FIRE (Elite Forces #2)(6)
I stand tall with my shoulders squared back and my head held high, showing off the confident man I am. They have another thing coming if they think they can intimidate me. Hell, no.
My hands go to the zipper of my black cargo pants, while both of them watch in astonishment as I whip out my cock, take the two steps toward the bars to get to them, and piss all over their feet.
“Fuck you.” My voice is deep, and stoic, and full of meaning.
The one I feel to be weak jumps back, cursing I assume, then walks away. Dick. While the idiot who continues to stare me down stands there until I finish and tuck myself back into my pants. He’s probably some gay motherf*cker that liked what he saw.
“You’re brave.” His speech is slurred and his accent is heavy as he takes a step toward me.
“You’re dead.” I’m glad to know he speaks English, even if he does a shitty job of it. It’ll be better if he understands me.
“I’m not the one who’s baking in the sun like a dead fish.” He speaks with as much hatred for me as I have for him.
“Trust me. Once I shit down your throat and slice your head off, you’ll be the one rotting like a dead fish,” I talk through disgust and slowly emphasize on the word ‘dead’.
This man and I battle over control even though he thinks I can’t do shit while I’m caged in here. I only hope they make the mistake of assuming that. I’d love to prove to them that I’m the one who should be feared.
I’m a retired American soldier who has trained and worked his entire career to know what to do in a situation like this. I’ve specialized in this shit. I look forward to the moment they drop their guard and I get to show them just how experienced I am at this. They want me to get tired and let my guard down, but I won’t. I’ll pretend to, but I never will.
Let’s play, motherf*ckers. They may outnumber me and hell, may even get the privilege of torturing me, but these bastards will never f*cking break me.
CHAPTER THREE
KALEB
“He warned us about you.” He smiles, showing off his yellow teeth and proving his terrible hygiene while he stands in front of me like I’m supposed to know who the hell he’s talking about. One thing is for sure; this f*cker is taunting me. I’ll play his game and be more than happy to show him what danger he’s truly in. Besides, curiosity has me intrigued with who’s in charge here. I’d love to know how the f*ck they know who I am.
“Who, f*ckface?” I stare him down, boldly demanding him to answer my question.
“You’ll see.” What a *. This man is about to die in less than sixty seconds. I’ve been waiting until he got close enough, but now it’s time to move. While my eyes stay focused on his, I never move from the tiny, black dots of his bloodshot pools the whole time I devise my plan. My hands slither down the rusted bar, and he doesn’t see it coming until it’s too late.
The knife he had sheathed in his gun belt is now in my left hand, while I grip his throat with the other. Like I said, I’m experienced with this shit. It’s too late for this man to try to sputter off shit in my language. He tries, but I tighten my grip and set the blade even closer to his neck.
“You scream, and I slice your f*cking throat.” He clears his throat the best he can, but the pressure I’m applying on his Adam's apple will have him dead in a matter of seconds. His eyes begin to bulge, while the knowledge of death begins to contort his face. He knows I’m killing him, and my heart begins to feel alive once again.
“Who the hell are you talking about?” I demand. This is his last chance to speak before he dies. The dire need to kill someone has taken over, and I’ll be ready for the next one to come near my f*cking cage.
“You’ll see,” he says once again. I snap then. This man is gone. Let him rot and stink up this f*cking place even more than it already does.
While my hand squeezes more, his life quickly comes to an end. I lift the knife in the air while my mind loses control. I have it in me to slice and stab him over and over for having anything to do with locking me in this f*cking cage. I’ve done it before and I will do it again after this one. I’ll do whatever it takes to survive and get back to her.
His knees start to buckle, and urine covers his pale green pants. He needs to suffer more, and I watch in awe when the knife jabs into his tanned skin. My fingers lift one at a time as the knife glides across his throat. His blood oozes out and begins to bubble as its warmth mixes with this intense heat of the thick, heavy air.
I hold him upright while he chokes and gasps for his last bit of air. Blood coats my fingers and the color red spurs me on even more. I wish I was holding a gun in my hand to bring down every damn one of them out here, instead of this joke of a knife.
I scoff when I know he's dead. My arm is no longer strong enough to hold his dead weight through these bars, so I let him fall to the ground, hoping his soul is on its way straight to hell.
That’s when I hear the voice of the man I haven’t spoken to in years.
My f*cking brother.
“Nice kill.” Those are the words he says to me after not seeing him for years. The last time we spoke was when I hauled his ass out of a drug-infested home. He had a needle dangling out of his arm and puke all over his clothes. He was foaming at the mouth and not even coherent. For years, we tried to help him get his shit together.