Chapter 10 - King Phantom

Magnus Mansion. Interrogation room, 12:00 p.m.

The cowardly man analyzed the disastrous fate to which he had been drawn. On the one hand, if he refused to share what he knew, he would be tortured to death. But if he did so without resistance, he doubted very much that they would let him go without any harm.

His options were limited, perhaps if he begged miserably to be exonerated, he could survive and come to see the sun's rays again. The Alpha in front of him was so imposing that it almost made him pee his pants in fright, which was a thousand times worse.

His body trembled with intense spasms and sweat soaked him. His breathing was so fast and heavy that he thought he was about to go into shock. Until the Alpha spoke and if he was no longer counting every beat that his heart had the joy of continuing to offer, he might have felt embarrassed because of the unmanly or brave squeak that escaped from his mouth.

—You can start by telling me where the fuck your boss went to hide — Yaakov demands, leaning on him —. And you better talk fast, you piece of shit. Because, for your bad luck, I woke up today in a hell of a mood.

The hostage, scared and frightened, stares at his captor's face, moving uselessly in the chair, in a desperate attempt to establish as much distance as possible.

—P-please, sir — he said. Talking is a war against the knot obstructing his throat and the constant vibrations of his limbs —. I s-swear to you that I k-know nothing.

Yaakov smiles, a row of white teeth evident even though the poor light bulb does not do much to illuminate his cell. He straightens up on his feet, looking at him as if he were a fucking insect who had the misfortune to step with his shoes.

—Wrong answer — two simple words are like a bucket of ice cubes falling directly on his head. Terror runs down his spine as Yaakov turns around, gives an almost imperceptible signal to one of the goons and he goes away, leaving them alone, to add one more layer of shitty luck to his fucking condition.

But seconds later the door opens to reveal the same subject reappearing, pushing a table with multiple threatening-looking tools lined up, some still with traces of blood from past tortures. His efforts to untie himself are renewed, but the ropes are thick and unbreakable, so his wrists only get bruised.

He suddenly hears a macabre laugh coming from Yaakov and immediately every hair on his skin stands up in horror. Their glances connect and he tries to prepare himself mentally for what he knows is going to happen next.

—You should know better than to try to free yourself from the restraints, you son of a bitch — his laughter slowly fades, and the captive almost wishes it didn't happen. He's willing to do anything before he has to face the evil perversity evident in the bully's complexion —. What will you do if you break free anyway? You're defenseless, on a property with hundreds of men armed to the teeth. You won't even be able to get up from there without being filled with bullets or sliced by my claws — he approaches the table and touches several of the tools with his long fingers, deciding which to choose —. I thought you'd be smarter and let it all out at once. But, if I must be brutally honest, I didn't want you to. That would be very boring.

Yaakov finally decides on a ball-peen hammer. The steps he takes as he rushes towards him takes away the stability of his sanity. He feels the fear growing faster and faster, like a tiny mouse cornered, stalked by the giant fangs and murderous desires of a predator three times his size.

His pulse is so unbridled that he is surprised that his thin veins can maintain the flow, the fat drops of sweat fog his forehead and run down his eyelashes, causing his eyes to burn with saltiness, as well as the tears of a weeping that he is still obstinate not to shed.

—Meet my friend — Yaakov says simply, waving the instrument a little close to his face —. I understand that since you don't know me, there's no trust between us. But you are going to... — points at him —. With the help of my friend here… — does the same with the hammer —. Tell me everything I want to know. And if you still have some intelligence in your bloody brain, I advise you not to hesitate. My friend is very impatient, and he smells the lies.

Yaakov waits in silence, anticipating that the man will leave all the bluffing acting in the past and start babbling. Sadly, patience is not an attribute for which he can rejoice, so tired and determined to prove his damn point: in one swift motion, he slams the hammer into the bastard's unprotected left knee.

The sound of the kneecap fracturing is the precedent to the heart-rending scream of agony echoing through the four walls of the room. Regardless, he does it again. Again and again and again.

The blood shoots up to the roof, spreading on the filthy floor, messing up the Alpha's clothes. The man nearly fainted in pain, sobbing and drooling, his lungs burning, and after a few moments his screams are howled with less power from the rip in his larynx.

The beating stops, thanks to the heavenly Gods. Yaakov is breathing heavily and sweating, and if the crimson splashes didn't give away what he had just done, anyone would think he was participating in a marathon or getting out of a gym routine, not in the middle of a session to inflict cruel torment on a miserable victim.

—Are you ready to talk? — He has to slap the bastard a couple of times, so he doesn't lose consciousness and focus again —. Or do you want to meet another one of my friends? I have several I'd like to introduce you to — while he gestures towards the counter.

The prisoner frantically denies, inhaling great gasps of air, in a futile effort to tolerate the immense damage he was experiencing at his bottom. Saliva dripped out of his mouth and hair stuck to his forehead, a mixture of body fluids smearing his hair locks.

—P-please... please — he begs without much strength —. They will k-kill me if I speak — he manages to articulate between the deep gasps.

—And I'll kill you if you don't, motherfucker — the Alpha grunts, his jaw muscles pulsing —. You'll die one way or another, now how fast depends on you — the guy tilts his head back, tears flowing unfiltered from his eyes like waterfalls. He'd fucked up, he knew it, and now he'd die because of fucking Kirchner.

—We c-can make a d-deal — suggests, with a hint of hope —. I'll tell y-you what you want to k-know, in exchange for m-my life.

Yaakov fulminated him with his severe gaze, a neutral expression, which revealed nothing to him, so he thought innocently that was considering his proposal. How wrong he was. The Alpha heads back to the table and gets a pliers. Then he stops behind him and before he can process what was going to happen, the little finger and ring finger of his right hand are amputated with a clean cut.

He shakes unhinged against the restraints, roaring a series of obscenities that vanish in an echo and no one comes to his aid. From his back, Yaakov wraps his neck with a powerful palm and tilts his head back.

—Listen to me, you son of a bitch — grunts in his ear, the voice is guttural and inhuman —. The only way you're getting out of here is in a black bag. Do you understand? — with his free hand grabs a handful of the man's hair and pulls it fiercely —. So cut the crap and tell me exactly what I want to know. Your agony will only increase from here on in as long as you refuse to talk, so do yourself a favor and drop everything.

Resigned, the captive accepts with a shake of his head. Yaakov loosens the tension of his grip and positions himself again in front of him to look expectantly at him, his muscular arms flexing over his chest.

—Kirchner had t-told all of us three days a-ago to prepare for an ambush on an e-enemy clan — confessed, dragging his words through the pain —. He also t-told us to start packing u-up because we would be m-moving the headquarters.

He closed his eyes for a moment, praying that he would pass out and at least get a fucking break, but it didn't happen. At least he should have been grateful that the sensitivity in his body was dissipating and the pain was progressively diminishing.

—I swear I d-don't know where — reports, lifting his eyelids, disappointed that he wasn't being cheated by a bloody nightmare. But Yaakov was still there, just as angry and irritable —. I o-owed a lot of money to o-one of my colleagues, so I slipped a-away in the middle of the p-preparations and never returned. I thought a-about it, but when I finally did, they w-were already gone.

Yaakov denies in disbelief at the incredible stupidity of the asshole. Only a moron would act in such an irresponsible way, that only shows how incompetent Kirchner is in selecting rookies and not training them properly.

—That's useless to me, you piece of shit — protests, moving towards the table —. I'm going to have to be more forceful with you if I want you to give me...

—Wait! — shouts, in a desperate attempt to avoid more torture —. Kirchner s-said something. Something a-about getting information about Alexei Magnus, about a-a hacker — opens wide his eyes when his mind lights up —. Yes! A hacker. P-please, you have to b-believe me! Don't hurt m-me anymore — more tears are shed, releasing angry sobs.

But he achieved his goal: to lure the interest of the Alpha, who immediately turned around, as fast as thunder, to stand in front of him, his face inches away.

—What exactly did you hear? — demands, the heat of his breath blowing into his bloody cheekbones.

But he is so overcome with tears that he can't answer clearly, which Yaakov grabs him by the collar of his shirt with one hand and with the other gives him a strong slap, splitting his lip in two, feeling the metallic taste roll over his tongue.

—Speak, damn it! — shouts, shaking his body to make him come to his senses.

—I heard that o-one of the recruits was g-going to look for a programmer — slowly coming to his senses, his cheek stung from the blow —. A kind o-of expert who has been d-doing all kinds of illegal j-jobs for a long time. At Saratov, they would hunt him down t-there. Kirchner had a hard time finding him. He's quite e-elusive. And his name... — the man interrupts himself trying to remember it. It had been a conversation that he happened to overhear, so it was like a translucent cloud in his memory.

Yaakov hits him, so he complained again, even though he knew no one there gave a shit.

—Who, goddamn it?! — demands the Alpha out of his mind, enraged at getting the crucial piece of information that would change the course of things —. Who?!

The condemned man struggles, his hands numb with the oppressive grip of the ropes. He was pale from blood loss, and his thigh, almost detached from his calf, hurt like a thousand hells. But just at that moment, a glow lights up and he almost drowns, grateful to be able to end his suffering.

—King! — squeals, about to receive the fist that the Alpha had raised in the air if he didn't respond —. His pseudonym i-is King Phantom. That's how he's k-known in the n-net — as he fell back into pitiful whimpering.

Yaakov freezes. After having a few seconds to reorganize himself, slowly straightens up, devoid of pity or compassion, he urges:

—Are you sure? — his tone low but firm, receiving a nod in return. Satisfied that he got what he wanted, he's ready to leave. Before doing so, however, still with his back to the room, he orders Maxim over his shoulder: —. Get rid of him — is the last thing he adds with conviction, confident that his word will be fulfilled as law.

As he walks to his room to get cleaned up, gets his phone and presses the speed dial button:

—Reiji, start making inquiries on the Deep Web* about a hacker. His pseudonym is King Phantom.

*The dark/deep web or dark internet is the public content of the World Wide Web that exists in darknets, networks that overlay the public internet and require specific software, configuration or authorization to access.