The Suppressor by Erik Carter (best free novels .txt) 📗

speak, but he wouldn’t have replied even if he could.

“Earlier I told you I’d take my time,” Burton said, “that I’d involve all of my troops. I want you to know that I kept my word. I mean, you saw the condition of poor Cecilia’s face. Or, what remained of it, I should say.”

Snickers from the other men.

Burton put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “What do you have to say to that?”

Jake lunged at him, the ropes tugging all over his body. The chair legs pulled at the thick rug’s thick pile. He tried to scream. His lips moved rapidly, but only popping sounds came out.

Burton cocked his head.

“Wait a minute … you actually can’t talk, can you, Pete?” He chuckled, glanced at his men, then back to Jake. “You can’t talk because you saw Cecilia. I know what this is. It’s called selective mutism. Usually happens with children. Happened to a little cousin of mine, couldn’t speak for two years after she saw her daddy get squashed by a city bus.” He looked at the others. “We scared him speechless, boys!”

Laughter.

Jake had never heard of selective mutism, but from the way Burton described it, he knew this was exactly what was afflicting him.

Burton paced in front of him. “Now, you’re probably thinking we’re gonna kill you. And you’re correct. But first … gee, how do I put this?” He drummed his fingers on his chin, looked toward the ceiling in mock concentration. “First, we’re going to torture you.”

That same fear rushed over Jake, that same non-action-movie-hero dread, a stronger wave of it, this one with a powerful undertow.

Burton’s eyes widened with faux concern.

“Why, you look frightened, Pete! Don’t worry. I’m not gonna poke things in your eyes. I’m not gonna cut you or burn you.” He gave a smile. “I’m just gonna make you watch a little movie.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Burton was going to enjoy this.

Oh, was he ever going to enjoy this.

He stepped away from Hudson, looked at Gamble. “Get the tape ready.”

Gamble went to the projector at the other end of the living room.

Burton faced Hudson, tied to a folding chair, trying his damndest to look tough, but with palpable, wonderful fear showing on his lips and in his eyes.

Burton’s hands went behind his back. He gave Hudson a warm smile.

“You see, Pete, I took a precaution. I saw the urgent conversation you and Cecilia had before the Roja hit tonight. I figured it could very well be that she was looking out for you, telling you not to go to the hit. One of her premonitions or something. She always was a sweet little hippie to you, wasn’t she?

“So I thought, you know what, I’ll record it—if he doesn’t go to the hit, then I’ll have a videotape to show him.”

He glanced to the back of the room. Gamble had put the tape into the VCR connected to the projector. He was fiddling with the settings.

Hurry up, damn you.

Burton stepped toward Hudson, leaned down, getting close to his face. Hudson was still fighting to hold on to the stoic facade, but Burton could see anguish wriggling under his skin. Sweat beaded his forehead.

“But you went to the raid and still survived,” Burton said. “You’re nothing if not a survivor. So it all worked out just splendidly, because now I get to show you what exactly happened to you dear little C.C.”

Hudson squirmed in his chair now. He could no longer contain his fear. Lips trembling. Eyes blinking rapidly.

It was savorous, Hudson’s anguish. Burton could almost see it, like a cloud emanating from his sweaty figure, wafting up toward the ceiling, disrupted by his torturous writhing. Burton smelled it, sucked it in, took in a big gulp through his nostrils, still smiling at him, always smiling.

In New Orleans, Pete Hudson had cost Burton tens of thousands of dollars out of the startup fund he was using to form his new operation. In recent hours, Pete Hudson had taken four of his seven men. And, months earlier, Pete Hudson had stolen the favor of Burton’s surrogate father, the man who Burton had stood beside, supported, risked his life for even as the old man lost his mind.

Yes, Burton was going to enjoy destroying Pete Hudson’s soul.

“It’s ready,” Gamble said from the rear of the room.

Burton straightened up and nodded at Gamble.

He turned to the screen, which came to life. A flash of white; the bright blue standby image returned for a moment; PLAY appeared in white letters in the upper righthand corner.

Then the video began.

First, there was McBride’s fat, Irish ass on the screen, but when he shifted, the scene was revealed—Cecilia in the middle of the Farone library, surrounded by Burton’s troops, all wearing black leather gloves and dangerous smirks.

Hudson moaned.

Earlier, Burton had tried to position himself perfectly, to get himself into the most photogenic position for the final image. He wasn’t sure how the end result would turn out, of course, but seeing it now on the big projector screen made him smile. He’d done well—positioned like a born leader at the left side of the screen, standing tall, a commanding presence watching as the circle of his men tightened around Cecilia.

Burton turned back to Hudson. “I look good, don’t I? Like a freakin’ movie star.” He turned to the other men, who had taken positions on either side of Hudson’s chair. “Don’t I?”

Laughs from his troops.

Hudson averted his gaze from the screen, burying his face in his shoulder. Hodges grabbed him by the hair, twisted his head forward, Clockwork Orange style.

“That’s right,” Burton said. “Pete’s gonna watch our movie, fellas. All of it. Don’t let him look away.”

On the screen, Burton’s troops tightened their circle around Cecilia. Odom twirled his blackjack baton aimlessly in his hand.

Cecilia shook, stumbled.

Burton’s on-screen doppelgänger was smiling just as much as his current state. The other Burton looked at the camera and winked.

The circle of men closed within feet of Cecilia. And stopped. A