Page 56 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

T he first one never sees me.

He’s leaning against the far corner of the house, one leg propped, scrolling something on his phone. I circle wide, take the fence slow. Bolt-cut the padlock on the utility gate, slip in low. I have time.

I wait until I’m close enough to see the sweat under his arms.

Then I move.

The garrote goes tight before he can turn. His hands come up, too slow. His mouth twitches like it’s trying to decide on a word. Sorry? Help? Doesn’t matter. Blood vessels burst in his eyes before I let go. I lower him carefully, one palm on his chest, the other steadying his head.

No noise.

The second one’s harder.

He’s further out, tracing a lazy loop by the tree line with a rifle slung over his back. I time the angle, wait for the wind. When the breeze picks up again, I go.

He hears me.

Half-turns, tries to raise the rifle, but I’m already on him. The knife punches in under the ribs. Sharp, upward. A kill, not a fight. He grunts, chokes on it, still trying to bring the stock around. I twist the blade. Feel the resistance buckle.

He drops.

His body hits the grass like an apology.

Back to the house.

I don’t go through the kitchen. Too exposed. I climb the side trellis, boots catching on the slats. The second-floor window isn’t locked. I slip in. Smells like floor polish and designer soap. Like a cover story told too many times.

There’s movement below. Voices. I wait.

Two men. Talking rotation. One’s tired. One’s new.

The tired one heads for the stairs. The new one stays behind.

I crouch low and draw.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I wait until he’s nearly level.

Then I fire.

Once to the chest. Once to the head.

His body jerks. Slumps back down the steps.

The other man shouts. Rushes forward.

Too fast.

I catch him mid-step. Elbow to the throat. Slam his head against the doorframe. Again. Again. Until he stops making noise.

Now it’s quiet.

The hallway’s a mess. Blood on the walls. Smell of copper in the air. My boots leave prints.

But that’s not the kind of cleanup job I’m concerned with at the moment. This place was always going to get dirty.

I move room to room. Fast, but thorough.

There’s a bedroom with military corners on the bed. No photos. No books. No name.

And then there’s the room at the end of the hall.

I don’t open it.

Not yet.

Because behind that door is her. I know it.

And I have other matters to attend to before I fix that one.

So I go for another door—not hers.

This one’s different. No lock. Slightly ajar. I push it open with the barrel of my gun.

She’s awake.

Lying in bed like she owns the place. Robe cinched too tight. Hair pulled back. Thin-framed glasses on the nightstand. A file folder beside her. Notes on trauma response. Conditioning. Re-education.

Her eyes don’t widen. She doesn’t seem surprised.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says.

I step inside. Close the door behind me.

“Her sister told me about you,” I say.

That gets a reaction.

“You’re the ‘therapist,’ right?”

She starts to sit up. Stops halfway. “I think you’re confused.”

“No,” I say, leveling the gun. “But you were. When you thought you’d never have to answer for what you’ve done.”

She glances at the gun. Then at me. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure I do.”

I fire once into her leg. Just below the knee.

She screams. Tries to scramble back, but there’s nowhere to go.

I drag the chair from the corner. Sit. Watch her bleed.

“You believe in learned helplessness, right?”

She whimpers, nods once, teeth clenched.

“Let’s test that.”

She starts to plead—something about protocol, about being just the intermediary. But I’ve read her file. And Rachel told me too much to change course—or to care if she started begging.

I shoot the other leg.

Her scream cracks raw. Loud enough to rattle the frame.

She tries to crawl, but the limbs won’t work. I let her drag herself halfway to the door before her elbows give out. A blood smear fans behind her like a failed rescue attempt.

“You know what the body does under stress, don’t you?” I ask. “You documented it. Signed off on it.”

She sobs. “Please?—”

“Balance. That’s what this is.” I grind my boot into the wound, slow and deliberate. “You made her watch,” I say. “Strapped down. Naked. And you took notes.”

She shakes her head, but not to deny it—just to escape the memory. But that’s the part I’m here for.

“You called it exposure therapy.”

I pull the file from the nightstand, flip through pages. Her handwriting, neat and dispassionate.

Subject exhibits elevated cortisol. Severe trembling. Persists in refusal to comply with directives.

“Elevated cortisol,” I echo. “Let’s see if we can match it.”

I press the muzzle to her hand and fire. Bones crack. Her body seizes, mouth open, soundless now.

“You dosed her with something that paralyzed her vocal cords. That wasn’t a mistake. That was the point.”

She shakes, lips moving. No words come out.

I lean down.

“Still feeling like the intermediary?”

She tries to say something. Her jaw quivers. Maybe sorry. Maybe please. Doesn’t matter.

I take the knife from my belt.

Not fast. Not clean.

Across the belly. Up. Then again, lower. I don’t rush it. I let her feel what she made others feel. That slow horror of knowing the body’s breaking and no one’s coming to help.

Blood pools, dark and sticky. She twitches, not from will—but from failing nerves.

“You watched her suffer. You called it catharsis.”

She chokes. Fails to blink.

“Let’s hope you find peace in that.”

I press the barrel to her throat. Let her stare down the dark.

Then I pull the trigger.

She slumps, blood soaking into the designer bedding, cheap perfume curling under the metallic scent.

I wipe my hands on her robe.

Then I walk out.

Down the hall, I reach the door I’ve been avoiding.

The one I came here for.

But I don’t open it.

Because something else—is calling my name.