Specter's Gamble - 2. Chapter 2

Specter's Gamble (chapter 2)

“If you work hard enough, Desmond, you might become one of the Guardians.” His Grandmother looked at him intently, her white hair framing her slim face. She was in her early sixties but remained beautiful nonetheless. Back when she was a young girl, her hair was the same color as Desmond’s – raven-black. She started to get grey hair by the time she hit thirty, and by now, she was completely white. Sometimes, Desmond wondered if the same thing would happen to him eventually.

“Now,” she continued without looking away from him. “You want to become someone important, like a Guardian, correct?”

“Not really,” Desmond thought but he knew better than to say it out loud. He was only eight, but he was young and not stupid. He knew that if he said something like that, he’d end up getting another scar added to his impressive by now collection.

“Yes, Grandmother,” he said instead, nodding his head.

“You’d better,” she said and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I’d hate for you to become someone useless. Now go to your room and read. Make sure you put the book on the shelf when you are done with it,” she added.

“Yes, Grandmother,” Desmond said again and went to his room, which was strikingly immaculate and clean for an eight-year-old boy.

Desmond used to make a hell of a mess when he was three years old. By now, he knew better. “At least she doesn’t make me alphabetize them,” he shrugged to himself after pulling a book off the shelf. He didn’t mind reading; in fact, he enjoyed it. The problem was that he had read all of these books at least five times by now, and reading them again was insanely boring. He opened the book and mindlessly flipped through the pages, glancing at words and phrases. In case if his Grandmother asked him what was on the page he just read, he’d be prepared.

He stared at the page without seeing it, his mind wondering. Become a Guardian? He snorted very softly. Hell, no! He couldn’t understand what was so appealing about the whole thing. Every kid he knew was obsessing about the Guardians. There was one kid – Daniel – who could do things with the Earth, like make it shake whenever he felt like it, or rise suddenly under your feet. He did that to Desmond once, just for the hell of it, it seemed, and Desmond ended up losing his balance and landing on one of the sharper rocks with his butt. It hurt like hell and he thought that he broke something. He didn’t, but his hip was bruised badly after that. Daniel laughed like it was the most hilarious thing in the world. He was a couple of years older than Desmond, and he was convinced that he was a Guardian in the making. Desmond heard him talking to his best friend once. “I bet, Claudia herself will come and get us!” he said excitedly, and Desmond just started laughing uncontrollably. “What’s funny?” Daniel’s friend asked sharply, his eyes narrowing down to slits.

“Claudia herself will come and get you?” Desmond repeated, shaking with laughter. “Yeah, right! If she will, it’ll be only to get on your asses for trying to steal her panties!”

Daniel’s friend – Nicholas – didn’t say anything to that; he just got very pale, and then the wind shoved Desmond in the back with astonishing viciousness. Nicholas could do things with the Air. Daniel pulled his friend away then, muttering something about control and bratty little bastards. Soon after that, the incident with the rock happened. Desmond’s Grandmother was furious when she noticed that his clothes were ripped – his pants got caught on the rock – and Desmond’s day got even worse. Not only his hip was aching mercilessly, but now his back hurt like hell also.

He hissed softly at the memory and flipped the page of the book. He would never become one of the Guardians. Not just because he couldn’t control any of the elements (it still puzzled him that his Grandmother thought that one of those days, he’d be miraculously able to control Water or Fire), but also because he hated the very definition of a Guardian. “To serve the greater good.” Desmond hated the word ‘serve.’ That word automatically aligned with the word ‘slave’ in his head, and Desmond would never become anyone’s slave, not Good’s nor Evil’s. “If I will serve someone,” he thought. “It would only be myself.”

He heard careful steps just outside his door and he knew that his Grandmother planned on bursting into his room, to make sure that he was indeed reading and not doing something useless. Desmond sighed and stared at the page of the book, his forehead wrinkling with fake concentration. He knew that she was going to say something about him being a slow reader, which wasn’t true but Desmond couldn't care less. He looked up with perfectly arranged surprise, as if he had no clue he heard her coming.

“Are you awake?” she said and Desmond blinked with genuine puzzlement now. “Hey, Specter, are you awake?”

He frowned, and then everything around him shifted slightly and blinked out of the existence. He slowly opened his eyes and closed them again immediately. His head pulsated with nauseating pain. Then he remembered what happened earlier and gritted his teeth. His arms hurt as well and he tried to figure out why. He said something that sounded like, “Nngh...” and moved his shoulder. That was when he realized that both of his arms were pulled up and it felt like he was tied to something. He carefully moved his thumb along his fingers, trying to get to his ring. It wasn’t there. Well, damn, he thought.

“Looking for your ring?” someone asked, and Desmond carefully opened one eye and looked up. A man stood in front of him, his expression solemn, dark eyes almost apologetic. Desmond had no idea who he was.

“I removed it,” the man nodded when he caught Desmond’s glare. “Didn’t want you to hurt yourself... Sorry about your head,” he added after a second. “I wanted this to be as quiet as possible, and unfortunately, with you being awake, that would be quite difficult.”

Desmond pulled on the ties that bind his wrists together. They didn’t seem to be too tight; there was a chance of him being able to get out of them...

“You are handcuffed,” the man said as if reading his mind. “You won’t be able to loosen the grip. Sorry about that.”

Polite bastard, Desmond thought darkly. All right, this is just a setback. Happened before. He studied the man’s face more closely now. He seemed to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties; his hair was short and brown, matching his eyes.

“Would you like some water?” the man asked as politely as before.

Desmond coughed and winced when it sent another jolt of pain through his skull.

“Are you suicidal?” he asked finally and smirked when he saw a shadow of puzzlement on the man’s face.

“I beg your pardon?” the man said in a low voice.

“Are you suicidal?” Desmond repeated patiently.

“No, I am not,” his capturer said slowly. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well,” Desmond tried to sit up a bit and to ease the pressure on his shoulders. “You sure are aware of the fact that when I get out of these...” he made an emphasis on the word ‘when.’ “...I am going to kill you, right?” he finished.

The man hemmed.

“Yes,” he nodded seriously. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

“This is why I am wondering if you are suicidal,” Desmond said evenly.

He didn’t feel like wasting time on useless questions like “Who are you?” or “What do you want?” He didn’t care, to be honest. There could be a number of reasons this man wanted him. At least it was clear that killing him wasn’t on the agenda. Well, not yet.

“I am not suicidal,” the man said softly. “As for you getting out of these...” he glanced at the handcuffs and shrugged. “I will make sure I prevent that from happening. Would you like some water?” he asked again.

Desmond swallowed hard and realized that in fact yes, he wouldn’t mind selling one of his kidneys to get some water right now. He didn’t say anything, however. The man just nodded, as if he didn’t expect anything different from him, and walked away. He returned a minute later with a glass of water in his hand. He kneeled next to Desmond, whose head kept pulsating with jolts of pain, and brought the glass to his mouth.

Desmond pressed his lips tight and looked at the man steadily. The man sighed.

“I don’t want you to suffer more than necessary,” he said patiently. “As I said, I am sorry about your head... And your knee as well,” he added. “But it was something I had to do. I do not intend to torture you, so just drink some... Please,” he said in the same patient tone of voice.

“You first,” Desmond said through his clenched teeth and the man let out an amused laughter.

“You think that I am going to poison you?” he asked. “Specter, if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now.”

Specter, Desmond thought. That’s the second time he used that name. It was one of his aliases; the one he usually used for big-shot-deals, not like the one he finished tonight. That last case he worked under the alias Phantom. He didn’t say anything; he just looked at him. The man sighed again and rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he said and took two gulps out of the glass. “Satisfied?” and he moved the glass closer to Desmond’s mouth once again.

“Turn the glass,” Desmond said. “This side has your drool on it.”

“I am not contagious,” the man muttered but turned the glass.

The water was deliciously cold. Desmond drank hungrily and ended up choking on it.

“Easy,” the man muttered and slapped him on the back rather hard when he started coughing violently.

Finally, the cough stopped and Desmond nodded his head at the glass again. His capturer pressed it against his mouth, and this time Desmond drank slower, emptying the entire glass. After he finished all the water, the man set the glass on the floor next to him. Desmond immediately thought that if he knocked the bastard out with a swift, precise kick to the head, he’d be able to break the glass and somehow to get hold of the sharp pieces. He knew that if he slithered his wrists with blood, he’d be able to get his hands out of the cuffs. He almost started going through with that plan – one of his legs twitched and was about to fly up towards the guy’s temple – when the man said softly:

“Don’t make me tie your legs as well.”

Desmond blinked. Was he that easy to read? The guy shrugged almost indifferently.

“I did a hell of the research on you,” he said and moved the glass out of Desmond’s reach. “I know what you are capable of, and I know how good you are at what you do.”

Desmond gritted his teeth.

“As I said,” the man continued. “I am not going to torture or kill you. I have to make sure that you stay put until the end of the month, and then I’ll let you go.”

“End of the month?” Desmond asked incredulously and the man nodded. “You are going to keep me chained up until the end of the month?!”

The man shrugged.

“I will figure something out to make it more comfortable for you,” he said. “I am not going to make you sleep in this position, I promise.”

“I am going to kill this bastard,” Desmond thought furiously. “And I am going to do it slowly, and God help me, I am going to enjoy every second of it...”

“I am Gabriel, by the way,” the bastard said meanwhile. He sighed and got up, grabbing the glass from the floor. “I am going to make dinner. It will be ready in half an hour or so,” and he went away without waiting for Desmond’s response.

The minute he was out of sight, Desmond looked up at his hands, ignoring the immediate jolt of pain that shot through his head. The cuffs weren’t too tight, he thought with relief. If he could only get something to slither his wrists with... He glanced around wildly. There was absolutely nothing within his reach. “You could always use your own spit,” the voice in his head said calmly. “You used it as lube before, for different purposes though...”

Right, he thought darkly. Spit alone won’t be enough. “Well,” the voice said reasonably. “You could always rip your skin open with your teeth, that’ll make you bleed...” Desmond winced. Yeah, he could do that. He’ll save it for later though, for the time when he is truly out of ideas. He pulled on the cuffs hard, making sure he didn't produce any noise. The bastard was still in the kitchen, and judging by the sounds and smells that reached Desmond, he was indeed cooking something. Desmond yanked on the cuffs once again and hissed though his clenched teeth when the damn things bit into his wrists thus causing a short explosion of new pain.

“Son of a bitch...” he whispered and tried to get up. That was a surprisingly difficult task, since both of his arms were stretched above his head and somewhat twisted behind his back, and he almost pulled his left shoulder out of its socket while trying to get on his feet. Finally, he succeeded and felt like he just had a hell of a workout. He stared at the cuffs thoughtfully. Now what? The chain of the handcuffs went around a pipe that looked like it could survive through Armageddon. Desmond knew that there was no way in hell he could break that pipe.

He pulled on the chain several times, just to make sure. The damn pipe was as strong as it looked. Desmond got so preoccupied with the bloody pipe that he didn’t even hear the bastard to come out of the kitchen.

“Please,” the bastard said softly and Desmond froze. “Really, I would hate to do something that would make you even more uncomfortable... Stop trying to escape; there is nothing you can do, just deal with it... Treat this like...” he shrugged. “A temporary setback,” he said and Desmond almost burst into laughter.

Setback, he thought. He was thinking that same thing a bit ago. He slowly turned his head and looked at the man who kept him chained to the damn pipe.

“The food is ready,” the bastard said calmly. “I am going to get you to the couch, okay? Please, don’t try anything funny... I am polite,” he said calmly. “And I am trying to be nice to others, but...” he shrugged. “Most people mistake this for a weakness...” he frowned slightly. “I’d hate it if you were one of them,” he finished.

“I am not like most people,” Desmond responded calmly. The bastard nodded.

“I figured that much,” he said. “I just thought I’d make it clear...”

“Have you killed anyone before?” Desmond asked suddenly and the bastard’s shoulders immediately tensed.

“Yes,” he answered softly. “I did not enjoy it,” he muttered.

“Was it an accident?” Desmond asked almost leisurely, his hands trying to find the weakness of the pipe.

“One was,” the bastard replied carefully, his gaze locked on Desmond’s hands.

“How many were there?” Desmond asked casually without letting his despair to flow through.

The bastard shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said calmly. “Specter, I am going to move you to the couch now... Please, don’t try anything funny... Because if you try something...” he shrugged again. “I’m not gonna have any choice. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will do it if I have to,” he finished as calmly as before.

“Deal,” Desmond answered shortly.

“Okay,” the bastard nodded solemnly.

Later, when he was thinking about it, Desmond couldn’t figure out what exactly happened. One minute, he was chained to the pipe, his wrists sore, shoulders aching; the next minute, one of his wrists was free, and he was finally able to lower his arms. He didn’t see anything in the bastard’s hands – no key, no nothing. It was like all the guy had to do, was to touch the metal cuffs in order to unlock them. Desmond was led to the shabby-looking couch, and before he could put his now free hands to use (breaking this bastard’s neck would definitely feel exquisite), the cuffs were around his wrists again, and this time, both his arms were twisted behind his back. Desmond gritted his teeth but kept his expression indifferent. He glanced at the table in front of the couch. A plate filled with something that looked like potatoes and beef was sitting there.

“You expect me to eat like this?” he asked, moving his shoulders slightly. “Like a dog out of the bowl?”

“No,” the bastard said as calmly as before. “Sit.”

Desmond slowly sat down , watching the guy warily. When he picked up a forkful of food and brought it to Desmond’s mouth, the assassin let out disbelieving laughter.

“You kidding me!” he snorted. “You gonna feed me?!”

The bastard shrugged and nodded silently. Hell, no, Desmond thought. Pain he could handle; he didn’t enjoy it but he could handle it. This, however, was humiliating. He shook his head, his mouth twitching in a nasty smile.

“Free up one of my hands,” he said. “I don’t care which one.”

“I am afraid, I can’t do that,” the bastard replied in the same polite manner as before. That politeness was starting to infuriate Desmond. “You are dangerous even now. With one of your hands free, you’d be even more dangerous.”

Desmond looked into his dark eyes.

“Then you can shove that fork,” he said coolly and felt some weak satisfaction when the guy’s eyes narrowed just a little. Not that composed after all, he thought.

“I don’t want you to starve,” the guy said evenly and Desmond smiled when he recognized a shadow of anger in his voice.

“Then you’ll have to force-feed me,” he said. “And believe me when I say it...” he smiled again. “It’s not going to be easy. I’ll bite your fucking hand off.”

The guy’s eyes darkened and he put the fork down onto the plate. Then he got up and yanked Desmond up on his feet. Without saying anything, he pushed him back towards the corner of the room, and before Desmond could do or say something, he was hugging the same damn pipe again. The bastard went back to the table, picked up the plate, and went away without saying anything. Desmond leaned on the wall and closed his eyes.