Do Not Disturb
Page 72
“Yeah. I’ll be around.”
“Around.” Just wishy-washy enough to guarantee that—if I need him—he won’t be there. I could ask for his phone number, but don’t trust myself to have it. Especially now that he seems too interested in friendship. That’s the problem with having a pussy. Every man around wants to dive into it.
I step off the elevator and onto the sixth floor.
CHAPTER 84
MARCUS LEAVES THROUGH the front door, pulling off his ski mask before exiting. Locks it behind him with gloved hands and goes down the worn front steps, his movements confident. Slow. No rush, no need for anyone to give a second look. Passes the boy’s truck.
This golden boy is his insurance policy. If she tries to scream, struggles when he touches her, kicks and punches, and clamps her jaw before his cock, he’ll pull out the magic card. Wave Jeremy Pacer temptingly in front of her and explain the plight he faces. Explain the ticking clock, and what will happen when it counts down to zero. Even a strong individual breaks under the threat of danger to another. Breaks under the thought that their stubbornness will cause another’s death. He’ll attain her breakage. He’ll get her compliance. Will enjoy the evening in the proper fashion. Civilized. With her eyes full of fear and respect.
Several firsts for him, taken care of. First time subduing a man. It was almost disappointing, how easy it was. The injection had done all of the work, the man wheeling around at the contact, his hand going for his neck, by the time he realized what was stuck there, by the time his eyes focused on Marcus and his fists swung into action…
Collapse. The kid had landed one punch, a good one. Marcus rubs his jaw, remembering the jar of the impact, the boy’s fists never making the journey to round two. It is fine. Pain is a reminder of life, of the ability to feel.
Another first. The bomb. Thorat was right. The instructions were incredibly simple. Unwrap package, put into oven. Program oven. Done. A fucking caveman could do it. A caveman with a set of balls. The kid’s oven timer was now programmed for fifteen hours, after which it will heat to six hundred degrees. Thorat’s instructions didn’t indicate how long it would take the ammonium perc to explode, just said to leave at least fifteen minutes’ time to get the hell away. It might happen before the oven finishes heating. It might take an hour. But once it ignites… it’s a beautiful thing. He’d seen it once before, four years ago, still remembers the damage. In this case, a two-pound pack of AP exploding will set fire to all that it touches. The kitchen will go quickly, then the house.
So he’s leaving the house with a fifteen-hour window. It should be plenty of time. To find the girl, incapacitate her, and find out what kind of bitch he was working with. Spend a good six to eight hours celebrating his return to freedom, reaffirming the type of man that he is. To drink in the cocktail of sex and power and to know that he is, once again, all man. Afterward, if she behaves, he’ll swing back by. Turn off the oven altogether. Let the guy sit there in safety until he is found. And if he dies? Starves to death there on the floor? So be it. Life is never as precious as when it is threatened. We all need a little death in our lives to remind us to keep living.
The beauty is, neither of them will ever know who he is. The hacker is clueless; the boy never saw him, and the girl, if left alive, will only remember his mask. It will be the perfect execution, performed with intelligence and planning. Another first for him. He should have taken control of these activities a long time ago. More work but more empowering. This girl will be sweeter than every one before her. This will also be the first time he will use leverage over torture. It will be interesting to see the difference a reluctantly willing participant makes.
Of course, if the plan fails, if she doesn’t submit, then he won’t return to Jeremy at all. Should she fight, be stubborn, fail to treat him with respect? He’ll let the man die on the principle of it. Stay with her, let her watch the news and crumble before he fucks her to death. Her cooperation. Her attitude. That will determine whether Jeremy Pacer burns to death or not. Whether he feels gracious or not. Fifteen hours will give him enough time. Plenty.
Soon. Everything he has waited for, soon. He gets in, starts up the engine, the heat blowing out lukewarm at first blast. He digs in his pocket, pulls out her address, and reprograms his GPS. Six miles; fifteen minutes away. So close. Hopefully, it will be in a nicer area than this middle-suburbia dump. Adrenaline flowing, he turns around, heads left, then right, then left. Gets on the freeway and drives through downtown, the tall buildings soon dropping off, the cityscape turning cheaper and cheaper until he is in what can only be described as the slums of Tulsa. Slums. Not what he was expecting from the bubbly brunette with the nice bedroom. No campus in sight. Frowning, he comes to a stop at her address, pulling off into a metered spot and checking the address. Looks left, at the structure, a worn façade with no balconies, one long box with at least six levels of small windows sporadically scattered on its surface. The entire building seems to sag, as if holding up the weight of its floors is a losing battle. A worn awning on its front displays its name, in plastic letters that have seen better days. MULHOLLAND OAKS APARTMENTS. A phone number is below it, along with a giant star advertising weekly rentals starting at $199.
“Around.” Just wishy-washy enough to guarantee that—if I need him—he won’t be there. I could ask for his phone number, but don’t trust myself to have it. Especially now that he seems too interested in friendship. That’s the problem with having a pussy. Every man around wants to dive into it.
I step off the elevator and onto the sixth floor.
CHAPTER 84
MARCUS LEAVES THROUGH the front door, pulling off his ski mask before exiting. Locks it behind him with gloved hands and goes down the worn front steps, his movements confident. Slow. No rush, no need for anyone to give a second look. Passes the boy’s truck.
This golden boy is his insurance policy. If she tries to scream, struggles when he touches her, kicks and punches, and clamps her jaw before his cock, he’ll pull out the magic card. Wave Jeremy Pacer temptingly in front of her and explain the plight he faces. Explain the ticking clock, and what will happen when it counts down to zero. Even a strong individual breaks under the threat of danger to another. Breaks under the thought that their stubbornness will cause another’s death. He’ll attain her breakage. He’ll get her compliance. Will enjoy the evening in the proper fashion. Civilized. With her eyes full of fear and respect.
Several firsts for him, taken care of. First time subduing a man. It was almost disappointing, how easy it was. The injection had done all of the work, the man wheeling around at the contact, his hand going for his neck, by the time he realized what was stuck there, by the time his eyes focused on Marcus and his fists swung into action…
Collapse. The kid had landed one punch, a good one. Marcus rubs his jaw, remembering the jar of the impact, the boy’s fists never making the journey to round two. It is fine. Pain is a reminder of life, of the ability to feel.
Another first. The bomb. Thorat was right. The instructions were incredibly simple. Unwrap package, put into oven. Program oven. Done. A fucking caveman could do it. A caveman with a set of balls. The kid’s oven timer was now programmed for fifteen hours, after which it will heat to six hundred degrees. Thorat’s instructions didn’t indicate how long it would take the ammonium perc to explode, just said to leave at least fifteen minutes’ time to get the hell away. It might happen before the oven finishes heating. It might take an hour. But once it ignites… it’s a beautiful thing. He’d seen it once before, four years ago, still remembers the damage. In this case, a two-pound pack of AP exploding will set fire to all that it touches. The kitchen will go quickly, then the house.
So he’s leaving the house with a fifteen-hour window. It should be plenty of time. To find the girl, incapacitate her, and find out what kind of bitch he was working with. Spend a good six to eight hours celebrating his return to freedom, reaffirming the type of man that he is. To drink in the cocktail of sex and power and to know that he is, once again, all man. Afterward, if she behaves, he’ll swing back by. Turn off the oven altogether. Let the guy sit there in safety until he is found. And if he dies? Starves to death there on the floor? So be it. Life is never as precious as when it is threatened. We all need a little death in our lives to remind us to keep living.
The beauty is, neither of them will ever know who he is. The hacker is clueless; the boy never saw him, and the girl, if left alive, will only remember his mask. It will be the perfect execution, performed with intelligence and planning. Another first for him. He should have taken control of these activities a long time ago. More work but more empowering. This girl will be sweeter than every one before her. This will also be the first time he will use leverage over torture. It will be interesting to see the difference a reluctantly willing participant makes.
Of course, if the plan fails, if she doesn’t submit, then he won’t return to Jeremy at all. Should she fight, be stubborn, fail to treat him with respect? He’ll let the man die on the principle of it. Stay with her, let her watch the news and crumble before he fucks her to death. Her cooperation. Her attitude. That will determine whether Jeremy Pacer burns to death or not. Whether he feels gracious or not. Fifteen hours will give him enough time. Plenty.
Soon. Everything he has waited for, soon. He gets in, starts up the engine, the heat blowing out lukewarm at first blast. He digs in his pocket, pulls out her address, and reprograms his GPS. Six miles; fifteen minutes away. So close. Hopefully, it will be in a nicer area than this middle-suburbia dump. Adrenaline flowing, he turns around, heads left, then right, then left. Gets on the freeway and drives through downtown, the tall buildings soon dropping off, the cityscape turning cheaper and cheaper until he is in what can only be described as the slums of Tulsa. Slums. Not what he was expecting from the bubbly brunette with the nice bedroom. No campus in sight. Frowning, he comes to a stop at her address, pulling off into a metered spot and checking the address. Looks left, at the structure, a worn façade with no balconies, one long box with at least six levels of small windows sporadically scattered on its surface. The entire building seems to sag, as if holding up the weight of its floors is a losing battle. A worn awning on its front displays its name, in plastic letters that have seen better days. MULHOLLAND OAKS APARTMENTS. A phone number is below it, along with a giant star advertising weekly rentals starting at $199.
