Don’t lose it. There’s still time. Again he glanced at his watch. Nearly twelve-thirty. And the fire below was taking hold, crackling and burning, racing through the undergrowth.
His ears strained as the smell of smoke teased his nostrils…Was that the sound of a car’s engine roaring to life?
Five more minutes passed and he stood, sweating, muscles tight, ready to spring.
Still nothing.
Fuck!
He couldn’t waste another minute and decided to risk his plan. Swiftly he began running up the trail again, heading toward the little-used logging road high above, but at a fork in the path, he veered sharply right. Heart pounding, his nerves twisted and jangled, he angled along the side of the hill. His muscles were beginning to ache with the effort when he finally saw the abyss ahead of him, a deep chasm cut into the hillside.
He was close now. Could still make it.
Without hesitation, he found the large tree he’d used as a bridge earlier and carefully eased his way along the rough bark and through the broken limbs to the other side of the cleft. Far below, the fire continued to take hold, the flames glowing brighter, the smoke rising toward the night-dark heavens.
Hurry!
At the root-end of the log, he jumped to the ground, picked up another trail and followed it unerringly to a boulder the size of a man. Five paces uphill he found a tree split and blackened by lightning, cleaved as if God Himself had sliced the oak into two pieces.
At the base of that split trunk was his quarry.
Hands and ankles bound, tied to one side of the tree, mouth taped shut, his prisoner waited.
He flicked on his flashlight, saw that the captive’s wrists were bloody and raw, the skin sawed by the ropes as the man had tried to escape.
To no avail.
“The information was correct,” he said to his wide-eyed victim. Sweat ran down the bound man’s face and he looked frantically around him, as if hoping for rescue. “They want blood.”
Garbled noises came from the tied man’s throat.
“Your blood.”
The captive began thrashing, yanking at his restraints, and the torturer felt a pang of pity—a small one—for him. The garbled noises became louder, and he figured the captive was bartering for his pathetic life. Eyes bulging, the prisoner was shaking his head violently. No! No! No! As if there had been some terrible mistake.
But there was sweet justice in what was happening. He felt the warmth of it spreading through his veins, the adrenaline high in anticipation of what was about to come. Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his pants and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He shook one of the filter tips out, stuffing it casually between his lips as the pathetic creature tied to the tree watched in horror.
“Oh, yes, they definitely want Ryan Carlyle dead tonight,” he said, flicking his lighter to the end of his Marlboro and cupping his hand around the tip. The thin paper and tobacco ignited in a flare. He drew in deeply, tasting the smoke, feeling it curl as it filled his lungs.
The prisoner, his eyes wide, his body contorting, flailed as he strugg
led, his horrified screams muffled, blood running from his wrists.
“And you know what? I want him dead as well. But in a different way, in a way that better serves my purpose.” He found a kind of peace in thinking about the demise of Ryan Carlyle, all the ramifications it would cause.
His captive writhed and squirmed crazily. It appeared he was shouting invectives rather than pleading for his life or screaming in terror. Like a wounded animal, he threw himself away from the tree, stretching the ropes, as if he could somehow get free.
Too late.
The decision had been made.
Reaching into his pocket again, the tormentor came up with a syringe. Holding the cigarette between his lips, he pushed on the plunger a bit, spraying a bit of clear liquid into the night.
The prisoner was in full-blown panic but it made no difference. He was restrained, and it was no problem plunging the needle into his exposed arm and waiting for the drug to take effect. Standing back he watched as his victim’s eyes glazed and his movements became sluggish. The captive no longer pulled at his restraints, just rolled up his eyes at his tormentor in abject hatred.
And so it was time.
“Adios,” he said softly. He flipped his burning cigarette onto the dry forest floor. Fire immediately raced along pine needles, dead leaves and dry twigs, burning bright red, following a carefully laid trail around the base of the tree.