Night had fallen upon the forest. It was a silent witness to struggle and strife, as two men clad in black jackets lugged along a squirming figure. His body writhed and twisted, testing the grip of his captors. Yet, it was to no avail.

There was a dark shape, in the form of an old boxy pickup truck. Weak light provided by a thin crescent moon could barely reveal small rust stains and chipped paint along its aged body. It was in the back of this pickup truck that the captured man was thrown. His hands and leg were bound with twine rope, tight enough to hinder blood, and agitate nerves. He still continued to squirm, even as his captivity was all but ensured.

The roar of the old engine drowned out his silent pleas, gagged by crude cloth. Yet, as the truck prepared to chug along, a voice raced through the forest.

“Peter! Peter!”

It was that of a woman. Desperation and despair clung to it. As the truck raced away, fumbling through dead branches and moist dirt, the voice faded.

The men in the driver’s cabin paid no heed. Their expressions were concealed by black ski masks, only allowing stoic eyes and silent mouths to show through. They remained quiet for the duration of the journey, never taking time to congratulate one another, to watch out for any sign of pursuit nor to taunt their unwilling captive.

Dull light from the truck’s headlights illuminated the vast shape of a square structure. An abandoned warehouse, rusted, and teaming with growth upon the sides of its off-white walls was the destination. Various crates lay in the area around it, scattered haphazardly as an afterthought.

The truck steadied as dirt was replaced with crude asphalt and concrete. As the vehicle turned into the entrance to the structure, two additional men rushed to greet it. They wore heavy gray jackets, upon which a jet-black rifle was slung across. Black gloved hands moved towards the rifle, as the windows on the truck were pulled down.

A familiar look was exchanged between the criminals in the truck, and the armed men outside. With a nod and a gesture, the truck was allowed to lumber forward.

The inside of the warehouse was cloaked in shadow. Few lights relieved the blindness imparted by night. Large blocky silhouettes could be perceived, but only a wild guess would suffice as to what was their contents. It was once inside did the truck come to a stop, and its engine was silenced.

There was only one room that had the benefit of light, provided by a single hanging incandescent bulb. A man resided within, wearing a heavy dark leather jacket, with black denim jeans. He had thin, brown hair that was combed over near the top. His eyes appeared eternally squinted, beady and ruthless, while his lips formed a thin scowl. He was clearly a man of middle age, with wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. Yet, a youthful bloodlust still shone through.

The rusty metal chair in which he was seated was rotated with an unpleasant screech once the others arrived with their captive. The unlucky man was clearly far younger, with a full head of curly, matted dirty blonde hair. Wide dark eyes darted about with fright and uncertainty. His manner of dress, a collared shirt and tan pants, suggested a man who worked a white-collar job. Yet, in their current state, caked with dirt and a bit of blood, he would not be presentable in any office setting.

With a long list of allegations, from petty to serious, Sinclair was in no hurry to stop his own personal reign of murder and mayhem. In the secrecy and isolation of the forest, he had made for himself, and his other depraved hired hands, a sort of haven where the thrill of their criminal acts could go undisturbed. To the rest of the men, except those closest to him, he was but a petty drug dealer and a quick paycheck. To those who knew him best, money was the least of pleasures he indulged himself with.

Both of the unfortunate man’s original captor’s had already discarded their ski masks. One was a man of dark complexion that gave way to an excitable expression. His clean-shaved head reflected what little light hung above. The other sported far more hair, brown and ragged, hanging down his head, almost over his eyes, leading to a rather bushy beard that nearly obscured his mouth. His own expression was that of stark contrast to his companion, cold and stoic, failing to derive any joy that Sinclair felt from this particular event.

There was an empty chair that lay opposite of the one Sinclair was seated at. The young man’s forceful escorts practically threw him in, causing the chair to lean back from the impact. With his hands and legs still bound, he found it difficult to adjust to attain a comfortable posture. Yet, comfort was the least of his worries as of now.

Sinclair unsheathed a pistol from his waist, a simple Glock. A high pitched whistle escaped his lips as he carelessly waved the pistol about. With his free hand, he struck the young man across the face, leaving a red mark, and bringing his eyes to bear on his tormentor.

“Wakey wakey.,” Sinclair sneered in a sniveling tone, the kind that could wear sharp nails on a chalkboard, “I’ve got a favor to ask of you little runt.”

The young man let not a word escape his mouth. He could only glare back at the man.

Sinclair’s pistol hand struck next, leaving a gruesome black and blue mark on the young man’s face. What little bravado he attempted to present had been violently banished. He could only look away, as to not bring shame to himself.

“I don’t appreciate back talk,” sneered the serial antagonizer, “Handsey, let’s see what he’s got.”

From behind, the dark-skinned man emerged. In one deft motion, he had swiped from the pockets of the young captive, his wallet. Handsey began rifling through, flipping through several cards, credit, business, insurance. A driver’s license, with the name “Peter” was observed with some interest, before being promptly ignored. Upon finishing his search, he let out a dissatisfied huff.

“Man’s bone dry!” he exclaimed.

The butt of the Glock was brought against Peter’s face once more. His cheek had begun to swell, and he could feel just the faintest trickling of blood dribbling down from his nose.

“Son of a bitch!” Sinclair exclaimed, “You went cashless! What, didn’t want psychos like me to get your hands on your money?”

The man clicked his tongue while wagging a finger in front of Peter’s face, in a manner evocative of a disappointed parent or teacher.

“White-collar cunt alright.” he commented, “I kill white collar cunts you know? Hey!”

Another slap across the face, and Peter was beginning to perceive lights that were of his own imagination. His head began to rock deliriously, as the depths of unconsciousness threatened to creep in.

Peter was kept awake courtesy of the cold barrel of Sinclair’s pistol pressed into his chin.

“Kinda fun introducing some excitement outside of your desk job, eh?” he inquired, a question that could not have been less sincere with the amount of venom it was laced with.

The psychopath pulled away his weapon, allowing Peter’s chin to drop. Matted hair hung down, obscuring his eyes that had begun to flutter.

A steady, raspy voice escaped from the bearded man, “Hey boss, the cards are locked, we’d have to make a phone call to use em.”

“All these layers of security.” lamented Sinclair with a degree of sarcasm, “Can’t they let an honest criminal do his work in peace?”

A chuckle escaped him, infecting his companions as well. One could suspect, however, that their jovial gesture was done under duress.

“Of course,” he continued, “I believe from what I’ve heard from Oddie here, you’ve got a lady friend back at the ranch.”

On cue, Handsy produced another article that he had raided from Peter’s pockets. The dim incandescent light revealed a golden sheen, a ring the criminal held proudly between two fingers. He gave a cheeky smile, before pocketing the object. It appeared he did not pay much attention to it, for the ring’s circumference would have rendered it a loose fit upon even his grubby fingers.

Such a gesture was enough to rouse Peter’s attention. While the night was certainly chilly, upon viewing the ring, he felt his insides freeze. His breath threatened to cease, and cold sweat began to tease his fresh wounds.

“Ooh, you had something special planned I see!” mocked Sinclair. A poisonous smile began to form upon his lips. “Got a little bitch back at the ranch eh? I guess we’re going to have to keep her company.”

Laughter erupted again, this time far more rowdy and jovial. A touch of raunchy anticipation did not lighten the load on Peters conscience.

It was Sinclair, however, who sealed any speculation, upon what he had planned, “And of course, I don’t want you to feel left out. In fact, I’ll give you a front row seat to the fucking show!”

…

The tracks the truck left were still fresh. Night was still upon the forest, but for once, there was illumination, provided by a flashlight.

The woman holding the flashlight was crouched over. A hand, pale, lacking any sort of glamor, aside from callouses and dirt, traced the marks left in the ground. There was a cool breeze brushing through the trees, yet her red-black flannel jacket, and loose, navy denin jeans kept her warm enough. A black beanie hugged her investigating head, allowing a few streaks of messy red hair to fall over her face.

Stark blue eyes remained transfixed upon the tracks, before they followed them to the horizon. Both night, and the thickness of the forest obscured further vision. She was hesitant to investigate, for the creatures of the night could impede her way, as well as those who had made an enemy out of her. Yet, she could sense time was of the essence.

Her contemplation was interrupted by a buzz. Clipped to a rough leather belt was her cellphone, a blocky older model. She reached down to retrieve it. Despite the clumsiness of such outdated designs, the phone managed to fit within her hand comfortably.

As she brought it to her ear, the sniveling voice of Sinclair snuck through.

“This Peter’s little lady?” the serial criminal asked with the curiosity of a snake.

“Where is he?” she growled, making no effort to hide her contempt.

“Oooh, we’ve got ourselves a fighter! You see, your boyfriend here left his wallet at our facility. It’s how I got your contact, Samantha.”

Samantha tightened her grip on the phone upon hearing her name. The material threatened to break from the pressure she was applying.

“If you want me to deliver the goods, I’ll tell you where to find me. And only bring yourself sweetheart, otherwise, I’m afraid I might lose poor Peter in all the commotion.”

…

Sinclair’s pace was rhythmic as he walked back and forth. A gloved hand was twitching in clear anticipation. It was as a drug addict searching for his next high. Yet, such men as Sinclair could be as clean as a whistle, for murder was their aphrodisiac.

Peter remained prone. His stature had relaxed, for his energy would be needed. No new wounds marked him, but the young man would not count on that. Sinclair gazed disappointingly at his relatively intact form. It was something he would have to remedy.

“Gee, 300 years and not a single fuckin knock or doorbell.” he growled, “Guess your bitch doesn’t care about you.”

The accusation stirred Peter, and he gave his antagonize his most contemptuous glare yet. All his hatred, however, only resulted in a snide smile from Sinclair.

Sinclair broke his pacing, making way towards Peter. His left hand produced his pistol, which pointed lackadaisically around the room. A gloved finger teased the trigger, threatening calamity every second.

“I don’t know about you,” he began, crouching besides the young man, while his gun hand steadied, “but I’ve got a feeling that you don’t like me.”

“It’s more than a feeling,” Peter responded, his voice quiet and cautious. Dark eyes anxiously followed where the barrel of Sinclair’s Glock was directed.

“Oh! “ exclaimed Sinclair dangerously, “He can speak! Well tell you what, you desk types don’t tend to like me very much.”

The gun was brought to Peter’s head. Immediately did his eyes squeeze shut, awaiting his fatal destiny. Yet, Sinclair held his fire, and began slowly, methodically, lowering his weapon. The barrel, however, remained trained upon Peter’s body, tracing down his neck, his shoulder, his chest and onwards.

“And as a matter of fact, because of that,” the criminal continued, keeping steady his aim, “I don’t like you.”

By the time he finished, the Glock was directed at Peter’s knee. It was then that Sinclair pulled the trigger. A snappy pop, and a brief flare sent the nine millimeter projectile through skin, muscle, then bone.

Peter howled in pain, witnessing sickening amounts of blood flow out from the small hole in his pants. Both his hands and legs remained bound to the chair. All he could do was shake and rattle as fresh pain flowed freely through his body.

“Woah, hey hey! Let me lend you a hand.” quipped his tormentor, as he produced a knife in his opposite hand.

The knife cut with ease through the bindings ensnaring Peter’s arms. Such was the ease Sinclair commanded the weapon, it was quite clear it was something he was most familiar with, even more so than the gun, which was currently aimed at Peter’s now freed arm.

Before there was a chance to act upon this newfound freedom, Sinclair’s weapon fired off another round. The bullet tore its way through his shoulder, only serving to amplify his yells of torment. Now free of their restrictions, his arms flailed wildly, driven by painful stimuli that failed to fade.

“Hey shuttup!” instructed Sinclair, making his way to Peter’s front “Who don’t you sit back and …”

He kicked out, his foot making contact with Peter’s chair.

“Relax!”

The chair fell back, carrying Peter along with it. He could only gasp in surprise as the world tilted back. His bones rattled as he made contact with the hard floor, compressing his lungs, and adding agitation to his still fresh bullet wounds. Peter had begun to lose orientation, feeling the world shifting ever so much. He caught Sinclair, making his way towards him, but could barely focus on the man.

With barbaric ferocity, Peter’s tormentor stomped down, finally breaking his nose. Pain blasted Peter’s face, pain that he simply did not have the ability to become numb too. Again did Sinclair bring his foot down, nearly crushing Peter’s trachea forcing him to cough up blood.

Again and again, Sinclair continued his beatdown, his face growing red with unexplained fury. Perhaps to a deranged mind such as his, it was easy to concoct a good reason for having such a vendetta. Or perhaps, his fury was also part of the joy he took upon tormenting hopeless souls.

By the time Sinclair stopped, Peter’s face had transformed. Certain areas were swollen, particularly his mouth. One eye could barely open. His skin, far from his usual pale complexion, was now darkened, either red from the stains of blood, or a deep blue from bruising.

“Ugh, bet you’re too ugly for your little lady now. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her.”

Peter’s mouth could barely move, thanks to swollen flesh. Within him there was a scream, desperate to escape.