Wow, it's been awhile. I'm just going to assume from now on that you guys know I'm sorry for my slow writing skills. And for that fake chapter that I tricked you guys with. That was bad. So I'll just let you guys get on with the chapter and stop stalling, eh?
Really quickly, I'm sorry for any grammatical errors and/or parts that seemed rushed, especially towards the end. I was trying really hard to get this chapter out tonight, because I promised 3DBABE1999 that I'd have it out by labor day.
Disclaimer: See previous chapters
Warning: VIOLENCE. Not kidding here guys. It is Dean and John, after all, and they have finally caught up with Cole and Damien. One part towards the end gets especially gory, although I think it's pretty short, but don't say I didn't warn you. Otherwise, language, mentions of child abuse and rape, mentions of prostitution, drug dealing... basically everything you can think of, just assume it's in there cause I'm sure I've forgotten stuff.
Over the years, Cole Bennett had been subjected to a number of assorted insults. Some were mild enough: jerk, coward, idiot, and so on. These names Cole simply laughed at, shaking his head at the person's mediocre imagination. But from there they progressively worsened, morphing into such terms as pussy, retard, faggot, backstabbing motherfucker- the list continued, a great majority of it not fit for polite conversation. For the most part, Cole could shrug it off without a great deal of effort. After all, being branded as a child-stealing, demon-spawned bastard was basically in his job description.
But people always agreed on one matter, and that was that Cole was damned smart. Not smart in a scholarly, educated way. Cole had dropped out of school when he was in the eleventh grade. No, the intelligence Cole possessed was the kind you could only gain from the streets. Not that Cole had been bad in school. If he had continued down that road, there was no telling where he might've ended up, in a high paying job or no. When he was younger, Cole had secretly dreamed of escaping his crappy neighborhood and becoming one of those smooth-talking lawyers on the television shows he wasn't allowed to watch. However, it was pointless to speculate upon what might have been, because that door had been closed for him long ago.
Cole had grown up in a poor district on the outskirts of San Bernardino, California. He and his mother had lived alone with only each other for company, but that had suited them just fine. Cole adored his mother. He loved the way she danced around their small house, infusing what might have been a gloomy environment with life and color. When she cooked, she sang songs from her native country of Guatemala in a bright, clear voice. Her honeysuckle scent wafted sweetly through the house, smelling of home and comfort, and it was her gentle touch that lulled him to sleep on dark nights when the fierce wind blew through their cracked walls.
Cole hadn't wanted to become a dropout. School was his gateway to a career in law, to finally getting enough money to lift his mother out of the poverty that had plagued her throughout her entire life. It was only after his mother got sick, really sick, that he was forced to abandon his education. He hadn't cared that the doctors told him her disease was terminal, in appropriately grave and sympathetic manners. Even if death was calling to her, Cole was going to fight tooth and nail to help her resist for as long as possible.
But that meant treatments, and treatments meant money. His father was no help. He'd ditched them years ago for the bottom of a bottle and lines of meth. It was up to Cole to find a way to get his mother the medicine she needed, and he couldn't do that sitting at a classroom desk and working part time. The problem was that her treatments were expensive, far more expensive than could be paid by a Wendy's salary, which was the only job he could hold. Cole had been frantic. His mother was getting worse by the day, but nobody wanted to hire a gangly, inexperienced seventeen year old. So when a guy had come to him and offered him a job dealing cocaine, it had been the miracle Cole hadn't dared hope for.
Dealing paid well, better than Wendy's at any rate, and finally Cole had scraped up the cash to pay for the first couple treatments. For a brief time, his mother had gotten better. Her color improved, she sang his favorite melodies again as she cooked dinner, and their small house lost the stench of impending death.
But just as Cole had dared to think that this arrangement could work, his boss had been busted for possession with intent to sell, and their entire chapter of drug dealing had collapsed along with him. Cole was left with no job, no plan, and no aid for a mother who was slowly yet inevitably fading away as her disease spread. Where could he go for help? A poor Latino boy in San Bernardino, California, where poor Latino boys were a dime a dozen?
He'd done the only thing he could think of. He'd asked around with his old dealer buddies (all of whom were laying as low as they could get after the topple of their employer), and after a lot of threats, cajoling, and alcohol, one of them caved to Cole's inquiries, and told him where to find the big boss, the kingpin of the whole black market operation. It had taken some finagling, and Cole had almost been shot twice in the process, but in the end his silver tongue came through and Cole was allowed an audience with the Big Man.
All Cole had wanted was another dealing job. His mother was sicker than ever, feeble and rarely lucid. Without her treatments she would undoubtedly die before too long. How long, Cole didn't know, and he wasn't willing to find out. But the Patrón had been impressed by his tenacity. Rather than killing him for his insolence, or just giving him his job back, he'd offered Cole a new opportunity. The moral areas were a little gray, he'd said, but the pay made dealing look like a joke. Cole didn't need long to consider. Morally gray had never given him pause.
That was when he'd been introduced to Julien, the smarmy asshole he would be working under, and given his first delivery run. Only the delivery wasn't cocaine this time. Julien had lifted the lid of the crate to show him a little girl, no more than six, trussed up, drugged, and awaiting shipment. Cole hadn't hesitated for a moment to load her into the back of a rented truck. The kingpin had been right; the pay wasn't even comparable. Suddenly, medical bills didn't seem that steep after all.
And Cole had never left the business. Who cared about a couple of bratty kids? It more than paid for his mother's treatments, and that was all that mattered. Sure, he'd been a little uncomfortable in the beginning, but that had been a fleeting weakness. By the time he had partnered up with Damien, he had lost track of the number of runs he had made. His mother never learned the true source of his funds for her. When she succumbed to her illness, a few years after he had entered into the business, Cole had moved her into an expensive care facility, and ensured that her last days were the happiest she would ever have. Thirteen years ago, on the day of her funeral, Cole had broken down and wept, standing in front of her gleaming casket, the most lavish that he could find. It had been the last time he had cried in as long as he could remember.
After her death, Cole saw no reason to leave his line of work. School no longer held any attraction for him, and he'd gotten by well enough on his instincts for this long. You're like a fox, a fellow colleague had once told him. Quick and clever, but watching nobody's back except his own. He hadn't been far off the mark either. After his mother passed, Cole was left with no attachments, and therefore no one to care for but himself. Cole would have cheerfully thrown anyone under the bus if it meant saving his own skin; had done so on several occasions, in all honesty. He was proud of his ability to read people, and of his gilded tongue that had rescued him from more sticky situations than he could count.
So when he was rudely snatched from the warm embrace of unconsciousness with a splash of icy water to the face, he had the foresight to keep his head and remain calm. Damien, on the other hand, did not, and woke with a flurry of thrashing and muffled curses as the spray from his own bucket of water sprinkled the back of Cole's neck and arms.
Cole opened his eyes reluctantly. The lamps on the table and in the corners of the room had been switched on, and even that feeble light was sufficient to send skewers of pain ripping through his skull. An involuntary groan fell from his lips as he blinked lethargically, vision blurring with tears. His head was pounding in a worryingly concussion-like mein. He could feel a bruise forming where that guy had punched him in the jaw, and his nose was completely blocked with what was probably blood. It wouldn't be too much of a reach to guess that it was broken. To cap it all off, rough ropes had been cinched around his wrists, chest, and ankles, binding him tightly to his chair, and a stale gag had been crammed into his mouth. Just fucking spectacular. Covertly, he tested his bonds. They were unyielding.
God, when they got out of this, whatever it was, he was going to murder Damien. This was the last fucking straw. Cole had put up with his bar fights and testosterone fueled brawls for far too long, soothing ruffled tempers and whisking Damien away when it was clear that men were spoiling for his blood. But no one had ever been incensed enough to follow them back to their hotel, let alone ambush them and tie them up. Whatever Damien had done, he must have seriously pissed someone off to drive them to this.
Cole winced as his head bumped the back of the chair. Fucking ow. Yeah, Damien had definitely gotten these guys angry. It was coming back to him now. They had been walking into their hotel room when Damien had dropped like a sack of potatoes, and some kid was levelling a gun at him. Then nothing. Cole gingerly stretched his jaw around the gag. Kid had a damned solid right hook.
"Hey, wake up." Fingers clicked impatiently under his nose.
Cole sighed inwardly. It seemed the good night's sleep he'd been looking forward to was going to have to wait for another day. Fixing his most wide-eyed, innocent look onto his face, he raised his head and obediently met the stare of the man crouching in front of him. What he saw was not encouraging.
The man was powerfully built. Broad shoulders loomed above a thick chest and burly arms, muscles clearly defined even through the material of his stiff jacket. Days old growth furred his square chin. As he straightened to his full height, Cole could see that he was tall, maybe almost tall enough to rival Damien, given a few more inches. He had a stern face, with brooding eyebrows and short, dark hair that curled around his forehead and ears. Bright gray-green eyes surveyed Cole with a frosty intensity and it took everything he had not to squirm away from such a concentrated glare. Instead, Cole braced himself, and projected as much confusion onto his features as he could manage, looking in bewilderment up at the man whose cold expression remained unwavering.
The man stepped to the side and out of Cole's line of sight. "Stop that," he commanded sharply to a still swearing and struggling Damien. His voice was deep and gruff, with an air of authority that demanded compliance and expected nothing less. Damien, of course, only increased his endeavors. Cole could've rolled his eyes. Damien had always lacked a certain instinct for knowing when to submit to anyone, even when it was in his best interest to do so. Cole had never been sure if the cause of this deficiency was pride, spite, or plain stupidity, but no matter the case, these types of situations always seemed to exacerbate this particular handicap.
There was the harsh sound of a blow, and Damien's chair jerked back against his own. "I told you to shut it," the man growled. Come on, you moron, Cole urged. Now is not the time to piss this guy off more than he already is. Mercifully, Damien did settle down, though Cole could practically feel the outrage rolling off his partners skin. No way is he going to be able to control himself for long, Cole thought. He needed to hurry this along before Damien made things even worse.
Cole scanned the room. The curtains had been firmly closed. Likewise, the peeling door was locked, the chain secured. His mind worked furiously. How close were they to the front office? Could he somehow make so much noise it would attract the attention of whoever was manning the desk? But no, that wouldn't work. This man would force him into silence long before anybody came to investigate, and that was assuming they would appear in the first place. There was a reason Cole and Damien chose dives like this to crash in. People in these places generally kept to themselves. Goddamned irony.
Cole allowed his gaze to continue to wander. If they were on their own, they would need some weapons. Cole didn't bother carrying a gun around with him all the time -not for simple scouting missions anyway- and he was seriously starting to regret that decision. His favored Colt should be safely tucked away beneath his mattress, but unless these ropes came off, it was going to have to stay there.
A metallic rasp resonated from his right, and the man moved back into his field of vision, sliding a burnished dagger from its sheath. Cole swallowed nervously. The man stopped in front of his chair and pinned him with a steely look.
"I'm going to take your gag out now," he informed Cole. The blade of the knife caught the light as he lifted it level with Cole's nose. "You make any sound and this will find a new home between your ribs. Got it?"
Cole nodded hurriedly. The man reached over and Cole did his best not to flinch as calloused fingers loosened the knot at the base of his head. The gag fell away. The knife glinted in warning as he licked his lips, but Cole kept his word and remained quiet. It wasn't like shouting for help would do him any good.
The man grunted, casting a glance to the side before marching around to Damien and duplicating the process. Curious, Cole followed the man's gaze and realized with a shock that a second figure was leaning against the wall to his left. Why hadn't he noticed him before? The man -boy really- was watching the proceedings like a hawk, tanned arms crossed over his chest. His spiked hair was unkempt, as though he had repeatedly run his hands through it over a short period, and his brilliant green eyes seemed sunken, dark shadows smudged below them. He had the same sturdy frame as the first man, though he was far younger and a touch shorter.
Cole examined him carefully, his bow lips and lightly freckled cheeks, and a horrible suspicion began to take shape in his mind. The kid's shoulders were slumped wearily. Lines were carved unhappily around his eyes and mouth, the latter of which was pulled down in an unconscious frown. He probably wasn't even aware of the way he hunched over, as though some unbearable weight pressed him relentlessly towards the ground.
And it all fell into place. The kid was handsome, almost bordering pretty, and he was exactly Damien's type. Jesus Christ. Damien had raped the kid. If ever Cole had wanted to wring his partner's neck, it was now. What had that idiot been thinking, leaving so much evidence that the kid would be able find him again? Hadn't Cole told him enough times to always, always cover his trail? And now the kid's father had them completely at his disposal, all because had to shove his dick into anything that took his fancy, whether they wanted it or not!
Cole reigned in hard on his burst of anger. He could tear Damien a new one later. For now, he needed to focus on getting them the hell out of there.
Boots thumped softly on carpet as the man reappeared and dropped the two crude gags on the nearest bed. Cole fidgeted uncomfortably as he turned, flipping the knife offhandedly around his fingers. The silence stretched. The only sound to break it was the breathy rattle of the dying radiator. Cole found himself looking at the floor, the ceiling, his ankles lashed to the chair legs, anywhere but at the grim man and the unreadable expression he wore. It was like trying to stare down the definition of stoicism.
"So." The word dropped from the man's lips, one syllable suddenly an accusation as it lodged in the air between them. "Damien Cawfield and Cole Bennett," he continued slowly. "You're a tough pair to track down."
Cole's brow furrowed. How the hell did he know their real names? It'd been months, maybe even years, since he'd abandoned that name and adopted uncountable aliases in its stead. You bastard, Julien. "It'll be like you never existed" my ass, Cole concluded with another stab of fury. Was everyone he worked with an incompetent fool? How could Julien always complain about Cole's work, when Julien himself couldn't do something as simple as erasing files?
Focus Cole, focus. One problem at a time.
"I'm sorry, Sir," Cole ventured, in a timorous, beseeching tone. "Who is that? My name is James Cooper, and this is my colleague" -and here he laid the slightest stress over the word. It never hurt to disassociate as much as possible from Damien when being held at knifepoint. If things took a turn for the worse he could always plead ignorance to Damien's misdeeds and direct the attention back to his partner- "my colleague Brandon Stacy. We're here on a..." Cole's mouth closed with an audible snap as the point of the dagger pricked his stomach.
"Listen up, jackass." The man placed the edge of the blade under Cole's chin. Cole's breathing stuttered to a halt. "My patience level is at just about zero right now. So cut the bullshit, Bennett, before I really lose my temper."
At his words, the first inklings of fear wedged themselves in Cole's throat. He started to reply but froze as a bead of blood welled up from beneath the razor tip. His eyes darted up to the man's, then quickly away, and he shivered at the murderous intent he saw there.
"Let's try this again," the man said. "And it's no use trying to bluff your way out of this. We know exactly who you boys are." He crossed over to the rickety table sitting by the door and lifted a stack of objects from one of the chairs. "Recognize these?" he rumbled. Tinkling echoed around the room as a pile of handcuffs landed on the floor at Cole's feet. Cole gulped. "Or maybe this?" The man brandished the case of sedatives in front of Cole's face. Shit.
'Sir, if you'd just allow me to explain-" Cole tried.
"Explain!?" the man roared, his composed mask slipping away. "And how do you plan on explaining this!?" He slammed the remaining item he held into Cole's lap. Cole stared at it, uncomprehending. The hell…?
And then he recognized it, and panic swept over him. It was the book, Damien's fucking book that he had stuffed with the pictures of his favorite deliveries. Hadn't Cole found it and ordered him to throw the damn thing away? That should have been the end of it! What the hell had Damien been thinking when he'd saved it? Didn't he realize how incriminating that book was? That fucking idiot!
Cole sensed his façade of innocent bystander was crumbling away. "Sir, I have never seen this before in my-"
The fist appeared out of nowhere. Cole's head whipped to the side, and pain blossomed over his already swollen cheek bone, cranking his headache to a level previously unheard of. Cole gasped breathlessly and squeezed his eyes shut. His brain felt like it was being put through a blender.
A beat later, a hand had gripped his chin and wrenched it back around. Cole forced his eyes open and found himself nose to nose with the man, whose face was suddenly alight with rage.
"I swear to God Bennett, if the next words outta your mouth aren't a straight answer, I'm gonna do something we'll both regret, because I am about two seconds away from cutting out that lying tongue of yours. Have I made myself clear?" He leaned even closer, their breaths mingling together. "Because trust me, I'll get my answers from you one way or another, and it doesn't bother me one bit how much blood of yours I spill to get them."
"Dad, " a low voice interjected. It was the first word the kid had spoken the entire time.
The man looked over his shoulder, eyes dark. "What is it, Dean?"
Dean pushed himself away from the wall, hands jammed into his jacket pockets. He jerked his head towards the tiny bathroom. "Can I have a word?"
Gradually, the man released his hold on Cole's chin and trooped after his son. They both vanished inside the dingy room, though it was surely a tight fit for them both. Cole noticed the door remained slightly ajar, and every so often, the man would sneak a peek to the side to ensure his two captives hadn't moved.
Cole exhaled shakily and clenched his hands into fists to still their quaking. For a moment, he had been sure the man was going to kill him, that the blade kissing his skin would slash his throat in two. The man could have done it too; Cole had seen it in his eyes. But there was something else, something familiar there as well. Cole had seen that expression before. Someone else had looked at him like that, with such implacable determination, such venom, though those eyes had been clouded and hazy as drugs dulled their comprehension. And there was more too. The narrow line of the man's nose, the turn of his lips. The way he carried himself, shoulders high and head lifted proudly, so confident in his movements. It all rang warning bells that refused to cease.
Cole's heart skipped a beat. The boy from their last sale. That pain-in-the-ass little kid had given him this exact glare, right after Damien had caught him scrambling out their living room window. After Damien had slammed the boy against the wall, leaving him disoriented and dazed, he'd dragged the boy back down the hallway by his hair and threw him bodily back onto the grungy bed. Cole had trailed behind them, and waited until Damien had the boy's wrists firmly pinned before he approached with a syringe in hand. The boy had cursed and flailed as Cole stuck the needle into his arm, but all too soon the potent sedatives had kicked in. Just as the boy's eyes had slid shut, he'd fixed Cole with that precise stare the man had directed at him not two minutes ago.
How could he have missed the resemblance? Now that he knew what to search for, it was plain to Cole how similar the man and boy actually were. Same nose, same lips, same self-assured bearing. How could they be anything less than father and son?
But no. That couldn't be right. That couldn't be right, because if it was, that meant that Damien hadn't raped this Dean kid. It would mean that Dean and his father had tracked them down -which was an impossible occurrence in itself- because Cole and Damien had sold off part of their family to the highest bidder. And that would would be so much worse than a simple, unwilling fuck.
From what seemed like years ago, Cole remembered Damien's hesitant statement. As far as I can tell, there's a father and a brother, he'd said. But we gotta be careful on this one. The Dad looks like an ex-military type… The type you wouldn't wanna meet down a dark alley. Or any alley, for that matter. Cole had laughed him away, cocky idiot that he was. Oh God, it couldn't be.
The bathroom door swung open, and the man stepped out, followed almost immediately by Dean, who wasted no time in resuming his previous stance against the wall. The man stopped in front of Cole. He cleared his throat, and even that benign noise seemed like a concealed threat that had Cole fighting the urge to cower.
"Let's recap," the man began, the knife reappearing in his hand. "Just so we're all on the same page. You, Cole Bennett, and you, Damien Cawfield, kidnap children and sell them to sick fucks such as yourself, for the money and for whatever twisted kicks you get out of doing it. Sound about right?" The blade flickered as it danced between his fingers. Cole fidgeted. He couldn't say yes. That would be signing his own death warrant.
"Alright yes!" Damien burst out from behind him.
Fucking damn it.
"Ok? We take kids and sell them. You were right. Happy?" Damien spat.
"Not really," the man replied dryly. He left Cole to squat down in front of Damien instead, exiting Cole's line of sight. Cole swiveled his head as far to the side as he could, straining to see what the man was doing, but it was no good. Damien's wide shoulder completely blocked his view.
"So you admit that all these pictures are children you have sold?" the man asked.
"Yup, every one." Damien even had the balls to sound smug about it. "And those are just my favorites. My greatest hits, if you wanna put it that way." His voice lowered conspiratorially. "Why? You like what you see? You lookin' to buy?"
"Damien, shut up," Cole hissed frantically. He heard a rush of movement, and the back of Damien's chair banged hard against his own.
"Don't," the man said, deathly quiet. "Don't you ever bring me down to your level, you fucking pedophile. Count yourself lucky that I'm not wasting a bullet on your pathetic hide."
"Fuck you," Damien snarled. "What the hell do you want then? You a cop? Who…" He petered off. "Hold on. I know you! I-!" He seemed to register what he was about to blurt out, and cut off abruptly. But the damage was done.
"What, can't even say it?" the man challenged. "You finally worked it out? How long were you watching us, watching him? How long after you first saw him that you decided to kidnap my son?!" His voice rose and rose, until he was bellowing into Damien's face, loud enough to make Cole's ears ring. Again, Damien's chair smashed back into Cole's, and Damien let out a grunt of pain. The man took a steadying breath. "What," he asked evenly, "have you done with my son?"
What transpired next was an event that would haunt Cole for the rest of his life. Years later, he would speculate what might have happened had he intervened. If he had simply cut Damien off before his partner could utter a word. How might the future have ended up different? But he did not interrupt Damien, coward as he was, and Damien, being Damien, opened his mouth, and recited the worst thing it was possible to say.
"You… you're that little brat's father?" he inquired disbelievingly, and merely from that, Cole knew a callow grin was spreading across his partner's face. Damien smacked his lips loudly. "Well, I gotta hand it to you, I wouldn'ta thought you'dve had it in ya."
"Damien, what the fuck are you doing?" Cole whispered in horror, but Damien ploughed on.
"'Cause let me tell you, your kid? God, he was perfect when we laid him out on that bed. Sure, he fought in the beginning, but we got him to behave quick enough, didn't we Cole? Oh man, all the things I wanted to do to him... You should've seen how he looked after I-"
The end of his sentence was swallowed by a howl of undiluted fury. Wood splintered as Damien's chair crashed into Cole's, snapping the smaller man's head forward and causing stars to flash behind his eyes.
"What the fuck did you do to my brother, you sick son of a bitch?!"
Damien yelled, accompanied by the unmistakable slap of knuckles meeting flesh.
"Dean, stop!"
"If you touched him, I'll kill you myself, you-"
Damien cried out again, pain and fear evident in his tone.
"Dean, that's enough!"
"You bastard, nobody touches my brother! Got that? Nobody!"
Something crunched, and Damien screamed.
"You're never going to hurt him ever again, you got me? I'm going to-"
"Dean!"
"Dad, let me go, dammit! You heard him!"
"Dean, I said enough!"
Damien moaned.
"But Dad-"
"ENOUGH!" the man thundered, and Cole swore the windows rattled in their frames. "If you can't control yourself, you're no good here! Either get a grip, or get out!"
Something smashed. From the sound of it, Dean had thrown the cheap coffee maker into the opposite wall.
"Well?" the man demanded.
"Fine!"
"Dean." It was a warning.
"...Yes, Sir." Dean subdued himself grudgingly. A few seconds later, Cole watched as he retreated to his patch of wall, rubbing his knuckles in frustration. Damien's blood was stained across his skin.
From behind Cole, Damien whimpered. Chair legs scraped on carpet as the man dragged him into his original position at Cole's back. Cole craned his neck around, but all he could make out of his partner was the edge of one swollen cheek. Damien's sniveling continued.
"Oh, shut up," the man said shortly. He maneuvered past Cole and retrieved one of the gags lying abandoned on Cole's bed. He circled back to Damien, and Damien's hushed mewls grew muffled, then ceased altogether.
The man stomped around in front of Cole, and Cole reared back, trepidation rushing through him. The man stooped down and grabbed a handful of Cole's dark hair. Cole wriggled, protesting wordlessly, then stiffened as he felt the chilled point of the knife tease the corner of his left eye.
"I am done screwing around," the man panted. He looked it too. His hair was awry, and his mouth was bleeding freely, presumably from when he had wrestled Dean away from Damien. Cole found himself shrinking away from the manic glint in his eyes. "I am going to ask one more time." The dagger rested millimeters from Cole's pupil, which was contracted with terror. "Where. Is. My. Son?"
Cole's throat worked, but no sound emerged. His tongue was numb, useless. "I…" he squeaked. "I don't know."
The man bared his teeth. "Wrong answer."
The dagger blurred as it darted forward, and then the left side of the room went black. Agony burst through Cole's eye like fireworks in the newfound darkness, and he screamed as he felt the tip of the knife pop through the thin membrane of his iris like an overfull balloon. He couldn't see, he couldn't see, yet he could feel the fluid of his punctured eye as it welled over his eyelashes and streaked down his face. Cole shrieked once more as the blade pulled free with a grotesque squelch.
"Oh God, oh my God, my eye, my eye," he babbled insensibly. The hand in his hair wrenched his head up, and the knife was right there, parts of his ruined cornea stuck to the metal. He twisted to the side and vomited. He vomited until nothing remained and he was left hanging over the arm of his chair, retching clear bile that dripped from his lips in long, sticky strands. Someone was moaning, a continuous, piteous keen. It was him, Cole realized, but couldn't bring himself to stop, not when blood was leaking from his mangled eye socket like a ribbon of crimson tears.
Fingers threaded through his hair and yanked him back to a sitting position. "You can't pass out yet," the man informed him. "We're not done here." The man had to be made of granite, or some similar, unfeeling substance. No human should have been able to observe so dispassionately the damage he had wrought upon another not seconds ago. Even Dean appeared halfway sick as he hovered behind his father, a green tinge to his cheeks.
The knife poised over Cole's remaining socket, the end slick with blood. "You have 'till the count of three to tell me where my son is," the man threatened. "One-"
"I don't know, I don't know! Oh God, I swear, I don't know!" Words spilled from Cole like a broken dam. "We don't handle the clients! We're just the middlemen, I swear! We provide the kids, he provides the buyers, you know? It's not like this is an over-the-counter business or nothing! I swear, I swear I don't know where your kid is, I swear! Please, please, oh God, my eye…"
The man frowned. "You said "he" provides the buyers. Who is he?"
"J-julien. His name is Julien, he's like, our partner or boss or whatever! He g-gets the money from the client then pays us, ok?" Cole shook in the chair, sobbing.
"Where is Julien now?"
"I dunno man, I promise! He could be anywhere! We only ever see him when he comes out to check over the kids we're about to sell."
The man set the knife down, drumming his knuckles on his leg frustratedly. Cole sagged in relief. "Please," he begged. "Please let me go. I swear I won't-"
"Shut up," the man ordered absently. He looked over his shoulder at Dean, who was biting his lip anxiously, skin pale and wan. "This Julien," the man barked, returning his attention to Cole. "He would know the buyers, right? Who he's recently sold to?"
"Yeah, p-probably…" Cole allowed his sentence to die as the man shoved away from him, crossing to the table by the door and rummaging among the items strewn across it.
"Here we go," he muttered, striding back to Cole's side. In his hand, he held Cole's slim, silver cell phone. He flipped it open, pressed a series of buttons, then thrust it under Cole's aching nose. "Is this Julien's number?"
Cole squinted at the blurry screen. "Yeah, that's h-his."
"When the hell did you figure out how phones worked?" Dean broke in, some of the vigor restored to his words.
"Caleb took pity on me," the man answered.
Dean snorted. "'Course he did."
"What are you going to do?" Cole implored, bringing both men's focus back to the matter at hand. "Please, just let me go…"
"Maybe. First, we have to make a call." The man dashed Cole's hopes as quickly as he had raised them.
"Wh-what do you mean?"
"You're going to find out who bought my son."
"Wait, what!" Cole shook his head hysterically. "How am I supposed to do that?"
"You'll think of something." The man sounded unconcerned. "Tip him off and you'll lose more than just an eye." That was all the warning the man gave before he raised the dialing phone to Cole's ear. It rang once, twice, thrice, then a click, and discordant music blared through the small earpiece.
"Hello?"
The familiar, oily voice had never been so welcome. For once in your life, Cole pleaded silently. Help us, please.
"H-hello, Julien?" he said weakly, allowing a quaver to infect his tone.
But for as long as Cole had known him, Julien had always been a self-centered, narcissistic dick, and now was no exception. "Cole?" Julien had to shout to make himself audible over the music. "What the hell do you want? If this is another complaint about the job you're working…"
"No, no," Cole cut him off hastily, any vestiges of faith leeching away. It was ironic really, how often Julien had nosed around in their business, and the one instance that Cole needed him he was completely uninterested in Cole's predicament. "I, ah, we, uh… I think I've found us a client." He winced as the knife dug into the soft flesh under his chin. What did the man want from him? It was the best he could think of at such short notice!
"A new client?" Julien sounded suspicious. "Are you -oh sweetheart, yeah…" He ended on a pornographic groan. "Right there darlin', don't stop- what do you mean, a new client? How did he find you?"
Cole curled his lip. Leave it to Julien to be engaging in such… personal activities when answering a phone call. "Marco sent him over to us, and he says he's looking to buy."
"You retard, Cole! How the fuck do you know -Jesus, watch the teeth, you slut!- how the fuck do you know he ain't a cop? And you met with him!"
"I called Marco to confirm, asshole. I know how to do my job," Cole answered, none of the usual passion to his words. How could he get a message to Julien without a dagger in his gut?
Less suspicious yet still wary, Julien confirmed, "you're sure here? We let one wrong guy in…"
"Yes, I'm sure!" Cole snapped. He had never been less tolerant of Julien's constant insinuations that he was untrustworthy, and a liability. Even if that might have been true in the current situation.
"...Alright, fine. Is he there right now? I'll speak to him myself."
The blade jabbed again into Cole's jaw. "Ah, um, no, he left already. He, uh, told me he wanted to meet some other customers first, if that would be possible? You know, see if they liked how their purchases turned out?"
"Cole, have you been fucking drinking? You sound like you're coming down off a bender or something."
Another warning prod. "Ouch! I, no, of course not! I'm just getting sick, that's all. Probably caught it from the shitty motel."
"Whatever. A bit higher sweetheart, that's it. Be a good girl and get me another drink, go on."
Cole grimaced. His vision -what was left of it- was swimming drunkenly, and he was alternately too hot and too cold. His mauled eye throbbed with a vengeance. "So, Julien, think you could make that happen?" he prompted. He only wanted this torture to end. "Who was the guy we just sold to? Maybe they could meet up somewhere, or, you know…" His voice died away uncertainly.
In the background, the pulsing song changed, replaced by one even faster, the beat reverberating through the phone like a burst of gunfire. "I'll tell you what," Julien said at last. "I doubt your man would be able to get a meeting with our last client. His name's Cheverill, and he's a stuck-up bastard, to be sure. He'd probably never agree to see your man if I asked him -finally! How long does it take to grab a drink, huh? Get back on your knees!- where was I? Oh, right. He won't agree to a meeting, but I can do you one better.
"Cheverill lives up in Michigan, on the Upper Peninsula, some little town called Marquette. Anyway, we got a bunch of clients up there, apparently no one asks too many questions about what goes on at home, if you know what I mean. I heard a group of them formed some gentleman's club, or something. You know, smoke cigars and compare whipping techniques, or whatever the hell they do. Cheverill's a pretty regular participant."
"That, uh, sounds perfect. Just what the guy was looking for," Cole mumbled miserably.
"Here, let me get you the information. I think they meet every other Thursday -Get off me, bitch! Find someone else to blow!"
Disinterestedly, Cole noticed the man gesturing for Dean to grab a pen and paper. Julien came back on the line and rattled off a spew of locations, times, and passwords that Cole ignored. He was finding it hard to concentrate on anything at all, really. The burn from his butchered eye was spreading down his cheeks and through the back of his head, which had been hurting since he woke up in the first place. Every blink from his torn eyelid sent fresh needles boring through the socket. How did it come to this? he wondered blearily. It was just supposed to be a job. Not my entire life.
"...Cole? You got all that?" It was hard to miss that Julien was antsy, eager to hang up and get back to his party. Or prostitute. Most likely a prostitute.
"Yeah, I got it. Thanks," Cole supplied automatically. He'd never felt so tired.
"Excellent. Hurry up with the next job, okay? Then we can lay low for awhile, enjoy the high life."
"Right, sure. Bye Julien."
The line went dead, along with Cole's final chance of salvation. The man shut the phone and tossed it mindlessly onto the bed behind him.
"Dean? You write everything down?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Alright then." The man stood with a decisive nod. "We'd better get going then. We've got a lot of driving ahead of us if we're going to make it to Marquette by Thursday."
"W-wait!" Cole lifted his head, although it seemed fifty pounds heavier than it should have weighed. "What are you going to do with us? I g-gave you what you wanted. Please, let me go…" He wilted under the disgusted glare the man directed at him.
"Let you go?" he repeated, as though the very idea made him ill.
"Y-you said, maybe…"
"I lied," the man interrupted bluntly. He crouched down on a level with Cole, meeting Cole's single eye with an expression of such loathing that Cole trembled, wishing he could sink through the floor simply to escape it. "You must not have children, Mr. Bennett," he murmured quietly, his words for Cole's ears only. "So you can never know the pain I felt, when I learned exactly what you had done with my son. But I know that nothing I do could make you feel what I felt, what I still feel. If it were up to me, I would stay, and draw out your death for weeks. But my son needs me, and he is a thousand times more important than you."
He pushed himself to his feet and, in a clearer voice, added, "I guess allowing you to rot in jail for the rest of your life will have to do instead."
Cole paled slightly, but covered it with a feeble, condescending laugh. "That won't happen," he said arrogantly. "Nothing can be traced to us. All this?" He indicated the motel room with the shrug of a shoulder. "We are the victims here. And even with the book, it's all circumstantial. We were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, and two men -who apparently sell children, how depraved is that?- grabbed us and took us to their motel room to satisfy their homicidal tendencies. It was such a traumatic experience, but thank Goodness the police arrived and scared them off." He smiled grimly, displaying the flecks of blood in his teeth.
The man bobbed his head gravely. "That's a good story," he agreed. "And the police might even have believed it. That is, they might have if we didn't have this." He extended a hand to Dean who, smirking, reached into his jacket and produced a square, black object which he pressed into his father's palm. The man hit a button on the side, and immediately, a voice issued from the object. A very unwelcome voice.
"Let's recap. Just so we're all on the same page. You, Cole Bennett, and you, Damien Cawfield, kidnap children and sell them to sick fucks such as yourself, for the money and for whatever twisted kicks you get out of doing it. Sound about right?"
"Alright, yes! Ok? We take kids and sell them. You were right. Happy?"
The man paused the recording. Cole stared at him, a doom-laden pit suddenly opening in his chest. It wasn't possible. He couldn't be going to prison.
The man grinned maliciously. "I'll just leave this here for the police. I think they'd appreciate it, don't you? I wonder if they'll even bother with a trial."
He turned and followed Dean to the door. Dean slipped out with a final glance at the bloodsoaked room, but the man hesitated. Carefully, he wiped any prints from the recorder and laid it on the rickety table, along with the case of drugs. He picked up the scrapbook as well and extracted the photo of his son before that too, was set down and cleaned of prints.
Then he looked back at Cole, bound and beaten, tied helplessly to his chair. Cole met his gaze desperately, searching for any hint of mercy.
"Cole Bennett," the man announced. "May you burn in hell."
Cole blinked, and he was gone. Cole was alone. As the shadows set in, he put his head down and, for the first time in thirteen years, tears splashed down his bruised cheeks. Twenty five minutes later, when sirens wailed down the highway and red-blue lights flashed through the wispy curtains, he had yet to bring himself to stop.
I'm so sorry, Mom.
As always, thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter! You don't know how much they mean to me. I'm sorry I didn't reply to anyone. My account was being weird, and by the time I got it figured out I had no idea what to say anymore. Lame excuse, I know, but I'll start replying again this chapter, if anyone still wants to review :D
1) How did you feel about Cole's backstory? Did you feel that it added any more to his character?
2) Favorite/least favorite part? Why or why not?
3) How did you feel about the interrogation itself? Some people were saying they wanted a little bit of hope for Dean and John. Did you feel that they got it?
I'm really not fishing for compliments here, and I'm trying not to come off like I am. Give me what you got! I genuinely want to hear your opinions so that I can make the next chapter even better!
