Blood leaked from Emma Clancy’s hairline, invading her eyes, making it difficult to see. For that contradictory blessing, a tiny part of her was grateful. She couldn’t bear to meet the gaze of her torturer any longer and she screwed her lids tight. It was akin to proverbially burying your head in the sand; it didn’t defy the horrifying reality. Hector still delighted in tormenting her, making the smallest of painful cuts long before he was prepared to deliver the coup de grâce. In fact, there was no hope of a stroke of mercy, because delivering a decisive cut to end her suffering was an alien concept to him. He wanted her to experience agony, and for it to linger. As far as the cutting went, it was only part of his devilish plan, and her torture was as much mental as physical. He’d sliced along her hairline while explaining how he was going to peel her face from her skull like a mask. With a male victim, he targeted the genitals, taking away his masculinity; with a woman he was more interested in destroying her through vanity. He’d nipped and stabbed at her breasts, the cuts and bruises superficial, but incredibly painful and soul destroying. Twice already he’d promised to slice off her nipples, but twice he’d held off, but the attack on her femininity and possibility of future motherhood was still on the cards.
As a career-driven woman, with her eye on continual advancement, becoming a mother had never rated highly on her ‘to do’ list before, and she blamed that on the breakdown of her marriage, but since entering a relationship with Alex Grey, her maternal instincts had stirred, blossomed, and she had begun to yearn for a baby. Until her divorce was finalized, Alex had agreed to keep their relationship a secret, despite how much he wanted to shout about their love. She loved Alex with equal passion, and for the first time in her life hopes of a future family were as important as succeeding in this man’s world. Would Alex still love her if she were grotesque and violated, unable to bear his children? It was as if the monster knew her deepest desires and was determined to wrench them from her. More than once he’d inserted his hands in her panties, threatening to spoil her, and the presence of the thick rubber gloves denying his flesh from hers were no less invasive. She’d travelled beyond screaming, both in anger and terror, and now barely mewled as he continued his assault. She couldn’t see the knife he wielded, but she could feel its icy presence alongside her skin. A pinprick in the flesh told her he was testing it against her lower abdomen.
‘I’m going to cut you long, deep, and wide,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘I’m going to pull out your womb and make you eat it while I watch you swallow every mouthful.’
She believed he would too.
But his attention had fastened on her breasts again.
‘I’m going to take off your tatas: one of them I will make into a pouch for my cell phone, the other I’ll stretch over your skinned head.’ He giggled at the loathsome image, and directed his next words at the other person in the room. ‘She would look cute in a tata hat, no?’ Welshy had left the torture room on some personal errand, but another man attended to Hector’s whims and his disgusting humour, labouring to keep the area clean with a mop and bucket while he forced out a strangled laugh. Hector had proven to be fastidious about cleanliness, a total abstraction considering the amount of blood and viscera he intended spilling. The cleaner was an unwilling participant in Emma’s treatment, but he was wise enough to keep his opinion to himself, and to laugh on cue. Emma hated the stranger for his cowardice almost as much as she despised Hector Suarez.
The flat of Hector’s palm smacked off Emma’s backside.
‘Pay attention,’ he told her.
‘G-get away from me you … you … animal.’
‘Ha! So there is some spirit left in you? That is good. Eso es bueno, la señora Clancy.’
There was a noise from beyond the room.
An angry shout followed.
Then the distinctive crack of a gun.
Hector’s prattling fell silent, and the atmosphere grew sharp with expectation.
There came a series of thuds and clatters, the pained yelp of a man, and Emma’s eyes snapped open.
‘Qué fue eso?’ Hector breathed. When got no reply, he switched to English, directing his question at the cleaner. ‘You. What was that?’
‘Beats me, man. But you heard the gunshot, right?’
‘I’m not fucking deaf,’ Hector snapped. ‘Go find out what is happening.’
‘You want me to go out there? Isn’t it obvious what’s happening?’ The cleaner aimed an accusatory nod at Emma. ‘My guess is they’ve come for her.’
Hector swore under his breath. He slipped his knife into his slicker coat pocket, reached for the pulley holding her upright. To Emma he promised, ‘You’re mine.’ He began unlatching her bonds, zipping apart the Velcro from one of her wrists. Emma sagged to her knees. Hector glared at the cleaner.
‘You. I told you to find out what is happening.’
‘I’m unarmed, man. I’m not going out there to get shot.’
‘Coward! Dog! Do something useful. Do not let anyone in that door before I am finished with this puta.’ He tore the last strap from Emma’s wrist, and now she almost went down on her face. He fisted a hand in her hair, hauling her up. Emma grasped at his fingers, but his grip was remorseless. He dragged her across the tiles, her toes scrabbling for purchase as he headed for a door in the far corner.
As they reached the door, Emma tried to dig in, pressing her elbows against the jamb. Hector yanked her head savagely, and a clump of hair ripped loose. She collapsed on one hip, spinning on to her backside.
Against the pearlescent tiles and stark strip lights, the figure that swept into the room was a living shadow. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black, and he wielded a knife. His face held some colour, but it was a sickly pale green under the unnatural lights. His eyes were shards of turquoise when they swept the room, registered the man stabbing towards him with the broom handle, the monster in the yellow coat, and then settled for a fraction of a beat on Emma.
‘Help me!’ she screeched.
Then she was being dragged away, and was lost to her would-be saviour.
Hector grunted and cursed as he hauled her along, and the noise of his exertions almost covered the scuffle back in the torture room. Emma listened keenly, hoping to hear the slap of boots in pursuit. But the sounds of combat were indefinable. Bumps, bangs, the ringing clang of something metallic. A solid thud as someone went down, and in that moment she was lost.
All faith in an eleventh-hour rescue fled her, and she truly collapsed now. Her mind closed down to a point, a single lucid spark that danced in her vision, like a candle flame at the far end of a tunnel. The light receded, dimming, and she knew that it was a symbol of hope she must grasp at. But she didn’t have the strength to lift her hands, or even the will to struggle against the inevitable. Hector doubled his efforts, dragging her dead weight without care that she banged forcefully against each riser as he manhandled her up a flight of stairs. She couldn’t feel the bruising impacts; she’d sunk into oblivion.