was a combat pilot.”

Ford sniveled a bit, then began to talk again. “I had the guns. Was waiting for that idiot Geneti to deliver the cash. But he got sentimental and wanted to see his son before we completed the deal.” He looked down, trying to see his groin. His ball sack was almost black.

“Where’s my cash?”

“I don’t know. It was supposed to boost my retirement pension. You know, a little nest egg.”

“You’re lying, Ted.”

“I swear. That snitch Geneti couldn’t do anything right. Fuck, he got himself and that damn boy killed.”

Justice’s expression became animated. His face turned pissed-red. His big knuckles smashed into Ford’s cheek. The whack of bone obliterating bone was unmistakable. “He was a child. Have some respect.”

Ford’s left eye bloated shut. He blinked the other. “I’m sorry.” His head swiveled back and forth between St. John and Justice. “The money is wherever he hid it. I took the weapons from Rocky and gave them to someone who wants to kill you.” He looked at Justice. His tone darkened, became sinister.

The shift caught St. John’s attention.

“Tell me, Ted.”

“You should know. You recruited and created him—Gray Man. He’s my only son. His name is Ben—Benjamin Franklin Ford. Then once your corrupted project went sideways, the CIA dispatched you to eliminate the prototypes. You murdered all but him. What, twenty-four of them so far?” His chin bobbed up and at Justice. The accusation and condemnation was clear.

“It was my job.”

“Yeah right. Well, thanks to you doing your job, my West Point candidate ended up a murdering cannibal. Was that part of your job?”

Justice’s response was slight, but St, John had studied the man for months. He did feel emotion. In this case, it was guilt.

“I knew you’d never let it rest. After Geneti was killed, I turned my son loose on you. Told him where to find you too.” Ford seemed to have forgotten about the twelve blade slices into the head of his dick.

The details came much too quickly. St. John had never seen anyone break so fast—the guy was weak. He’d expected no less.

Mucus poured from Ford’s nostrils, he sucked it back in and swallowed harder, “Yeah, ain’t I father of the year? He’s had the guns as bait to lure your ass in. I figured he’d killed you by now, but he’s trying to work a deal to get his daddy the cash back. I just wanted the money to retire. You have any idea what it’s like to live on a federal government pension?”

“Where’s the money, Ted?”

“I swear, I don’t know.”