Buried Slaughter by Ryan Casey

couldn’t. Something was blocking his mouth. He was trapped. The killer‌—‌or killers‌—‌had him. They’d sniffed out David Wallson and they’d sniffed out Brian as his source and they were going to cause them both a world of pain.
    Just as the thought of his potential fate entered his mind, Brian heard a sound somewhere up ahead. A metallic noise, and a creaking, like an old door. Instead of trusting his instincts and shaking for his life, Brian realised he was completely still. He was holding his breath. Waiting. Listening.
    He heard a few whispers. Footsteps approaching. His heart was rattling his entire body. He wanted to just sink into a hole in the ground and go back to the start. He wished he’d never even got involved in this stupid fucking case. It wasn’t his case to involve himself in. A tear dripped down his cheek, also taking him by surprise. The footsteps were getting closer. He thought back to that one man with his gun. If they had guns, then they meant business.
    In an instant, and with a harsh jolt of the neck, light returned to Brian’s vision. He could tell right away that he was in some kind of cellar area. He’d noticed the musty metallic smell earlier, but had been too panicked to think much of it. As the sharpness gradually returned to his vision, the intensity of the solitary light bulb softening, Brian could see the two figures standing above him. They were still wearing their balaclavas.
    And one of them still had a gun in his hand.
    “This was a bad idea, Tony.”
    The man with the gun‌—‌Tony‌—‌smacked the other man in his stomach. “What the fuck did I tell you about not saying my name? Fucking prick. Pull yourself together. This has to be done.” Tony turned to face Brian again and yanked a piece of cloth that had tightly gripped his mouth shut. The corners of his mouth were chapped and sore. But the way the other guy‌—‌not Tony‌—‌had just spurted out his friend’s name reassured him somewhat. These people didn’t seem all that organised, or even methodical.
    But why did they have him tied up, with a gun in his face?
    It was at that point that Brian heard a coughing somewhere to his right. He tried to turn his neck so that he could look, but it was very stiff.
    “Fuck,” Not Tony said. “The other one’s awake.”
    Tony sighed and stomped out of Brian’s line of sight, leaving Not Tony in front of him. Even though Not Tony’s face was still covered by a balaclava, Brian could tell this guy was nervous and uncomfortable just from the way he stood there scratching his forearms.
    “Please,” Brian whispered. He didn’t intend for it to be a whisper but it was about as much as he could manage right now. “I don’t understand why I’m…‌why I’m…‌”
    A sharp pain hit the side of Brian’s face. Not Tony flinched.
    “You don’t talk until you’re spoken to, understand?” It was Tony who’d hit him. David Wallson‌—‌at least, the person he assumed was David Wallson‌—‌had gone silent again.
    Brian held his breath. The smell of the room was damp and musty. Droplets of water dripped from somewhere above. He figured they were downstairs somewhere. In a cellar or a basement. Somewhere out of sight.
    Somewhere where nobody would hear them protest.
    Tony leaned in towards Brian. Brian could smell his strong, sickly breath even from behind the black balaclava. “Why the fuck were you sniffing around us today, hmm? I told you we’d behave. We both did. But you just couldn’t help but sniff around, could you?”
    Brian squinted. The guy called Tony was making less and less sense. “I don’t know what you think I’m doing or who you think I am, but‌—‌”
    “Don’t bullshit me, ‘Detective’,” Tony said. “My little brother and me saw you in the pub earlier, just like you were the last time you got us wrongly locked up. So what is it this time, huh? Because I swear, we ain’t done nothin’. Nothin’ at