Liam

 

I was too subtle. Something no one had ever accused me of before. Guess there was a first time for everything. I just wished this wasn’t it.

Another week passed without a peep out of Crone. I wasn’t relieved. I knew he was just lying in wait. But I was tired. Tired of hoping he would come to me.

According to the FBI, he was still in New York, lying low since the incident with the murderous repeller.

And just FYI, I was having bulletproof glass installed at our new house. Next time someone wanted to shoot through a window to get at my wife, he could think again.

I was beginning to wonder if maybe Bellamy was right. Maybe all the extra attention and press did deter Crone.

Or maybe, as I said, I’d been too subtle. I thought calling him a coward for coming at me when I wasn’t home would do the trick.

I’d been wrong. Fuck.

I was going to have to go to him.

My phone went off, and I glanced at the screen.

“Is Joiner giving you a hard time for staying home today?” Bellamy worried from her place in my lap.

Absentmindedly, I rubbed over her growing stomach. Beneath my hand, the baby rolled. “No. It’s Alex,” I answered. “He’s outside.”

“Does he want you to come out and play?” she teased.

No. I want him to come out and play. “Ha. Ha,” I said as we got up from the couch. “He wants me to let him in.”

“Or he could just come in?”

“You know he won’t do that, sweetheart.” I reminded her.

She sighed. “I feel stupid.”

“You aren’t stupid,” I said, firm. “You’ve been traumatized too many times. I can’t really blame you for jumping every time someone knocks or rattles the door handle.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I know.” I agreed, leaning down to kiss her. “It’s going to take time.”

“Stay with Bells,” I told Charlie and went down to open the front door.

Alex was standing there waiting, a box in his hand.

“For me?” I said, acting surprised.

“It was on the steps,” he said, his voice low and serious.

All humor and sarcasm evaporated, and I scanned the area behind him and around the house. The snow was pretty much melted now, the ground beginning to thaw from its frosty state.

“There’s no one here. I checked the perimeter before I texted.”

I cursed. “You know who it’s from.”

Alex’s face was grim.

I took the small white box from him as a sick, nervous feeling wormed inside me.

This was it. This was what I was waiting for. Whatever Crone sent in this box would determine my next move.

Both of us glanced around, making sure Bellamy wasn’t standing nearby. I pulled off the lid and looked inside. There was a note with a single line.

Watch this alone.

It wasn’t in Crone’s handwriting. It didn’t have his signature.

I held the note out to Alex and then reached in to pick up a small black flash drive. There was nothing else inside the box.

“Liam?” Bellamy called. “Is everything okay?”

I jammed the drive and note into my pocket and shoved the box at Alex. “Yeah, baby.” I spun around. “Everything is good. Alex was making me look at the new rims on his Hummer.

Bellamy appeared at the top of the steps. “Hi, Alex.”

“Hey, girl,” he said, sounding like his usual relaxed self.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

We moved as a unit into the house, me staying slightly in front of Alex so the view of the box was obscured. When the door was closed behind him, I said, “I gotta piss.”

“And you felt the need to announce this?” Bellamy quipped.

“I didn’t want you to miss me,” I said, winking.

She shook her head and laughed low. “Alex, I made pumpkin bread!” she called, going into the kitchen.

Alex slipped around me, slyly stuffing the box in my hand. “Girl, you better break me off a piece!” he hollered, running up the steps after her.

I went down to our bedroom and quietly shut the door. Pulling out my laptop, I booted it up and plugged the drive into the side.

It felt like I waited years for whatever was on this thing to show on the screen.

And then it did.

White, grainy static filled the screen, along with a bunch of white noise. “What the fuck?” I muttered and smacked the side of the laptop as if that would somehow fix the issue.

The picture blinked on, and I stared at the grisly scene.

It looked like a bad home movie taken on a jumpy camera with bad audio and lighting. Still, the quality was good enough to know exactly what I was seeing.

I sank beside the bed and pulled the laptop close to watch the unfolding scene.

There was a man tied to a chair perched in the center of an empty concrete room. His hands were bound behind him, and his feet were bound to each leg of the chair. He was bloody and beaten, his head lolled to the side, blood leaving a trail from the corner of his mouth all the way down his ripped-up and dirty white dress shirt.

There were what looked like knife wounds in his chest and one in his side. There was so much blood I might not know his shirt was white if it wasn’t for the collar.

I watched as someone moved from just beyond the frame of the camera, tossing a bucket of what I assumed was frigid water all over the man.

He gasped and lurched up, unable to go far because of the binds.

It was Perry Crone.

Someone sent me a video of Perry Crone being tortured.

It was sick and wrong, but I kinda wished I had some popcorn to enjoy the show with. I also wished I was there, landing a few punches of my own.

As he sputtered, someone moved in the frame again, and white static covered the screen. I grabbed the laptop and shook it, wanting the screen to clear.

The audio worked fine, though, because the blood-curdling scream that Perry let loose filled my ears.

Seconds later, the screen cleared. Perry was still there, alone, and he was crying. His ear hung off the side of his head, only attached by a thin band of skin.

“You’re going to pay for this!” he vowed. “My family will avenge me.”

“No.” A distorted voice came out of the dark. “No, Crone. We will not. You’ve brought shame and heat on this entire organization, and when you die, all of this ends.”

He sat up, his ear swinging as he stared off to the side of the room. “You!” he growled. “This was you! My own—”

“No.” The voice cut him off. “This is on you. You’ve made too many enemies. The FBI watches like a hawk. This was too good of an opportunity to end all of this. To end you.”

He started to rock back and forth, trying to dislodge the chair. It fell over, and he hit the ground, crying out.

Someone covered from head to foot moved forward. The screen went fuzzy again, but I heard the groans of Crone coupled with the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

When the screen came on, Crone was upright again, bloodier than before. And his ear… it was completely gone.

“Please,” he groaned, sounding pathetic and terrified. I had a moment of pity for him, and then I remembered what he’d done to my father. To my wife.

“Rot in hell, you son of a bitch,” I whispered.

“Just let me go—” He didn’t get to finish because the sound of a gun going off cut off his words.

I jerked when the bullet slammed into his head and watched as brain matter and blood splattered everything. The person holding the camera moved, walking close to the body, looming over him while filming.

Blood seeped out around him like a black halo, and his eyes stared, glassy, into hell.

The camera zoomed in, giving a grisly up-close and personal view of the bullet hole in the center of his head.

“Confirmation of elimination.” Another distorted voice spoke, the one I assumed was holding the camera.

It was indeed a confirmation. Perry Crone was dead.

A victim of his own making.

I stared at him a moment longer, and then the picture blinked out, white static filled the screen, and then everything went black.

I hit a few keys, trying to call up the video again. I couldn’t. It was gone. Erased.

Just like Perry Crone.