Scott Sigler - Ancestor

The ancestors were out there, hunting. Could be anywhere on the island. Anywhere. Colding forced his hands to stop shaking. He didn’t know where Sara was, if she was even alive at all. But the Harveys? He knew exactly where they were. And Magnus knew where Rhumkorrf was, whether Andy had lived or not. They had to get away from Sven’s house, and fast.

“Doc, we’re going to the Harveys’ house. You can either get on the snowmobile with me, or I will make you get on it. I really don’t want to put my hands on you again, okay?”

The little man looked at him, shook his head one more time, then he dropped the frozen ancestor shit on the kitchen floor. “You’ll get us killed,” he said. “Let’s go.”

MAGNUS FINISHED WRAPPING the duct tape around Clayton’s ankles, firmly securing him to the folding chair. He’d already taped Clayton’s hands behind him. The security room’s harsh fluorescent lighting played off the old man’s swelling left eye. Clayton’s head hung down, wobbling each time he was bumped.

The head lifted a bit. Clayton blinked rapidly, seemed to snap out of it. “Someone help me! Get this crazy fucker off me!” No confusion. He knew where he was, he knew what had happened.

Magnus slapped him, rocking the old man’s head back and drawing blood from his lower lip.

“No one is here, Clayton. Gunther is in the fire tower. Colding is dead by now. The only person coming back here is Andy, and we know how much he loves you.”

Clayton spit blood onto the security room’s floor.

Magnus had arrived first, then just sat in the dark security room and waited. Clayton had come alone, turned on the lights, then Magnus hit him and it was lights-out. Couldn’t have been easier.

Magnus walked to the weapons rack and grabbed one of the compact MP5 submachine guns. He clipped on a gun strap, loaded the weapon, then set it on the ground.

The time for civility had ended. Now it was time to add a new knife to his collection.

Magnus grabbed one of the white Ka-Bar boxes. He opened it and looked at the round handle made of stacked leather washers, looked at the leather sheath. New knives had that smell . He dropped the box, then ran his belt through the sheath’s loop. It hung nicely on his left side. Only when it was securely in place did he grip the handle and pull.

The seven-inch, flat-black blade seemed to smile at him. The knife reflected no light save for the thin, razor-sharp edge.

“I know you,” Magnus said to the knife.

He held the knife with his right hand. With his left, he picked up the MP5. The weapons felt solid in his hands. Balanced. Real . A lot of variables were flying around, for certain, maybe too many things to process all at once. But he always knew what to do with the knife. The knife made decisions easy. He walked in front of Clayton and set the knife on the floor.

The old man stared at it. He was very afraid, clearly, but that angry, defiant attitude still exuded from his every fiber.

“Clayton, I don’t have a lot of time. I’ve done this before. Many times. I know exactly how to get what I want. It’s better for you if you just cooperate. Do you understand?”

Clayton said nothing.

“Where did you hide Sara Purinam?”

“Did you look up your asshole? Oh wait, your head is already there, so you’d have seen her by now.”

Insolent old bastard. Magnus had something special for him. He slung the MP5 over his shoulder and walked back to the weapons rack. There he screwed a torch tip onto a can of propane. He opened the valve, took a lighter off the shelf and walked in front of Clayton again.

Clayton saw the propane can, heard the hiss of gas, and shook his head. He understood. “Don’t you fucking do it, you sick fuck.”

Magnus flicked the lighter. The torch’s pointy blue flame snapped into existence. He put the lighter in his pocket. Magnus had a philosophy when it came to torture: Seeing is believing, but feeling is faith .

He picked up the knife and held the blade in front of the flame. Usually, he did this part in the dark, letting the blowtorch flame be the only illumination up until the blade glowed red. It was a great psychological motivator before the cutting began, but he simply didn’t have time for the extras.

“Last chance,” Magnus said as he gently moved the flame up and down the seven-inch Ka-Bar blade. “You’re going to tell me what I want to know. The only question is how badly you’ll be burned when you finally talk.”

“Just do it,” Clayton hissed, his eyes squeezed wrinkle-tight in anticipation of agony. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, da valiant never taste of death but once, eh?”

The quote came out of nowhere, so random it made Magnus lower the torch. “I’m shocked. You know Julius Caesar?”

“Never met him,” Clayton said, his eyes still scrunched tight. “Kerouac said that shit to me once when we were nailing some whores down in Copper Harbor.”

Typical American. So crude. But crude or not, this old man was tougher than Magnus had suspected. Talking would just waste time unless parameters were established.

Magnus closed the torch valve and set the propane canister on the ground. He walked behind Clayton. He grabbed the old man’s right pinkie and slid the hot blade into the skin. Blood poured out, hissing against the blade. Clayton screamed as the blade dug down to the bone. Blood spurted. The smell of burned flesh filled the air. Clayton thrashed in his chair and kept screaming, but Magnus didn’t stop—he bent and twisted the pinkie as he cut, pulling it against the base knuckle. Just like bending a hot wing in half. Blood splattered to the floor as something snapped and a piece of gristle popped out.

Two more knife strokes through the last bits of flesh… the pinkie came right off.

Magnus walked in front of Clayton, tossing the bloody finger up and down in his palm. Tears covered Clayton’s cheeks. Blood streamed from a deep cut in his lower lip where he’d bitten through it. He didn’t look hateful or insolent or tough anymore.

He just looked old.

“You’ve got nine left,” Magnus said. “Ready to talk?”

Clayton nodded.

“Good. Who is with Sara?”

“Just… Tim Feely. Da rest are dead.”

“What about Rhumkorrf? Is he with them?”

Clayton shook his head.

“Are you sure , Clayton?”

The old man nodded. “He’s dead. Sara said he… blew up… like da others.”

Was the old man lying? It was possible that Rhumkorrf and Purinam were separated in the crash. “Tell me how the C-5 got back here.”

“They crashed on Rapleje Bay. Thick ice. A… bomb. They got out and the whole thing blew up, melted through da ice.”

That fit. If Sara had brought it down right before the bomb went off, there would be panic as everyone tried to escape. Rhumkorrf could have gotten separated. Sara had put the C-5 on the ice, then let it sink away. That filthy whore had ruined all of his careful plans, all of his meticulous work.

“Tell me where they are,” Magnus said.

Clayton did.

Magnus reached inside Clayton’s snowsuit, down to his belt, and pulled out the man’s thick ring of keys.

“You don’t mind if I borrow your ride, do you, Pops?” The Bv206 was enclosed and fairly well armored. A snowmobile was faster, but unprotected, and Sara had a Beretta.

Magnus grabbed a duffel bag and quickly stuffed it with MP5 magazines, a backup Beretta and a first-aid kit. Plastique and timers went in the bag as well, just in case Sara had created a defensible position. And what if he needed info from her? He threw in the propane torch and slung the duffel over his shoulder.