A/N:

Guys, this one is brutal.

The language is vulgar, the characters are demonic, and it is very bloody and very graphic. You have been warned.

This is self-beta'd. Miyanoai is in the middle of finals, and I refused to disrupt school with gore.

***Sunshine***

Chapter Eight:

Akiyama Hideki and Kuroda were waiting in the prison lobby. The photographer had not realized that prisons had lobbies, but they were ushered through it quickly. The cameras had been temporarily deactivated, according to Akiyama, the warden. He shook Asami's hand gruffly, "Kawaguchi is waiting in the hole for you."

Asami nodded. He was not searched, nor were questions asked when Suoh and Kirishima followed him into the long hallway. Kuroda paced back and forth, prying information from Nakamura. The whole freaking world had known about Hisana, except for Akihito. Go frickin' figure. He sat in the uncomfortable chairs, scrolling through his phone while he ignored Kou's calls. His friends wanted to pump him for information, but he should have known that it was too soon. She had only been gone a few hours.

That was long enough to cut her ear off, though. He thought back to Asami and the Arab guard. The man had done nothing wrong, but rather everything right. He kept it together, tried to keep the ear viable and even get it to the hospital. Yet, Asami punished him. Hacked up his face, nearly punctured his eardrum and went berserk in his own office. The fixer was starting to lose his infamous composure, and quickly. He was right: it kept getting worse.

Akihito was afraid out what would happen next. Mahdi had Kawaguchi's mugshot pulled up on his phone, and the photographer leaned in closer. "Do you think he'll be hard to break?" he asked.

Mahdi stared at the handsome man. He had a black eye in the picture, and his shoulder length hair was tied behind his head. He could have passed as an aging model after a rough fight in a club, and was definitely wealthy. There was no kindness in his black eyes, no spark of life or compassion. He looked grim and hard, lithely muscled as if the harshness of life had beat any humanity out of him.

"No," the man sighed. "He's going to tell Asami exactly what he wants to know."

"What do you mean?"

"He knew that we would trace this back to him. He wanted to look Asami in the eye and gloat. He might have supplied Gallo the information, but he had no part in the plan. All Kawaguchi wants is to see Asami realize that Hisana isn't coming home. That is all the revenge he needs."

Well, fuck.

***Sunshine***

Kawaguchi was waiting for Asami. He knelt on the floor of his solitary confinement cell, chained to the cold cement. It was a well lit, soundproofed room. The man's soulless eyes were closed and his breathing steady. He did not move as the men entered the room. In fact, he did nothing until the door slid shut with a notorious clang.

"Good evening, gentlemen," his balmy voice drawled. For someone so emotionless, he always had a soothing voice, like a DJ for NPR.

"I don't have time for your games, Kawaguchi," Asami shrugged out of his suit jacket, not seeing the browning bloodstains near the cuffs. Normally, his faithful men and Hisana's surrogate uncles would handle the physical aspect of interrogations. Noone's punch packed more wallop than Suoh's. But this wasn't business, this was family. Asami needed the release, needed to extract his pound of flesh from every accomplice. "You already know that."

"Such a shame," the forty-three year old shook his head dramatically. "I have so few guests from the old days. I confess," he opened his eyes at last as his lips turned down. "I miss rubbing elbows with the elite. You people understand me so much more than the rabble in here."

"You caused your own fall," the fixer began to roll up his sleeves. "The caliber of the inmates does not interest me. I am here for you, who have wronged me for the last time."

"But Asami-sama," the man held up his chained hands in mocking supplication. "I have never wronged you. I live to serve, to kiss the dirt on which you walk." Black eyes flashed. "Just like that little boy cunt you like to fuck."

Seizing Kawaguchi by his collar, Asami took two steps and threw him against the wall. Iron chains rattled, jerking the man's arms painfully as his elbows popped out of socket. Yet still they stretched past their limits, Asami pinioning him against the stone. "Where's Gallo?"

"Gallo?" Kawaguchi's wet chuckles blew across his ear. "Dead in Columbia. Didn't you know? Del Olmo got him years ago." His toes drug across the floor, slightly supporting his weight as he struggled to breathe––not that he showed any discomfort to the frantic fixer holding him.

Asami pressed the man into the wall as hard as he could, using his torso as leverage to lift him off the ground. Sockets ripping, skin starting to tear and bleed, Kawaguchi's body weight struggled to pull him down to the ground, effectively collapsing his windpipe. "Del Olmo doesn't kill his lieutenants," he hissed. "Honduras is profitable."

His face was blueish purple, but still he smirked. Straight teeth seemed to grow whiter as oxygen depravation set in. "He tried to assassinate Del Olmo––revenge for his whore. You remember her, right? A huge woman, I'm talking orca fat."

"If not Gallo, then who did you sell the information to?" All roads led to Kawaguchi. He had to be the leak. His blood rushed, pulse pounding in his ears. He almost could not hear Kawaguchi's strangled taunts. The man knew that Asami was going to kill him, and the scars and pits that littered his body boasted of his masochism. He would inflict his last wound on the heart of Asami Ryuichi, twisting the knife into the rotted organ.

"I heard your boy cunt is a good fuck," he taunted. "I always preferred the heiress you used to flaunt around, but nowadays I make do. I wonder what it's like to plow his ass. Is he a screamer?"

Asami was snarling like a lion. Kawaguchi's heart overcompensated, pumping harder to feed his brain. Asami could feel the erratic pulse, proof of his body's struggle to keep him alive. If he squeezed jut a little tighter, pushed more pressure onto his carotid, his life would snuff out. Kirishima stepped forward. The boss was slowly losing his mind, fueled by the rage of a terrified parent, like Demeter who left the world dehydrated and brunt as she hunted for Persephone. Though dying, Kawaguchi held the power, and killing him silenced the only lead to Hisana. "Asami-sama," he warned lowly.

Gold eyes flicked backwards, but he understood what his man was saying. Lowering Kawaguchi until his heels touched the ground, he did not loosen his grip. They were pressed together, almost embracing as lovers would, and Kawaguchi's gut titillated at the idea of pinning Asami Ryuichi down, and fucking him as he squeezed the life out of the fixer.

"If not Gallo, who?" the crime lord demanded again.

"No one," Kawaguchi wheezed. He tried to keep his chest from heaving, but his body greedily sucked in air, paying his brain and wishes no mind. "I never needed to. I make more money in prison than I ever did out."

"Revenge, then," Suoh supplied when Asami could not speak.

Kawaguchi glanced the behemoth's way, but spoke only to Asami. "If I wanted revenge, I wouldn't go after your boy. There's no sport in it, no honor. You didn't attack my family."

And he meant it. Men like Asami, like Mikhail Arbatov, and Kawaguchi were nothing if they did not have their honor. Their words bound them. Promises were meaningless otherwise and then bullets would fly before betrayals could blossom. "I've got something much more apropos for you."

It was a bluff to save face, to give Asami a reason to kill him. Kawaguchi would seek vengeance one day, but the punishment would fit the crime. "It wasn't Akihito that Gallo took," he sneered through pinched lips. "It was Hisana,"

"Your daughter?" Kawaguchi's eyes flew open in surprise. Wars were started over children, brutally and violently climaxing if the little ones were harmed. Only a fool targeted a child. Kawaguchi himself took cathartic therapy in dismembering child molesters. It passed the time in prison. "She's eight."

"Nineteen,"

Twenty in December.

"Close enough," Asami jerked away from the prisoner. Kawaguchi sighed as the pressure in his arms dissipated, though they still hung limply. The pain was all consuming, burning fresh like struck match. He saw the pacing man, and made a split decision that, when looking back, saved his life.

"I have a niece about Hisana's age. Not as smart, but better looking. Her father died years ago, and that was why I took her to that stupid dinner. I actually preferred your daughter to her inane prattle. Yes, your disgusting beast had the table manners of a dog, but she was sharp, even then."

Asami jerked his gun out of his shoulder holster. It was warm and heavy in his hand, which was extremely comforting. "I don't need a history lesson." He was there; he remembered the imp who batted her gold eyes and simpered, even as she apologized. "Who took her?"

"My guess is that ex-fuck toy of hers…or rather the one she didn't screw. Rumor has it that the boy's organs are shutting down, and that he won't make the month. His––," the man licked his cracked lips. "––butler, if you will, ended up in here while awaiting trial. He tried to end the boy's suffering, and the father caught him in the act."

"Give me a name," Asami cocked the gun.

"We called him Daimora. Not that it matters. Matsuhara Saburo got to him first." As he should have. Anyone who moved against his daughter would die painfully before they reached prison. Kawaguchi continued on, "The kid didn't take well to whatever Daimora gave him. Necropsy has set in. I heard half of his face has rotted off. An arm, too."

He had what he needed. A name. A lead. An enemy to hunt down and gut. Asami turned on his heel, practically running when he realized that he had unfinished business with Kawaguchi. Whipping back around, he grabbed the imprisoned fixer's neck. He was much easier to toss around with his elbows blown out. He hit the stone wall, his head brutally snapping back and his eyes widening in agony. There was sickening crunch as his throat was crushed. Kawaguchi slumped to the floor and Asami was out the door, the repugnant gasps as the man slowly suffocated was immensely satisfying. Prison staff would find him before he asphyxiated.

"Pay someone to make him a bitch," Asami told his secretary. "And seize all his assets. He'll be dead in a year."

Kirishima did not answer him, but he had heard. He was already on the phone, verifying the story. Still, Asami had faith that his orders would be carried out.

***Sunshine***

Asami had been gone maybe fifteen minutes. Mahdi let Akihito hover over his shoulder, as he read what he could about Lorenzo Gallo. Mahdi had made a few quick phone calls, speaking Arabic as fast as Akihito breathed. What little info the Al Madanis' had was sent to his phone. Though it was in English, Akihito could see the gaping holes blocked out in black and the missing info in blank spaces.

What confused him the most was the death date some two years prior next to Gallo's grainy mugshot. The photographer tapped the giant screen, and Mahdi's dark eyes narrowed. He said something in Arabic, Akihito presuming he was swearing. It was a dead end, unless Kirishima could turn water into wine. The Al Madanis' information was wrong.

"I can call in other favors," Mahdi's thumb shook in frustration as he tried to back out of his email. The phone was running slow. "The Brits owe Abbas. What about Asami? Didn't he say something about having a man in Interpol?"

"Yes," Akihito remembered that. Not that he had any way to contact the man. He was honestly surprised the fixer had let him tag along this far. "Did Hisana tell you about Asami?" he asked before common sense could tell him to shut his mouth. Now was not the time, but he could not stop thinking about this sudden daughter, who went from a plush hotel to a prison cell in the space of an hour.

"Stupid, useless piece of junk!" her boyfriend snarled. "She didn't have to. He's kind of a big deal."

Maybe Asami had just assumed that Akihito had known. He had run extensive background checks on his lover in the early months, before Hong Kong. No family was mentioned. No records about his youth. Actually, Asami Ryuichi did not exist until he started university.

"He didn't tell her about you," Mahdi tried to focus on something other than his frozen cell. "She figured it out on her own." And boy had that been a terrible two days, with her throwing anything she could get her hands on. It wasn't that her father had taken a lover––she remembered him always being insatiable, even when he thought he was sneaky. It was that they had been going steady, that somehow he had fallen in love, and just forgot to mention it during their monthly chats. Mahdi eventually hid at a bar with his friends until she made him come home.

Something small hit Akihito's head, and he ruffled his hair. Great prison. The ceiling was crumbling overhead. "How'd you meet?"

Mahdi ripped the protective case away so he could pop the battery out. "I was her orientation leader two years ago."

It was a typical college romance: friends first and then lovers. She dated extensively before ending up in Mahdi's bed. He certainly had not stayed celibate while waiting for her to find her way to him. She had a thing for jocks. Silly girl, it took her seven months to even realize that he was an Al Madani of organized crime, and not some schmuck unconnected to her world at all.

Another chunk of debris hit his head. "This is getting ridiculous," he snapped as he looked up. And promptly screamed like a coed in a horror movie.

The white face of a macabre clown, its blood red mouth twisting into a horrifying sneer, looked right back at him. A gloved hand waved. The man had been crawling in the ceiling, and removed the tile. Something clattered on the floor but Akihito could not take his eyes off the ghoulish specter that retreated into the darkness.

Oh yeah. He was going to have nightmares about this.

"Outside! All of you!" Mahdi was bellowing as he jumped to his feet. "Cover the perimeter. We have to find him!"

"Do you have security cameras?" Kuroda asked Akiyama. The warden's face was almost as pale as the mask.

"Yes."

"Send the feed to Asami-sama," Kuroda ordered over his shoulder as he dashed down the hallway to his boss.

Akihito grabbed Mahdi's arm before he could disappear too. "Give me a boost!"

"Takaba––"

"I'm small enough to fit up there. I can keep up with him!" the photographer protested. "Come on! He's getting away!"

Clown Face was the only feasible lead to Hsiana, so Mahdi squatted down, fingers laced like a step. Akihito put on foot on the brace and pushed off the floor. He needn't have, because Mahdi catapulted him up into the ceiling. He landed hard on his diaphragm, and had to fight to keep air in his body. Long legs flailed like a suffocating fish momentarily, but once he was able to wrestle his arm out of the sling, he pulled himself up into the crawlspace.

Clown Face had to be small, too. The crawlspace was pitch black. He could not see his hand in front of his face, but Akihito plunged fearlessly into the Stygian abyss. Every noise reverberated along the metal shaft, so though Akihito could not see Clown Face, he could hear him. He chased him as quietly as possible.

The man kept muttering in a recognizable language: the same as the one Havi had shouted in. He really needed to enroll in a language class, especially since the people of the world did not speak Japanese. Kidnappings had been convenient in that way until now.

The air was war, and smelled like saline sweat. Clown Face was rank. Then again, hiding for hours in a crawlspace, waiting to ambush Asami could do that to a person. Clown Face must have been covered in debris and spider webs that somehow Akihito had missed. Having your target act as a dust mop was kind of nice. Finally, the remnants of a breeze wafted lackadaisically past him. He could smell summer and freshly cut grass. They were almost outside. His palms slicked as he realized he would have to confront Clown Face.

This might not have been one of his better plans.

***Sunshine***

Benito was in a foul mood. He told Sergei that it was stupid to deliver the disk and demands this way, but his boss was dramatic. His loyal minion kept bruising his elbows on the walls as he beat a hasty retreat. He had barely been able to get to the prison before Asami. He had been tailing the man since he left his club, and only once he realized the fixer's destination did he break away.

The vent he slipped in through was still open. Fresh air had never felt so good. He slid out the hole, head first so he could gulp in the untainted air. He really should not have had ćevapčići for lunch. It always made him gassy. It was maybe a three meter drop to the ground. Always the acrobat, Benito absorbed the landing with bent elbows, rolling forwards.

He ripped the mask off. No one was in sight. He was home free.

"Aaaaaayyyyyyyaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!"

Wha'? Benito could only look up to investigate what sounded like a bald eagle's mating cry. A dark body dropped on him. The heavy impact made him stumble, dropping to one knee.

Lips pressed to his neck as the bodies became tangled. Small hands tried to push away, and out of self-preservation (he certainly did not come to Japan to be molested), Benito grabbed onto his assailant. "Da fuc––"

Ow. Oh shit! Fuck, that hurt. A pointy kneed rammed between his legs as the boy jerked back. He could barely whimper when the knee hit home a second time. Stomach churning, bile rose in his throat and he fell backwards, body seizing.

Akihito jumped on the man's chest, pinning him down with his weight. Green eyes focused on his face, narrowing in recognition. Grabbing ahold of his ears, Akihito yanked his head up and then slammed in down hard into the soft grass. Again! Again! Again!

"Eat grass!" he sneered, because he was full of witty repartees like that. Thumps and groans fizzled into the night, but Akihito did not stop until his arms were sore.

"Takaba!" Mahdi turned a corner.

His chest heaved. "I got him!" shouted Akihito. "I got him!"

The short man was oddly proportioned, as short as the photographer but thickly muscled. He was wearing a black muscle shirt and cargo pants, accentuating the duality of his body. Clown Face groaned, his head stirring.

"Shit!" the photographer jumped. The adrenaline was quickly abrading away as fatigue set in. Still, he manage to grab his long hair and pound his head into the dirt a few more times. There had to be a dent in the pliable earth by now.

"Takaba?" Mahdi's footsteps were so close. If he looked up, he would see him. He was too afraid to take his eyes off Clown Face lest he rouse again.

"Over here!" Thankfully, Clown Face was out for the count. He was pure muscle and Akihito would not have been able to subdue him if not for the element of surprise and gravity.

"Damn, dude," Mahdi exclaimed as he stood over them. Clown Face was a bloody mess. It looked like the photographer had turned his brain into scrambled eggs. Hisana postulated that the kid was a secret badass, worthy of Asami's ardor. Maybe not so secret, thought the sweating boy. He certainly pulverized Clown Face easily enough.

"I'll carry him, Takaba." Mahdi practically lifted Akihito off the unconscious man. His feet touched the ground, as exhaustion set in. His knees knocked together, his arms hung immobile by his sides, as heavy as cement blocks.

"'Kay," he wheezed out.

Oh fuck. There was so much blood. Akihito could not take his eyes of the revealed puddle. It pooled in the dark dirt, black in the moonlight. It was all over Clown Face's unmasked facade, dripping out of his nose. He had just killed a man. Fuck.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Mahdi heaved the corpse over his shoulder. He did not seem to notice the extra weight as he walked by Akihito, Clown Face's arms swinging with his steps. The more Akihito looked at the corpse, the more the pain in his shoulder flared. Pain was good. It meant that he was alive: his heart was beating, and oxygen fueled his muscles.

He had walked away from the fight. Not Clown Face.

So much for the shining innocence of his soul and the untainted hand that Asami kept yapping about. He had killed a man, and not in self-defense. Murder. He attacked first. It was murder.

"Akihito!"

Asami was running to him. The prison yard was lit by giant searchlights, creating long, spindling shadows. Men in suits rushed by––swarmed them. They were all saying something, grabbing for the body but Mahdi waved them away. Akihito felt their hands brush him, but kept walking. He was tainted now, and they all knew it. Bloody spatter covered him, the men parting like the Red Sea so he could pass. The surreal realization swept him away in a current, far from the shouting men.

"Akihito!"

He watched the world with foggy eyes staring through cloudy glass. The shadows stretched and twisted; the goons blurred together into faceless silhouettes. His heart beat so slowly, his blood sluggishly flowing as the cold set in. His breathing was shallow, and when he held up his good hand, his fingers were stiff. Good. Because he was a murderer, and murderer's shouldn't be able to use their hands.

"Akihito!"

Hands, bigger than his head, enclosed over his frozen digits. They were so hot that Akihito was sure his skin would blister. The hand was his anchor to reality, and when Asami jerked him to his chest, his stupor flew from him like unsettled dust. Akihito's waterlogged gasps as Asami crushed against him, his little body shaking.

"What happened?" his lover's voice was hoarse from his boiling anger.

"Takaba pursued the man and detained him," Mahdi answered. It sounded like he was so far away, but the way Asami's voice rumbled deep in his chest, bouncing Akihito's head, was proof that he was nearby. So close that he might stand against reality, that he might love Akihito despite his crime. "It's this guy's blood all over Takaba."

"The suspect?"

Akihito wailed into Asami's silk vest. Mahdi quirked his eyebrow, and shifted the limp body on his shoulder. It jarred and bounced. When it landed, Clown Face grunted. "He's alive, just unconscious. He might have some brain damage, but he should be able to tell us something." As far as Mahdi was concerned, Asami's boytoy could dish out some pain.

Akihito could not process the pain-filled exhale, but he heard what Mahdi said. Alive. He wrenched out of his lover's chaining hold, head arching back to look at Clown Face. The man's ribs expanded slightly, before deflating.

Alive.

He was alive.

Thank God.

***Sunshine***

Akiyama let them use one of the interrogations rooms. By this time, so many laws and regulations had been broken, that one more did not matter. The proverbial camel had died long ago. Clown Face sat on a plastic chair, his hands cuffed behind his back. A piece of tissue had been twisted then tuck up his nose to stench the bleeding. It hung low over his mouth in the most indignant manner. Eyes, sunken deep into his skull, glowered at the assembled mob. They were out for blood, and the coppery smell lingered. Asami could almost taste it.

He held up the disk. The man's glare darkened. "Do I want to know what's on this?" the fixer drawled.

Clown Face spat out coagulated blood. "Sergei's proof that Matsuhara has your daughter."

Asami's grip nearly broke the DVD. "So he does have her?"

"Yes," Clown Face wheezed. "She's feisty. Sergei likes her." His boss would have offered her a job, if he did not think she would turn on him.

"Who is Sergei?" growled Mahdi, standing in lieu of Kirishima on Asami's right.

"Gazda. Da boss," Clown Face shrugged as much as he could.

"Why did Matsuhara hire you?" Asami slowly hastened the interrogation. He set the pulsating disk down in its plastic case. "There are groups in Japan for hire."

"Your shadow looms far, Asami Ryuichi," the man said slowly. "Even we know of Japan's panther. But we are in da middle of a civil war. We need money."

"So you would challenge me for a pittance?"

"Money is money," Clown Face retorted in broken English. "We don't care who it's from. But Sergei will betray Matsuhara and return tvoja cerka unspoiled for a price."

"I could just kill you, and Sergei once I get Hisana back." He refused to breathe life into the fears that she was gone, or so deformed that death was merciful.

"You need Sergei to protect her," argued Clown Face. He took a deep breath, before delivering the message he spent hours memorizing. "We are just like you. We do not hurt women or children. Ours is a war of men. Sergei and our men will not touch her if you agree. He will even give you Mastuhara––"

"What's on the video?" Asami cut him off.

"Sergei's face. Matsuhara's face. Gazda has a message for you."

"You don't hurt women?" Akihito snarled from the opposite side of the room. He had squirreled himself into the corner, as unobtrusive as possible. As much as he wanted to run away, he had to see this through. He committed to it, and only cowards backed down. "You tasered her, cut off her ear. That's inflicting pain!" he snarled in Japanese.

Kirishima, standing beside him, translated smoothly.

"Was Matsuhara," Clown Face's head bobbed. "It is on da vidyo."

They could delay no longer. It was time to see whatever was on the DVD. Asami popped the case open. A man walking to the gallows, he slipped the disk inside the player. The old, fat backed TV hummed awake, and there was Hisana's face, familiar gold eyes scowling, as the play button flickered in the corner. They collectively held their breath as the home movie started.

Men were murmuring in the same foreign language, dark shadows just out of focus. The main star was in frame. She was still clothed, and her arms were pulled overhead, taught as a wire.

She looked so delicate that Asami took an involuntary step forward. Pale skin was translucent under the flickering neon lights. Those scowling eyes burned with the same fire that stirred in Asami, and pride swelled in his chest, as she stared down her captors with calm composure. It was the look of a king––a queen, completely in control of the situation, omniscient and omnipotent. How many times had the same look fallen on his face? His baby girl looked completely fearless, which only multiplied the trepidation in his gut. Hisana was not strong nor inviolable. She was at the foot of Matsuhara's lunacy until he could save her.

"Smile for the camera," a surprisingly feminine voice crooned.

Akihto's heart stilled. A short man: thin and balding with a bad combover, waltzed slowly onto the screen. He was dressed just as impeccably as Asami, but was as thin as Akihito. A long hunting knife was in his hand.

"Such a pretty girl," the jovial malice in his voice could have flayed flesh from bone. "My son was so proud to have you on his arm, years ago. Never had a trophy shown so brightly."

"Your son didn't want a trophy," Hisana hissed. Her voice was lower than Akihito remembered, throatier too. She suddenly sounded so much like his lover that it was a slap in the face.

"Perhaps," he did not bother to deny it. Tamaki was voracious, sampling women like fine wine. "But all women are just holes to fuck. I love my wife, but she knows her place. You should have known yours, and none of this would have happened. I can't believe your father didn't teach you that fact of life, little trophy."

Her eyes were knife-thin slits cresting above her cheeks. "My father––"

"The world knows how much he indulges himself. He's got that little boy of his, and before that, an heiress on each arm." Matsuhara Saburo kept talking, discounting her words as if he could not hear them. "Sex was always his greatest weakness. It made him vulnerable," he hummed for a moment, as if in deep thought. "Maybe that's why he is so protective of you, and why he overreacted so much when my Tamaki tried to teach you."

Matsuhara grabbed her face, squishing her lips together into a pout, and forcing her to meet his gaze. "You do agree that he overreacted, don't you?"

Hisana tried to jerk away, but Matsuhara dug his nails into her cheeks, securing his grip. The man leaned in close, licking the flexed, pearly column of her neck up to her ear, where he gave it a playful nip. "Does your daddy do that when he fucks you in your tight ass?"

Asami thought he was going to be sick. For the man of titanium, even the notion of touching his child made his stomach roil. His grip on the table was so tight, his bloodless skin ripping from the straining hold, and then with a loud crack, the wood crumbled. The splintered chips bit his clenched fists, embedding deep in his palms.

Hisana appeared just as revolted as the fixer. Matsuhara still suckling on her ear, she lunged forward. The irate father's hand opened like a flower and she sunk her teeth into the fleshy stretch of skin between his thumb and forefinger.

Matsuhara let out a croaking exclamation. He tried to pull out of her clutch but her teeth locked on tightly, intent on rending the pinky flesh.

"Stupid bitch!" he roared. Tossing the hunting knife away, he slapped her across the cheek. Akihito winced. The sound echoed in the prison room. It must have been deafening. Hisana's head rolled, fully absorbing the force of the blow. The world had exploded into a billion fragments around her, but she held on to his hand, even as her teeth vibrated in her skull.

Matsuhara screamed as his skin tore. He dropped to his knees, clutching his wrist. Gold eyes slightly crossed, Hisana loudly chomped three times on the chewy meat before swallowing. She opened her mouth widely, tongue dangling obscenely down her chin. Curlicues of blood swirled thinly on her tastebuds, the current parted by the fatty debris.

"You'll pay for that, you goddamned whore!" Matsuhara snarled. A large chunk was stuck between her teeth, so she made a show of digging it out. "Renichi," he tossed the puukko to one of his three employees. "You have the honors. Finish what my son started."

Renichi was a bear of a man, thickly muscled and hair so rampant it looked like a fur coat. He donned inconspicuous street clothes, but it made him seem much more dangerous. Suoh stood out in the city, like the bright coloring of poisonous snakes. Renichi was the umbrageous jaguar, stalking his prey in the shadows, invisible to the world.

The hunting knife was probably ten inches long, but it looked like a butter knife in his hands. Hisana's nostrils flared as she snorted, but she made no movement as he stalked around her. The world was silent as he slowly drug the edge down her arm. A long welt raised in its wake. The sleeve of the pressed shirt peeled away, clumping around her shoulder. Renichi moved to her other arm, slicing away her shirt.

"Is this the best you can do?" her smoky voice taunted. "I'm not scared of rape!"

Renichi pressed the tip of the knife into the hollow of her throat. She was too proud to balk, and the corners of her mouth warped into a murderous sneer. The knife pricked her skin, a drop of crimson blood welling and then he jerked it down quickly, slicing her shirt completely open.

"Sodomy, my Tamaki's trophy," Matsuhara drawled off screen. "The knife is going to fuck you first."

Suddenly, Renichi had sheathed the knife on his hip and grabbed ahold of the leather skirt. Hisana kicked and shrieked, pushing him away. The bear grabbed ahold of her waist, lifting her off the floor. He tore her skirt away with one long movement, flinging it and her shoes far out of the camera's sight. Still holding her, he tore off the remnants of her diaphanous shirt.

Akihito pushed out of the corner. His lover's entire body was clenched, muscle and bone squeaking from the strain.

"That's lovely, that is," Renichi traced a circle around her belly button. "All dressed up and nowhere to go."

She was wearing mint green lingerie, lacy and see-through. Her boobs were shoved up to her neck, and the lacy boyshorts were very similar to the ones VS models wore. Akihito only knew because of photoshoots. If he looked closely, the photographer could see the blistering burns just above her heart, evidence of the disabling electricity that had consumed her. "I anticipated someone else seeing this," she snapped. When slithering into this getup, she had a very different plan for the evening. It involved Mahdi being naked and some massage oil.

Gruff hands gripped her pale thighs, prying them open as he dropped to his knees. He inhaled deeply, his nose pressed hard against the lace that covered her center. "You do smell sweet," Renichi drawled. "Like Olympian nectar. I'll make you suck yourself off my knife."

Behind him, Mahdi made a choking sound. Akihito thought Asami might have an aneurysm. "Don't watch," he whispered. A father did not need to see that happen to his princess.

Renichi stood back up. He leaned in to kiss her when she bounced off of the ground. Wrapping her legs around his waist, he shoved her pelvis into his stomach. He grunted, behind forward just enough. Her mouth was on his neck in an instant, and she bit with all the strength in her body. Thin flesh, watery veins and one pulsating artery all gave way to her sharp bicuspids. Renichi fell back as her legs untwined, black blood spurting out of his mouth like a fountain.

Akiyama heaved behind them when he saw the gaping hole in the man's neck.

Matsuhara was shouting, his men were rushing to their fallen comrade. The Serbs stayed put, waiting Sergei's orders. Hisana spit the gummy flesh onto Matsuhara's face. He screamed incoherently, wheeling back, his arms flailing in circles. Eyes gleaming in chatoyance, she stared down her enemies. Blood frothed over her lips, dribbling like spit down her chin.

Matsuhara grabbed the puukko off of the floor, growling like a rabid dog. He used the back of his hand to wipe the fetid human remains out of his eyes, and he lunged for Hisana, knife outstretched, ready to turn her into a Blood Eagle. A dark hand grabbed the knife, stopping Matsuhara in his tracks.

"What are you doing?" a deep voice rumbled like a volcano about to erupt. It was the complete opposite of Matsuhara's high-pitched tones.

"Do not question me, Sergei!" Matsuhara shouted, white spittle foaming in the corners of his mouth. "I'm paying you––"

"To do to her as was done to your son," this Sergei responded in flawless Japanese. "Your son was not raped. Nor was his disemboweled."

"I will make Asami suffer!"

"If you insist on raping her, I will send on of my men to fuck your boy," Sergei threatened calmly.

Matsuhara's face was puce, blue veins protuberant on his temple. "You wouldn't dare––"

"I would," Sergei interrupted softly. "Tit for tat, as the Americans say."

"My son is rotting alive because of your father," Matsuhara snarled at the seething girl who was still suspended from the ceiling. "His doctors numb him, so he feels no pain, and the coma shields him from his deformities. I won't give you either of those luxuries. I'm going to gut you slowly, and you will feel every bite of steel."

She knew better than to antagonize him. Asami had raised her to be smarter than that. But her pride was wounded, she was scared, and she was desperate to save face. She knew she was going to die, and that it was going to be excruciating. Still, Hisana refused to give him the satisfaction of sniffing her tears. Asami would have reacted the same way. "I'm sure he's better looking now."

Matsuhara wrenched free of Sergei's grip. The knife was at her temple, and then slicing through her sensitive ear. She hissed––hissed because she couldn't scream or fight or speak, and the pain exploded, blazing across the side of her face in a sear of red and white jags.

"I'll start with your face first," he hissed. "It makes you so vain. I'll slice off your cheeks to chew as I cut off your nose, peel your lips away and rip out your teeth. And then, I will cut off your eyelids, so you will have nowhere to hide. You'll see how much better looking you are after I am done with you." The knife ghosted over her face, scratching but not piercing. "I'll keep you alive as long as Tamaki is, mimicking his every suffering on your body. You'll eat my shit, drink my piss, and your daddy will never find you. I've sent him on a wild goose chase for a dead man. You are mine––"

"Sir," an unnamed minion stepped forward. "Your wife is on the line."

Matsuhara pulled away midrat, his ratlike face immediately softening. "She needs me. She is such a delicate thing, you see," he offered Hisana something akin to a reassuring smile.

He turned on his heel. "Don't touch her," he ordered Sergei. "I'll be back tomorrow. And put this in preservative––" he dropped the floppy ear into the outstretched hand, "––as a memento of my trophy. The first of many, I'm sure."

The screen blackened. No one moved. No one dared breathe or think, because that couldn't possibly be it. There had to be more. This was not long ago, only a few hours and she seemed so close that Akihito thought he could reach through the screen to brush her hair out of her face. Mahdi let out a sharp inhalation of horror as the seconds ticked by…

One…

Five…

Seven…

Nothing. That was it. The secret film had been shipped off with no closure––

A bright light pulsed, and a new face appeared on the screen. It had to be Sergei. He was older than Akihito expected. His gray hair was streaked with white, gelled back from his face. The lines in his face were etched deep, evidence that he had endured unspeakable hardships, but was as resilient as a mountain. He was bony, almost wraithlike, and his head was too large for his body. Just looking at him, Akihito thought a gust of wind might break his back.

"I don't like Matsuhara," Sergei began speaking after a moment. "However, he is paying me, though money cannot blot out every transgression. As a rule, we do not hurt women and children. Your daughter is both, and her pain is needless. She is not at fault for this. You are. It is you who should be nailed to a cross, yet you sit on your throne, unscathed."

The man shook his head. Lightning flashed in his deep set, craggy eyes as he frowned. "I will protect her, for a price. You must have some penance for your sin. My price is ten million euros. If you are at all capable, you will have detained my man by now. Once the money is wired to the bank account he specifies, Benito will bring you to us. I would hurry; Matsuhara will come back for her. He plans to move her in the morning to a more secure holding facility.

"Lastly, do not think you can coerce Benito to give up our location. He is ex-KGB. Pain is nothing to him."

The screen blackened again.

"Do you have an answer for me?" Benito, a.k.a. Clown Face, sneered as he leaned back into his seat. "Or do you need some time to think things over?"

***Sunshine***

A/N:

Hope you all liked it. My kitty says hi.

I am sorry if I offended anyone. I certainly offended myself, and I wrote it!