"Let's go."
Benicio's men were trained well, I thought, watching them work. It wasn't exactly difficult to get inside the dealer's place, since the dealer opened the fucking door up like he didn't have a care in the world. Tink's dealer wasn't the sharpest tool, either, and he'd obviously been sampling his own merchandise. But Benicio's men moved with the kind of precision and bearing that said they were ex-special forces of some kind, not American.
I pressed my nine millimeter to the dealer's temple. He was shaky, pale, sweat beading on his forehead. "You hear anything from Tink yet?"
He put his hands on the air. "Come on, man, you guys said all I had to do was text him and get him over here. I told you he's coming. Why you gotta be all crazy with the guns and shit?"
I patted him down, handed his piece to Crunch. "You got anything else on you?"
The dealer sighed. "My ankle, man."
I nodded toward one of Benicio's man, who finished the pat down, and removed the knife he had strapped to his ankle. "At least you're honest. Sit."
We didn't have to wait long before Tink knocked on the door. "Hey, man." He poked his head just inside. "You didn't answer. You here?"
When he saw the weapons trained on him, a look of realization registered on his face, followed by terror as he looked back and forth at Crunch and I.
I smiled. "Hey, Tink. Remember us? You've been looking for us, haven't you? Well, here we are. It's like a goddamned reunion."
Two of Benicio's men grabbed him roughly, pulled him across the kitchen, and pushed him down into a chair at the filthy table.
Almost immediately, he began whining. "Mad Dog said you betrayed the club. He ordered us to find you. I didn't want to touch your wife! Mud was the one who killed the old man - "
Before I could move toward him, Crunch punched him, square in the face. Tink made a gurgling sound and doubled over, clutching at his neck. I grabbed Tink's hair, pulled his head back.
"Hand me that rag," I said, shoving it down his throat. I didn't want to hear anything else from him.
I heard the dealer say something, protesting. "Shut him up," I ordered. One of Benicio's men put a round in his forehead, the sound muffled by the silencer on his weapon.
I should have been completely enraged in that moment, but instead I felt the same familiar sense of calm descend over me that I had felt when I was a sniper.
That fact alone should have terrified me.
It was the feeling I'd become addicted to over there in the sandbox, the rush of being in the zone, simultaneously detached and completely aware of your surroundings. It was like meditating-my breathing would get deep, my heart rate would slow, and my senses would become hyper-focused. Time would stand still in anticipation of my blotting out a life.
I felt the same thing now. A feeling of calm.
Completely at peace with what I was about to do.
Vengeance was mine.
We took Tink back to the warehouse, a place Benicio used for things like this. There, a side of Crunch emerged that sent a chill down my spine.
I don't think Crunch had ever killed someone like this. Not up close and personal, anyway. Killing someone like this was different than shooting someone. With a gun, you had some distance. Guns were efficient.
This was in no way efficient.
It was messy.
Crunch broke Tink, piece by piece, slowly and methodically. With a hammer, he smashed his fingers, one by one, taking his time. I had never seen Crunch like that. He laughed when Tink cried, said he'd been fantasizing about the sound of his bones breaking. When he took the hammer to Tink's hands, he breathed in deeply, satisfaction written all over his face.
I broke Tink's knees with a crowbar. By then, he'd passed out once already from the pain. No stamina. But we revived him. I wanted him to suffer.
When Tink screamed his apology, it sent Crunch into a frenzy. He grabbed a sledgehammer, and I nearly tried to stop him, to keep him from passing over that cliff, for his own sake. It wouldn't bring April back, what he was about to do.
But I think he'd already passed over the edge, descended into madness.
I watched while he beat Tink into oblivion. The sight of it would never leave me.
When it was over, I should have felt something, but I didn't. Satisfaction eluded me, but once the others were sent to Hell, then maybe I would get what I was looking for.
Then it was Fats' turn to die.
Benicio's men pulled him right off his sofa, right out of his fucking house. He had no idea we were coming for him, the stupid lazy bastard. They drove him out of the city, and we met them in the desert sometime after midnight. Out in the middle of nowhere, where his screams wouldn't be heard.
Fats pleaded, protested. Blamed everything on Mad Dog and Mud. "I didn't touch the girl. It was Tink who wanted her," he screamed.
He was a stupid fuck.