Chapter four

“What’s your plan?” John asked inquisitively.

“I need you to go into the kitchen, and right above the sink, open the cabinet. There’s a vial—bring it to me. Don’t spill it, and definitely don’t get a drop on yourself. Got it?”

“Got it!” John paused and then asked, “Wait… what’s in it? I’m not about to slip on your shitty floor and end up covered in something deadly, right?”

Dillon replied, “To be honest, it’s lysergic acid diethylamide.”

“The hell is that?” John asked, while opening the cabinet.

“It’s LSD, John.”

John winced. “Why the hell do you need that? Planning to take a trip while torturing someone downstairs? May the gods have mercy.” He handed the vial over to Dillon.

Dillon reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, blue piece of metal. He placed it along with the vial on the floating table in front of them. Dillon’s living room was immaculate, filled with subtle yet remarkable technological marvels. The floor was covered in white carpet, which could change color at any time, and the furniture was white leather, accented with marble filigree on the armrests and legs. The table in the center was a suspended piece of marble, seemingly floating in mid-air. There was a magnet below the surface of the carpet, and the table had one inside it as well. John, without fully understanding the science, found it impressive.

The table also served as a smart screen, displaying options when a cup was placed on it. You could simply press “HOT” or “COLD” to regulate your drink’s temperature—no need for ice cubes or microwaves. It was convenient, but John didn’t have time to dwell on it. Dillon interrupted his thoughts.

Dillon had laid a pair of panties and a bra on the table, wearing peculiar black gloves as he handled the vial of LSD.

“What’re you doing?” John asked.

“Based on your observations, what do you think I’m doing?” he responded.

“It appears, Sir, that you’ve gone batshit crazy and are trying to give these panties an acid trip.” John gestured dramatically, making him smirk.

“Absolutely. It’s always been a dream of mine to record the out-of-body experiences of clothing under the influence of psychedelics.”

They both laughed, and then John asked more seriously, “No, really though… what’s your actual plan here?”

“You’ll find out if you stick around long enough, John.”

“Ugh,” John groaned.

Dillon waved the blue metal over the clothes. The tip, about the size of a pencil eraser, glowed a bright baby blue, misting what John assumed was the LSD onto the undergarments. John could only imagine what sinister plan Dillon had in mind. This was some next-level revenge, he thought.

He finished spraying the clothing and warned, “Whatever you do, don’t touch those clothes without gloves. It’s concentrated enough to have you talking to Mr. Mushrooms for about sixteen hours.”

John replied, “You know, I’ve dabbled in that sort of thing, but I’m not interested in whatever concoction you’re planning. And if you think I’m going to dress up and seduce secrets out of some villain downstairs, you’ve got another thing coming!”

He took a deep breath, winded from his rant.

Dillon chuckled, “No, John. You’re not dressing up today. I have bigger plans for these. But I need you to watch my wife while I handle some business downstairs. Can you do that for me?”

“Absolutely. Just throw on some TV, and I’ll be fine,” John replied happily.

“Thanks, I owe you one,” he said. He got up, tossed his gloves in the trash, dusted off his grey trousers, and walked downstairs.

Dillon walked across the black granite floor towards the door leading to his basement, mentally preparing himself for what was ahead. He was in complete control of his emotions, as always. He recalled his training, particularly one moment that stuck with him: the question, “Who is the most powerful man in the world?”

While others gave answers like “bodybuilders” or “Marines,” Dillon had thought of something just as trivial. But the instructor’s answer was different: “The most powerful man is one who has complete control over his emotions.”

That idea shaped him. He had become someone who didn’t succumb to anger or sadness, someone who controlled what he felt. He remembered once wrecking his car while on leave. His friends were panicked, but Dillon remained calm, doing what he knew needed to be done—medically assessing the situation and making the necessary phone calls.

In another instance, he witnessed a comrade stab another soldier in the neck. While others were horrified, he felt nothing. His iron mind was in control, he only felt numb.

And now, as he dealt with his wife’s betrayal, he remained unaffected. He wasn’t angry or sad. In fact, he was having fun. Fun wasn’t something he could control; it was an honest reaction to enjoying what he was doing. Torturing this man and planning for his wife—this was a way to feel something different. He was in control of the entire situation.

He approached the room in his basement and could hear a groaning sound from the man he held captive inside. He cracked his neck and stepped into character, he was now vicious and evil. He was ruthless and numb, he could do anything to this man and feel nothing-and it was time to have some fun. He saw the man was limp against the wall.

Held there by four restraints, one on each arm electromagnetically attaching the man’s limbs to the wall, suspended off the ground like you might see Davinchi’s Vitruvian Man. He was covered in zig zagged scars and large seeping wounds stitched together by copper wire. He could see infection on the man’s arms and abdomen, and some in his neck. Staph infection was starting to take over.

The man was not aware of his presence in the room, his body was shut down recovering from the mere hours of sleep he received for the first time today.

The former spy approached a table in the corner of the room and poured a clear liquid into a glass cup from a pitcher. Taking a sip from the cup “Truly, A fine Vodka.” He said menacingly. Then, he took the pitcher and softly approached the man on the wall.

He was studying the soul before him, he took pity on the man for a moment. It was human instinct he was being punished for, he knew not the torment he would receive for his crimes. For it is a crime to knowingly sleep with another man’s wife. It is another crime to have a relationship with that man’s wife also.

For breaking these moral codes, the man would suffer. Dillon spoke an exaggerated “Good Morning!”

as he slowly poured the almost entirely full pitcher over the man’s copper wire stitched together wounds on his neck, arms, and basically his entire body at this point. “YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGH” the blood curdling scream emitting from this tortured soul was enough to raise the dead from their crypts. Huffing and panting he spat out on Dillon’s face to which Dillon laughed and continued pouring “Must sterilize the wounds, as they say.”

He spoke with a cocky pompous voice as he watched the vodka mix with rust coming from the wire and dried blood, all mixing together and dripping an orange stream from the neck down to his toes, infection spreading from one part of the body to the next and onto the floor. Dillon was filled with excitement, he truly felt alive in this moment. The executioner took out a pair of pliers from his pocket and stepped to the left side of his victim.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He then grabbed hold of the end of the copper wire protruding from the back of his victim’s hand. It was a stretch of wire that held together a large gaping wound appeared to have been done with a thick dull blade from his hand to his shoulder. The pattern of the wound was something out of a horror film, it was clearly swollen and the wire had begun to rust together with the dried blood and puss. Dillon gave a tug “AAAAAAAA-“ and looked into the eyes of his prey, making full contact with him as he slowly pulled the wire further out of his body. With the wire out and the man still screaming, he continued pouring some of the vodka on the now open and bleeding wound and he stopped when half of the pitcher remained and took a step back to examine his work further.

“BLOODY FUCKING –Inaudible screams-“Dillon couldn’t make out the rest of the words but he replied. “You have lasted longer than expected, but your final hour has arrived my friend.” Blood was now pouring down the left side of the naked man’s body, combining with the now slowly dripping stream of orange from the other areas of himself.

He walked over to a duffle bag on the floor, placed his pitcher and pliers down, and pulled out a circular disk about the size of his hand. “This,” he explained, “Is a little invention of mine . Ignito Circalus. If you understand the Latin undertone, it means ‘Fire Circle.’ Let me show you how it works.” He held the disk at eye level and pressed a button on its side. *Beep*. The disk ignited, producing a foot-high blue flame, similar to that from a blowtorch, seemingly out of thin air.

“I’m going to place this under the stairs on my way out,” Dillon said, the flame flickering in front of him. “It will burn indefinitely.” He paused for effect, locking eyes with the unnamed figure in front of him. “Naturally, you understand this means the house will burn down on top of you. You’ll either suffocate or be crushed by the debris.” Dillon took a moment to reflect. “If you die, you will be forgiven. If you live, I will find you. And with that, I bid you farewell.” He exited the room and, as promised, placed the Ignitocircalus at the foot of the stairs.

When he returned to the living room, he found John with his feet kicked up on the pristine white couch, oblivious to the fact that he was staining its perfect finish. No matter, Dillon thought. It would all be over soon anyway.

“John!” Dillon barked as he tossed a pair of gloves onto John’s lap. “Get those clothes on her! It’s time.”

John panicked and immediately started sweating as he fumbled with the gloves. “But Dillon! She’s your wife! I-I-I-I can’t—she’s naked!”

He snatched the gloves from John’s hands and put them on himself. “Then start the car.” He stretched his fingers inside the gloves and, with precise care, grabbed the undergarments from the table and began dressing his wife.

She was beautiful, he thought. Dillon briefly remembered what love felt like, but he pushed the thought aside—it was a deep subject he didn't want to dwell on now. In this moment, he was in control. Once she was fully dressed, he fixed the clasp on her bra one last time, then hoisted her over his shoulder. Her hair, soft and luxurious, caressed his back as he exited the house.

“Raina, disable all internal alarms and engage safe lock on all doors. Boot yourself to ‘The Hand’ and await further instructions,” Dillon commanded.

A calm, celestial voice responded from nowhere, “Acknowledged, Dillon. Stay safe.” As quickly as the voice chimed in, it disappeared.

He rushed towards downtown, dropping John off on the way to ensure he wouldn’t be implicated. “Stay safe, John. I’ll see you again soon.”

John waved. “Thanks, mate. Good luck out there.”

He sped toward his next mission. He left his wife in the middle of downtown, dressed in the clothes laced with LSD. He carefully helped her to a bench and placed a capsule in her mouth that would bring her to alertness in about twenty seconds, at which point the hallucinations would begin.

He jumped back into the car and sped towards the outskirts of town. Dillon had made a mess of everything, and it was well deserved, he thought. However, he hadn’t expected what happened next. He was being pulled over by the police.

“Dillon Grey?” the officer asked.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Sir, I need you to step out of the car.”

He looked amused. “Under what charges?”

The officer rested his hand on his gun. “Arson, attempted murder, criminal confinement... just a few that come to mind. Now, step out of the car, sir.”

His eyes narrowed, his pupils dilating to a size nearly invisible to the human eye. His vision adjusted, filtering out the sun’s glare as his “God Eye” locked onto the officer’s gun. All he needed to do was disarm him, and his optic would handle the rest, pulling the trigger the moment the gun was aligned with its target. The accuracy had never let him down in over 15 years of operations.

But today, he felt like walking into the station. Surely, the man he had tortured couldn’t have survived. He stepped out of the car and followed the officer’s instructions.

At the station, he was handcuffed and led past a room where he saw his good friend John Belmont, also in cuffs, sitting alone at a table. Dillon’s heart sank. He didn’t want this for John. John had a newborn at home, and his wife would kill him if she knew he was arrested for helping Dillon.

He was led down a corridor and placed in a room with three officers in front of him and the customary one-way mirror behind. They chained him to the table, though he still had enough mobility to move his arms.

“Dillon Grey, you’ve been Miranda’d and placed under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Do you wish to have a lawyer or a court-appointed attorney?” one officer asked.

“I’ll comply with your questions,” he replied quickly.

The officers looked down at him, arms crossed and clearly agitated. He suspected they could access some of his less classified information, enough to understand why he was a dangerous man.

“Do you know this man?” One officer showed him a picture of the man Dillon had tortured.

“I do. How did he survive?” He asked, intrigued.

“Do you admit to attempting to murder him and confining him against his will?” the officer pressed.

Dillon smiled. “Sir, could you first explain how he survived?”

The officer looked to his supervisor for approval before continuing. “The man was in your basement when you set the fire. When the power went out, he freed himself from his restraints. He used the hose from the shower nozzle as a breathing apparatus and stuck it into the toilet, past the U-bend, where he accessed a supply of air. He survived until first responders put the fire out and found him.”

Dillon burst into laughter. “That smart motherfucker.”

One of the officers touched the table, pulling up a video feed of Dillon’s wife in a jail uniform, wandering around a cell and screaming at the walls.

“And what did you do to her?” another officer asked.

He slapped the table, laughing. “Ha-ha! I have no idea what you’re talking about. The woman’s always been crazy.”

At that moment, Police Chief Kendall Roman entered the room.

“Dillon, we’re going to press for ten years in prison for you and your accomplice, John Belmont.”

His smile faded. “Not John. He didn’t do anything. He just stopped by for coffee earlier, that’s all.”

Roman shook his head. “I’ll get the prosecution I want, Mr. Grey. But what I want from you is a confession.”

He considered this for a moment. “Let John Belmont go,” he said confidently.

“I’m afraid you’re in no position to bargain,” Roman replied without hesitation.

Dillon’s God Eye focused on Roman’s pocket and the Chief’s cell phone rang immediately. Roman picked it up. “Yeah, he’s here under arrest… No… He’s about to confess—Yes, sir.” He hung up and ushered the other officers out of the room. “There’s a…Mr. Sharp on his way to see you,” Roman said before leaving.

He smiled.

A few hours later, Sgt. Sharp entered the room, wearing a white suit and sunglasses. Dillon couldn’t help but smirk.

“My, how you’ve fallen, Under arrest!” Sharp exclaimed as he sat down, smiling. “I got your signal. You’re looking at ten years in prison, Dillon.”

“I know what that means,” he said calmly. “But I don’t fear death. I’ve been waiting for it my whole life.”

Sharp nodded. “As you know, the government changed the rules after you got out. Now, after ten years, they just execute you. It’s a solution to overcrowded prisons.”

He nodded in agreement. “I remember seeing the riots. The death penalty was expanded to those serving fifty-plus years, and now it’s down to ten. Jesus.”

Sharp continued, “We’ve shut down over 60% of prisons. Crime rates have dropped because people are terrified of the legal system. But you… you’re still out here terrorizing civilians. Why?”

he laughed. “The bastard fucked my wife. No one does that to me.”

Sharp shook his head. “Well, they’re lining you and John Belmont up for the death penalty.”

he frowned. “John’s a good man. Not like me. What do you want?”

Sharp leaned in. “I don’t want anything, Dillon. You called me.”

He smirked. “I want you to free John Belmont.”

Sharp thought for a moment. “It’s tricky. I have to maintain fairness. But... I’ll see what I can do.”

he shrugged, “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Sharp sighed, “You’re not going to like it, Dillon, but I have get a job for you in mind.”

He didn’t care. He was numb to death and betrayal. He didn’t even care much about John, but he knew he should care, so he acted on that sense of duty.

“You know this is a cliché, right?” Dillon said, smirking again. “Secret agent gets a free pass out of jail.”

Sharp laughed. “The government shapes history. You’re worth more than most people.”

He replied, “That’s fucked up, Sharp.”

Sharp glanced at him and said, “Let’s get you out of here.” He motioned with his hand, and Chief Roman entered the room to remove Dillon’s restraints.

“He’s coming with me,” Sharp informed Roman. “The government will take it from here.”

As he rubbed his wrists, Roman hesitated. “One last question, if I may.”

He nodded, flexing his right hand. “Go ahead.”

Roman looked puzzled. “What the hell is wrong with your wife? We tried to release her, and at first, she seemed fine—not intoxicated by alcohol or anything. But the moment she stepped outside, she started stripping and trying to climb into a porta-potty—with someone already inside!”

He chuckled. “Just keep her inside and don’t let her change back into civilian clothes. She’ll be fine in about 12 hours. Ha-ha.”

As they walked outside, Dillon spotted John Belmont also leaving the station. Nearby, one of the officers who had been trying to restrain Dillon’s wife was now on the ground, tangled in a struggle. Suddenly, the officer stood up, shouting, and began tearing off his own clothes, jumping around wildly.

He grinned as he glanced back at the chaos. “You might want to wear gloves with this one! Ha-ha-ha!” he called out before he and Sharp headed for the citadel.