Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) (23 page)

He grabbed her by the arm and tugged her farther down the hall until Barry was out of sight, and then he pulled her close, tracing her cheek with his thumb before he held her face. “Are you sure about this?”

“Do you want to hurt him?” Camille asked, her voice a little playful because he was broadcasting his need to do harm like a giant neon sign.

“You have no idea how much I want to, C. The things he’s said, the things he
did
… I want to make him suffer. I want to hear him beg for death, and then I want to hand whatever is left of him over to you so you can pull the trigger.” The cold rage inside Smith made her smile, because when he said those things they weren’t just words or empty threats – they were promises, and he was absolutely capable of fulfilling them.

“I just want to watch.” She grinned when his eyes flashed. “For educational purposes, of course. Who knows when I’ll need to torture information out of someone?”

Smith smiled slowly and stepped close to her, his hand sliding to the back of her neck. “Well, then I’ll have to make sure I use proper technique, won’t I?” The kiss was hard and soft in the same breath, a heated need that was dimmed by the situation, but it still sent a thrill through her. He pulled back from her with a nip to her bottom lip, and she traced the spot with her tongue.

How can one man be so perfect?

Not the time, C. Not the time.

“Then, let’s see what Barry says.” She smiled and turned away, sensing Smith’s presence just behind her. When Camille walked back to the asshole he started up again with empty threats, vulgar descriptions of things he’d done in the past, things he wanted to do to her, but she ignored them all and asked the same questions again.

Name. Location. Details.

“Fuck you, bitch.”

“Sure that’s your final answer?” She toyed with her gun, flipping the safety on and off, and his eyes followed her hands.

“If you’re going to kill me, just fucking kill me.”

Camille smiled slowly and looked up at him. “Oh, that wasn’t the deal, Barry. The deal was if you told me what you fucking know about Roger,
then
I’d kill you quick. In this case, I’m going to make very, very sure you don’t know anything before you die.”

“And I’m going to help her.” Smith planted his hand on Barry’s face and shoved him backwards, chair and all, and the scream he released as the metal of the chair landed across his arms meant that he
might
have broken something.

“You fucking cunt, I’m going to -”

A hard kick to the face cut him off, turning his curses into groans of pain. Without a glance Smith walked over to his bag and unzipped it. The first thing that came out was a flask, and he tossed it to her. “I originally brought that to celebrate, but go ahead and get started. I’m going to have my own fun.”

“Thanks.” She smiled and unscrewed the cap, a strong waft of whiskey escaping the little container that made her sigh. “Couldn’t have brought me vodka?”

“In that flask? Never.” Smith shook his head before he pulled a cloth roll out of the duffel and carried it back to the overturned chair. As he knelt down next to a cursing, groaning Barry, he unrolled it slowly.

So. Many. Pretty. Shiny. Knives.

“What the fuck, man? What the FUCK! What are you going to do?” Barry sounded panicked, finally, and Camille took a drink of the bourbon, letting it carry that slow, delicious burn all the way into her belly.

“You heard her. We’re going to torture you. Tell us about Roger, and then we
might
stop.” Smith sliced through the ribbon in a few places and pulled it away. Then he started to cut away his shirt in smooth movements of a knife that had to be razor sharp, because the cloth was falling away like it was made of tissue paper. “Tell me, Barry, have you ever skinned an animal?”

Camille sat down on the floor a little behind Smith so she could see what he was doing, crossing her ankles out in front of her with her gun in her lap. One arm behind her to prop her up, the other tilting up the bourbon again. When Barry looked over at her, the whites of his eyes visible all the way around, she just smiled.

It didn’t take long for Barry to start screaming, the first cut of Smith’s knife drew that out, but he kept cursing them for a while. Shouting at her, and Smith, as he described things he used to do to her, things he watched the others do – but whatever his plan was, it wasn’t working in his favor. It was only making Smith draw things out, make it hurt more.

Idiot.

There was an art to what Smith did with those incredibly sharp blades, but the one he kept in his hand the most was a small, curved axe looking thing – and judging by how loud Barry was screaming the methods worked. Smith didn’t speak much, except to ask the same questions she had.

Name?

Barry screamed over and over that he didn’t know Roger’s full name, that he’d never heard it. Ever. Steve was always high, just called him ‘his dealer’ or Roger. Eventually, she believed him and she nodded to Smith.
Strike one.

Location?

A lot of cursing. Barry cursed her, Smith, Steve, God – it was endless, and even after a lot of
encouragement
he insisted he had no fucking idea where Roger was. Why would he? He’d never been into the drugs. Why would he need or want a dealer? No luck there.
Strike two.

Details?

At first, he’d insisted he didn’t know anything, but pain can do funny things to trigger memory, and as Smith continued to work Barry started babbling.

Roger lived in New Jersey.

Roger liked blondes, it’s why he’d only ever wanted Camille, and never the other girls.

Roger didn’t talk much, but he was a killer too. Big time dealer, higher up than a street pusher. Had heard about Steve’s offer to trade young pussy for heroin and crack and other shit, and that’s how they’d found each other.

Then Barry dissolved into sobbing between bursts of physical descriptions, and random stories Steve had told him about the guy. Mostly threatening, probably bullshit, stories about Roger breaking legs and burying men alive for snitching or being late on payments.

Camille was half-way through the flask when the first death-wish came from his lips. “Just kill me. Fucking shoot me, do whatever, but I don’t fucking know anything else.”

“That doesn’t sound like begging to me, does it, C?” Smith glanced over his shoulder at her.

“Not really.” She pushed herself up from the ground, gun in one hand, flask in the other.

When she stood over the bloody mess that had once been Barry Kopinski, she felt a grim sense of satisfaction. He was borderline delirious from blood loss and terror, and he was crying. His dull eyes opened and looking at her. “I hope Roger kills you, you fucking whore.”

“That
definitely
doesn’t sound like begging.” She tsk’d, and Smith put down the odd little tool in his hand to pick up a shiny, new knife. The blood on his hands marred the metal, but when he slammed it home in Barry’s thigh, it didn’t really matter.

A howl of pain escaped him, and the sobs returned. “Fuck, FUCK! Jesus, I’ve told you everything. There’s nothing else. Nothing! I barely knew the fucking guy!”

“Then beg,” Smith demanded quietly, and then twisted the knife, bringing another scream from the man.
Her hero
.

“God, please kill me, just please make it fucking stop.”

Camille crouched down beside him, and she was a little impressed that she felt as little for this sadistic fuck as she did for any other target on any other job. Most of them begged when it was their turn, when their actions finally resulted in a consequence, but it was odd that with Barry himself begging in front of her – she just didn’t give a shit. “You want me to stop?” she asked, quoting an old line he used to say to her.

“Yes! Please, alright? I’m begging, I’ll say whatever you want, just don’t let him -”

“Can I have one of those knives?” she asked the question to Smith, and Barry’s eyes went wide as she laid the flask down. In a moment there was a smooth handle in her palm, the blade a little broader than the one currently sticking out of Barry’s thigh. “See, here’s the thing, Barry. You don’t sound too fucking
committed
to the begging. I bet you can take some more.”

He opened his mouth to plead, but she stuck the knife between his ribs and he coughed and groaned, an endless stream of pleas leaving him. “Please stop, please. I’m sorry, alright? For all of it, fuck, just make it stop, please…”

“Up to you, C.” Smith stood up and tugged a dark towel out of the bag to wipe his hands on. Then he reached in and pulled out a gun. “Whenever you’re ready, use this one. No need to toss the P238, I know it’s your favorite.”

“Thanks,” she muttered while she slid her gun into the back of her jeans. As soon as he handed her the fresh gun she dropped the magazine to check for bullets, slammed it back, flipped off the safety, and then loaded one into the chamber as she stood over Barry.

Broken, bleeding out, and with a single pull of the trigger – dead.

The gunshot rang out in the open space, but there was no one around for a mile or so in the middle of the night. It was a cheap little Hi-Point 9mm, but the hole in Barry’s head worked just the same.

She stood there for a minute, mentally crossing his name off the list that still existed inside her mind. Now there was just one name left – Roger. Drug dealer, New Jersey resident, supposed badass with a penchant for young blonde girls.

“We don’t have much to give Lacroix.” She spoke softly, but Smith just reached over and pulled the gun out of her hand, wiping it clean before he tossed it next to the body.

“He’ll find him, and he won’t make the same mistakes. He’ll be sure he knows where he’s living before he sends us somewhere again.” Smith was quick with the rest of it, pulling out a spray bottle of bleach and a fresh towel to clean the knives he pulled out of Barry. Each blade was checked before it was tucked away in the cloth roll, and then it disappeared back into the bag. A moment later he was rinsing his hands in the bleach, then hers, and he put that away too.

“That’s a nice little kit,” she mumbled as she shook off her hands.

Smith lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “You alright after all that?”

“Are you serious?” A short laugh escaped her. “You were nice to him. I would have castrated him first.”

“Did you want me to?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice, but she shook her head and took another drink of the bourbon.

“I got what I wanted, Smith. Well, at least everything he could give, and you were fucking perfect. As usual.” She smiled at him and he looked instantly relieved, stepping around Barry to pull her against his chest in a firm embrace.

“It has eaten me alive knowing what happened to you and not being able to do a thing about it.”

“Did this help?” she asked against his firm chest, and he let out a huff of a laugh and hugged her tighter.

“More than you could possibly know, C.” A quick kiss pressed to her lips and then he was back in work-mode, tucking the last of the things they would bring with them into the bag – and then he was pulling out bricks of C-4 and stacking them beside the body that had been Barry Kopinski until a few minutes ago.

“I guess we’re not calling body disposal? I have the number memorized, you know.”

Smith grinned and started to set up the detonator. “I know, but I had this planned already. This place is for sale right now, so we’ll just torch it and as close as Barry will be to this there won’t be much left to identify him by.”

“Good point. Anything I can do?”

“Make sure you don’t step in the blood, I won’t be happy if you track it into my car.”

“Would you spank me?” she asked, and the flash of lust in his eyes as he looked up from the bomb he was building made her smile.

“If you want me to spank you, C, all you need to do is ask. You don’t need to turn my car into a crime scene.”

“Good to know.”

He sighed, pretending to be irritated by her, but she knew him too well now – he was just as aroused as she was. Their adrenaline was high, the thrill of a job complete thrumming through them, even if no one was going to pay them for this one. “Alright,” he muttered and wiped the detonator down before he stood. “Let’s go.”

“Bye fucker.” Camille flipped off Barry’s body and then turned towards the exit, Smith falling into step beside her.

“Was that really necessary?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” She grinned and Smith rolled his eyes as he wiped down the door on their way out, and then he opened the car door for her like a fucking gentleman.

Such a contradiction between the incredible violence he was capable of – and the man who kissed her like she was the only woman in the world he could see. No one had ever made her feel safe like Smith did, no one had ever made her feel like a person, like anything more than a discardable piece of trash. He always made her feel precious, even when he was kicking her ass in a sparring session. Smith wasn’t afraid of her strength, he was the one who had built it up, who had made her deadly, who had made killing as easy as breathing.