by Captain Sammitch
Buffalo, New York:
They waited outside the door of room 205. Flannery cringed at the stench in the air and the graffiti on the walls of the run-down high rise. The man with him didn't seem to notice.
The two heard shouting in Spanish followed by a faint whimper, clearly in English.
Flannery was getting edgy. "Now?"
The other man shook his head. He closed his eyes, seemingly in deep thought. Suddenly his eyes opened, and he rose to his feet quickly and quietly.
Now.
Flannery looked at him expectantly. "Are you gonna kick the door in or something?"
The other man put one hand on the door, barely touching it, and focused. Flannery checked the safety on the surplus Colt he was carrying and listened to the shouting intensifying.
Without warning, the door practically flew off its hinges, and Flannery almost felt the crushing impact when it slammed into a body on the other side. Flannery dashed into the apartment -- and the lights went out. "Sabrina!" he called. "Where are you?"
He was shoved backward against the floor, and a larger man jumped on top of him. His adrenaline rushing now, Flannery pummeled the man in the face and was rewarded by a stream of Spanish invective. He shoved the bigger man off his chest and got to his feet. The dim light streaming in from the street gave him a glimpse of the pictures plastered all over one wall of the room. Pictures of his daughter.
There were more men in the room. Flannery knew this because one shoved him into another one, and Flannery felt a bicycle chain going around his neck. The lights came up, and he could see everything clearly now. The bondage rack. The rows upon rows of implements of torture. The single video camera and two light stands. There was no doubt of what these men had been doing to Flannery's daughter. And probably many other little girls as well.
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But now it looked like it was too late for Flannery himself. A short, stocky Colombian covered in tattoos glared at him and pulled a switchblade knife from his pocket.
The lights went out.
The bike chain went away, and Michael Flannery tumbled to the ground. He couldn't see a thing, but heard clearly the unmistakable sounds of flying fists, cries of pain, and bodies slamming to the floor. He cringed and waited for the end.
The end didn't come.
The lights came back on to reveal the image of chaos. The room was in a shambles. Four Colombians had been beaten into submission and were lying around the room in various states of agony. One was stretched out on the rack, his face a mass of bruises. One had his hands and feet cuffed behind his back and was face down in a tub of water, sputtering and trying to keep his face above the surface. Another, to Flannery's amazement, looked to be wrapped up in a length of copper pipe, the ends somehow welded together.
And the fourth was face down on the floor. With Smith's knee in his back.
"I bet you think you're pretty tough," Smith said softly. "You've got the power, huh, ese? You stalk little girls online, you get them to meet you somewhere, you drive them here and get your sick thrills out of torturing and raping them. On camera. They'll never think of an adequate punishment for things like you. But me... I'm creative."
Flannery heard a wet snap! as Smith effortlessly broke the Colombian's wrist. The man on the floor screamed in agony, but the walls he had painstakingly soundproofed would keep his suffering a secret from any inquiring ears in the building. The Colombian gritted his teeth and began breathing heavily, but no relief came.
Smith wasn't done. "You know where the others are. And you're going to tell me. I won't even have to read your mind." He began working on the broken wrist, eliciting another scream on pain and swearing in Spanish.
"Not gonna tell, are you? We can work with that." Smith took a revolver from one of the other men on the floor, placed it behind the Colombian's knee, and pulled the trigger. The roar of the pistol was muted by the devastation of bone, muscle, and connective tissue. And by the Colombian's screams. "I can work this way as long as I want," Smith said flatly.
"He'll pass out!" Flannery said.
Smith shook his head and withdrew a hypodermic from a small case clipped to his belt. He removed the cap, jabbed the Colombian, emptied the syringe, and tossed it into an open heat register in the floor. "Epinephrine. The most powerful stimulant that naturally occurs in the human body. He couldn't lose consciousness if he wanted to."
And with that, he proceeded to batter the man's broken wrist and destroyed left knee mercilessly.
The Colombian's screams seemed to shake the windows in their frames. But no matter how much agony Smith inflicted, the Colombian remained fully conscious and very alert to what was happening. Finally, between sobs, the badly-beaten man stammered in Spanish the answers Smith was after.
Smith stood up. "Sabrina is in the closet."
Flannery dashed over to the closet, broke the lock with the butt of his gun, and opened the doors to find his daughter. His only child, unconscious, covered with bruises and dressed only in her underclothes and a pair of cheap nylons. Flannery turned toward the Colombian, his hands shaking and his gun out, the safety definitely off.
Smith held up a hand. "Don't, Mike. You're better than this scum. Don't do it."
Flannery ignored him.
Smith walked over to him. "This piece of trash is going to spend the rest of his natural life rotting in a maximum-security prison for sex offenders, getting beaten and raped and violated by animals just like him. You get your phone out, you call the cops, you take Sabrina to the hospital, and you tell them what happened, and you're in the clear. You get your daughter back, your record stays clean, and all these animals get justice. The other girls are going to mysteriously turn up, anonymous leads will take the authorities to the rest of this slime's gang, and a whole lot of parents sleep better. Because of you, Mike. Just put the gun away now."
Flannery finally obeyed. "But... but what about you?"
Smith turned. "Me? I was never here. I am merely a figment of your imagination."
Flannery didn't believe him. "They'll find your prints on the guns and everything."
Smith shook his head. "No they won't. I don't leave fingerprints. Don't have any. My name and face can't be found in any database of known criminals, law enforcement agents, or intelligence officers. I don't have a Social Security number or birth certificate. For all intents and purposes, Mr. Flannery, I do not exist. And if in fact I have a real identity, even I have no idea what it is."
Flannery was a tangle of emotions. "So what happens now?"
Smith found Flannery's cell phone on the floor and handed it to him. "Call the cops. Take care of your daughter. And remember: you came in on an anonymous tip and found the gang members fighting each other. You incapacitated them and found your daughter in the closet. Call quick, Mike. Operators are standing by."
Flannery turned. "I hope you find..."
Smith was gone.
Flannery hoped that someday, his mysterious helper might be able to find a little of the peace he brought to others.