Faceless, howling banshees clawed at his flesh; tearing at him, pulling him into a vile abyss of suffocating darkness. Flailing wildly against an unseen weight, his lungs burned and his limbs felt thick and leaden, as if they were moving in slow motion. He spiraled downward, gasping and choking helplessly toward some nameless horror of certain death.
A bucket of icy water, dumped over him by unseen hands, yanked Jimmy back from the black pit and into a state of semi-consciousness. He lay in a puddle, his cheek against a cold, unforgiving cement floor and felt as if his head would fragment into brittle pieces as the excruciating pain of the earlier blow throbbed through his gathering awareness. Unsure of what sort of peril might await him, he kept his eyes tightly closed, straining to hear anything that might give him a clue to his surroundings.
The crackle of an arcing electrical spark and a woman's shrill scream of pain made it a struggle to feign unconsciousness, but still he lay there motionless, listening. It was Amria. He was sure of that much, and he could make out the scuffing and shuffling of heavy boots on the concrete floor not far away from where he lay. He figured these must belong to the leather clad thugs, and a feeling of dread shuddered through him. They were captives, and she was being tortured. Carefully, he opened one eye just enough to get a glimpse through a narrow slit. What he saw was as foul as the sickening, fetid stench of the dark fungus which covered the walls of what appeared to be a basement room. At the far end of the room, Jimmy could make out a large metal door and, between it and him--Amria.
Naked and bound with rough rope, she was suspended by her wrists from a meat hook attached to the room's low ceiling, her bare toes barely touching the floor. Blood trickled from the side of her mouth and ugly, purpling bruises marred her porcelain skin at random intervals. What looked like small burn marks--one on her neck and one just above her left breast--pulsed angrily in time to her labored breathing. One of the leather men, his head completely encased in a bondage mask, stood beside her holding a stun gun poised precariously close to her other breast.
"I'll ask it again and, perhaps this time you'll see fit to answer my simple question, Amria."
That voice. Perfectly controlled and totally devoid of emotion. This would be the infamous "Quentin" she'd mentioned, no doubt.
"Did you actually think that you could leave with that...that piece of worthless excrement over there? 'That I would ever allow you to do something so foolish?"
Amria moaned softly. Quentin nodded to the man beside her and he pressed the stun gun to her flesh just above the right breast. It crackled to life and her moan became a rising shriek of unbearable pain, dissolving into pitiful blubbering as the instrument was removed. Her entire body sagged and her head dropped forward as, mercifully, she fainted. Jimmy felt as if he might vomit. Beside him, just outside of his peripheral vision, the other leather henchman snickered contemptuously.
Mustering every ounce of residual strength he possessed--and fighting not to pass out himself--Jimmy struggled to his feet, unnoticed by his captors. They stood there staring at her, as if entranced by the disgusting spectacle of this defenseless woman they'd reduced to unconsciousness.
"Hey...umm...Quentin? That is your name, right? Quentin?"
Shocked by Jimmy's unexpected voice, the men turned in unison from their perverse reverie and stared at him blankly.
"Yes, I'm Quentin Stefano. I don't believe we've had the pleasure. Mr...?"
"Jimmy. You may call me 'Jimmy', you gutless little prick."
Stefano glared at Jimmy, and then shot glances at each of the leather men. He looked to be in his mid sixties; thin and fit, with razor cut platinum hair and piercing blue eyes. His crisp, white silk shirt--open at the collar--was a marked contrast to his black leather pants and sleek Italian boots.
"Fucking triplets," thought Jimmy.
Suddenly, the man beside him pulled a pistol from his waistband and slammed its butt against Jimmy's jaw. As he reeled backward, he saw the other man--the one closest to Amria--draw his own gun, slide the bolt back and level it at him. Jimmy hit the wall behind him, dazed.
"Do it," said Stefano, matter-of-factly.
Without hesitation, Jimmy dove sideways toward the man closest to him as a shot roared through the small room, smashing into the loose plaster of the wall exactly where his head had been. He slammed his shoulder into the midsection of his closest adversary, wrapped him in a bear hug and then deftly rolled the man in front of him just as three more quick shots exploded from across the room. The man jerked spasmodically as the bullets tore into his back--right through leather and skin and muscle and bone--grunted, and then collapsed in Jimmy's arms. Jimmy grabbed the man's gun and, using him as a shield, squeezed off a single round. As if in stop motion, it pierced the gunman's forehead and he staggered backwards, his blood and brain matter gushing onto the wall behind him as he slid down it slowly, coming to rest in a sitting position.
Jimmy let the man in his arms slip to the floor and scanned the room as the adrenalin rush blasted through his own shaking body. Squinting into the acrid gun smoke, he saw Stefano standing in the threshold of the now open metal door at the far side of the room. Jimmy leveled the pistol in his direction.
"Umm, Quentin? I don't mean to sound prissy or anything, but if you're going to dress your pathetic little punks in those silly fucking leather get ups--in the middle of a damned desert for chrissakes--you outta at least get some less inept punks. Ya know what I'm saying, asshole?"
"This isn't over," hissed Stefano, as he disappeared through the door.
"Count on it, motherfucker," spat Jimmy.
Tucking the gun into his pants, he ran to Amria. She was motionless but still breathing, and he gently removed her bonds and wrapped her in a blanket retrieved from the floor nearby. He lifted her into his arms and stood there a moment, looking into her face. Another wave of protective instinct rolled over him, but this time he simply smiled softly and shook his head a little. Spotting a smaller door on the other side of the room, he carried her toward it, glancing back over his shoulder just in case. The door led to a staircase which opened into, of all places, their garden.
Retracing his earlier steps, Jimmy made it to and over the stone wall and then down the hill to his car. As he closed the door he glanced at Amria lying silently in the back seat, and then up at Stefano's dark mansion.
Yeah, it's not over. Not by a long shot.
He jumped into the car, downed a handful of pills he kept handy in the glove box and, seconds later, they were slicing through the thick, uncertain night.