Haunting-Adeline

loca ons that won’t allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly, and too
many broken bones to count.
Dickhead won’t be ge ng up and walking out of here, that’s for damn
sure.
“Less crying, more talking,” I bark, scraping the p of the knife against
his s ll-closed eyelid.
He cringes away from the knife, tears bubbling out from beneath his
lashes.
“H-his name is Fernando. He’s one of the opera on leaders in charge of
sending out mules to help capture the girls. He-he’s a big deal in the
warehouse, b-basically runs the whole thing there.”
“Fernando what?” I snap.
He sobs. “I don’t know, man,” he wails. “He just introduced himself as
Fernando.”
“Then what does he look like?” I grind out impa ently through gri ed
teeth.
He sniffles, snot leaking down his chapped lips.
“Mexican, bald, has a scar cu ng across his hairline, and a beard. You
can’t miss the scar, it’s pre y fucked looking.”
I roll my neck, groaning as the muscles pop. It’s been a long fucking day.
“Cool, thanks man,” I say casually, as if I haven’t been torturing him
slowly for the past three hours.
His breathing calms, and he looks up at me through ugly brown eyes,
hope radia ng from them in spades.
I almost laugh.
“Y-you’re le ng me go?” he asks, staring up at me like a goddamn stray
puppy dog.
“Sure,” I chirp. “If you can get up and walk.”
He looks down at his severed heels, knowing just as well as I do if he
stands, his body will go pitching forward.
“Please, man,” he blubbers. “Can you help me out here?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I can do that,” I say, right before I swing my
arm back and plunge the en rety of my knife through his pupil.
He dies instantly. Not even all the hope has vanished from his eyes yet.
Or rather, his one eye.