The Unwilling(99)

“What?”

“It’s like I told you. It’s complicated.”

The big man stood and glowered down, wheels turning as he processed the betrayal. “That one saw my face.” He pointed at Chance. “The other one will, too, no doubt, and I don’t take chances like that. You shouldn’t ask me to.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Seven years,” Reece said. “Have I ever let you down? All I’m asking for is a little faith.”

Weighing what he’d heard, the big man glared at Chance, who stared back like a ghost. “For now, then. Okay. Why don’t you show me what you have, and tell me what you need?”

Reece produced the camera he’d taken from Byrd and used to film his death. The big man turned it over in his hands. “Panasonic 3085. Not as good as mine, but not bad.” He ejected the tape, and inspected it. “Tell me what you need.”

Reece laid out what was on the tape, and what he wanted to add.

“Mind if I watch this first?” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the tape into the VCR, speaking as he did. “This portable equipment can only run playback in black and white. On the right machine, you’ll have full color.”

“What about sound?” Reece asked.

“You tell me.”

He started the tape, and as the screaming began, both men agreed that the sound was fine.



* * *



For Chance, the nightmare wouldn’t end. It couldn’t. It was real. Gibby was actually unconscious in the chair beside him. That was a real man being butchered on tape, with real killers nodding along and commenting as it played. At one point, the big one seemed to realize that Chance was still in the room.

“You want to watch?”

He turned the machine so Chance could see what a man looked like with his stomach opened up and his intestines looped like a tie around his neck. The horror on that man’s face was like nothing Chance had ever seen, both eyes staring down as he screamed and screamed, and bloody hands dipped inside for another coil.

It came out in a matter of seconds.

Chance passed out in another ten.



* * *



When Chance woke, the first thing he saw was the camera, pointed at Gibby, and the big man dialing in focus. “How much do you need?”

“Not much. Fifteen seconds.”

The small man crossed the room, and stood behind Gibby. “I’m out of the frame?”

“Visible from the neck down. The kid is front and center.”

As if he understood, Gibby began to stir. “Chance? What’s happening?”

His voice was so slurred Chance thought, Concussion; but that was a bottom-of-the-list worry.

“Okay. Filming.”

A blade appeared at Gibby’s neck, and he was alert enough to feel it. Chance closed his eyes, but heard the struggle. When he looked, he saw muscles twist as his friend rocked the chair, and the small man’s fingers twined deep into his hair, holding his face to the camera, keeping the chair upright. Chance wanted to scream; he wanted to fight. After a lifetime, the big man said, “That’s it. Fifteen seconds.”

The blade came away from Gibby’s skin, the fingers out of his hair. “Let me see.”

Chance stared straight ahead as they played back the tape. Gibby was still confused, but he’d say Chance’s name soon enough.

He’d say the name, and want to know why.

Chance conjured words so they’d be ready on his tongue: I’m a coward and ashamed, and I want you to hate me.

Chance closed his eyes, and spent some time in that place. He wanted to die. He wanted to live. When Gibby remembered what Chance had done, the world would never be the same. How could it be? How could it ever?

But it wasn’t Gibby who changed the world.

Loud sounds drew Chance into the moment. There was an argument brewing, and it was serious. The big man towered over the other, his face such a deep, angry red that his eyes looked black. His shoulders were drawn up around his neck, his fingers hooked and stiff. “You promised a solution.”

The small man held up his hands. “I did, yes. And we’ll figure it out.”

“They’ve seen my face.”

“Mine as well.”

“I’m not going to prison for something as small as a videotape.”

“If you would just load the equipment—”

“Fuck the equipment!”

“Please don’t push me on this.”

“You do it or I do it. Those are the choices.”

“And there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

The big man stepped closer—a foot taller, twice as heavy. “If you’d told me the truth up front, I’d have never come. We have rules for a reason.”

The small man glanced at Chance, but nodded sadly. “I did make you a promise.”

He stepped aside, sweeping out an arm, as if inviting debate on which boy to kill first.

The big man dipped his head and grunted once, lumbering forward with an expression that Chance would not forget if he lived a thousand years. No heat in his face. No soul in his eyes. He closed his fists as if he would simply beat the boys to death, and then find someone else to kill for fun. But the small man had a different plan. He allowed his friend a single step more, then conjured a blade, and opened his neck like an envelope.