had taken each of the photographs himself recently. A hate-filled rage built up in him as he took in the faces before him. It was a hot rage that started in the pit of his stomach and spread out into every inch of his body until he felt like he was on fire. His jaw muscles tightened so much he thought he would crack his teeth. His breathing quickened to a frantic pace, and then he began to strip out of his clothes, until he stood completely naked.
There wasn't a single piece of skin on Blutwolf's body that wasn't marked or scarred in some way. His entire body was a mass of raised scar tissue, like he had endured every form of torture imaginable. There were short and long criss-crossing slashes everywhere, deep pits of damaged tissue caused by the force of blunt objects hitting his body, expansive burn marks that made his skin look like melted plastic, bite marks and places where his flesh was missing altogether, leaving only a ragged depression behind. His face was the only part of his body that didn't have extensive scarring, except a long, deep gash that ran down the left side of his face, caused by a knife that he remembered all too well cutting into him.
Surrounded by lit candles, shadows flickering across his atrociously scarred body, Blutwolf bent down and picked a straight razor up off the dirty carpeted floor. Still looking at the photographs on the wall, the rage still flowing through him like boiling lava, Blutwolf opened the straight razor, and without hesitation, made a long, deep cut across his chest, slicing into the thick scar tissue, sighing with relief as the rage in him seemed to escape through the wound he had created. As the nerves under his scarred and damaged flesh were deadened, he didn't feel the blood running down over the thick clumps of plastic looking scar tissue.
With his left hand, Blutwolf touched the open wound in his chest, dabbing his fingers with blood. Then he walked to the wall and stared at the first photograph. "Don't let me down, Harry," he said, before smearing blood over the Lord Mayor of Belfast's face.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Edger was doing over eighty miles per hour as he drove down the M1 towards Lisburn. Fifteen minutes beforehand, he had phoned Donna Lennon, Rankin Investigation's in-house tech expert, and told her that he needed her help, that it was urgent. Donna refused at first, citing her need to get ready for the concert she was going to at the Odyssey Arena with her girlfriend later in the evening. When Edger told her the situation was life or death, she went quiet for a moment, then said she would help him. He told her he would be with her shortly.
He was still raging over the screw-up back at Rankin's office as he aggressively weaved in and out of the traffic on the motorway. Calling the kidnapper like that had been a stupid mistake, one born out of desperation. He should have known from experience that decisions made in haste and desperation never end well. As it was, he now had half the time he initially had to do something about the kidnapper's demands. The clock on the dash said 4:45 p.m. Which meant he had less than twelve hours to convince Kaitlin's kidnapper that the Lord Mayor of Belfast was dead, either by killing the Mayor, or faking the man's death somehow. Both options were going to be next to impossible to carry out, especially in the small window of time he had to operate in.
An even bigger worry that had started to eat at him was even if he managed to convince the kidnapper the Mayor was dead, what other demands would the kidnapper have after that? Was the bastard going to use Edger as his personal assassin, having Edger running around killing people that the kidnapper had on some list?
Edger had to stop himself from thinking about that.
Focus on the problem at hand.
He needed to find out everything he could about the present Lord Mayor. In doing so, he was hoping that a reason would
There wasn't a single piece of skin on Blutwolf's body that wasn't marked or scarred in some way. His entire body was a mass of raised scar tissue, like he had endured every form of torture imaginable. There were short and long criss-crossing slashes everywhere, deep pits of damaged tissue caused by the force of blunt objects hitting his body, expansive burn marks that made his skin look like melted plastic, bite marks and places where his flesh was missing altogether, leaving only a ragged depression behind. His face was the only part of his body that didn't have extensive scarring, except a long, deep gash that ran down the left side of his face, caused by a knife that he remembered all too well cutting into him.
Surrounded by lit candles, shadows flickering across his atrociously scarred body, Blutwolf bent down and picked a straight razor up off the dirty carpeted floor. Still looking at the photographs on the wall, the rage still flowing through him like boiling lava, Blutwolf opened the straight razor, and without hesitation, made a long, deep cut across his chest, slicing into the thick scar tissue, sighing with relief as the rage in him seemed to escape through the wound he had created. As the nerves under his scarred and damaged flesh were deadened, he didn't feel the blood running down over the thick clumps of plastic looking scar tissue.
With his left hand, Blutwolf touched the open wound in his chest, dabbing his fingers with blood. Then he walked to the wall and stared at the first photograph. "Don't let me down, Harry," he said, before smearing blood over the Lord Mayor of Belfast's face.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Edger was doing over eighty miles per hour as he drove down the M1 towards Lisburn. Fifteen minutes beforehand, he had phoned Donna Lennon, Rankin Investigation's in-house tech expert, and told her that he needed her help, that it was urgent. Donna refused at first, citing her need to get ready for the concert she was going to at the Odyssey Arena with her girlfriend later in the evening. When Edger told her the situation was life or death, she went quiet for a moment, then said she would help him. He told her he would be with her shortly.
He was still raging over the screw-up back at Rankin's office as he aggressively weaved in and out of the traffic on the motorway. Calling the kidnapper like that had been a stupid mistake, one born out of desperation. He should have known from experience that decisions made in haste and desperation never end well. As it was, he now had half the time he initially had to do something about the kidnapper's demands. The clock on the dash said 4:45 p.m. Which meant he had less than twelve hours to convince Kaitlin's kidnapper that the Lord Mayor of Belfast was dead, either by killing the Mayor, or faking the man's death somehow. Both options were going to be next to impossible to carry out, especially in the small window of time he had to operate in.
An even bigger worry that had started to eat at him was even if he managed to convince the kidnapper the Mayor was dead, what other demands would the kidnapper have after that? Was the bastard going to use Edger as his personal assassin, having Edger running around killing people that the kidnapper had on some list?
Edger had to stop himself from thinking about that.
Focus on the problem at hand.
He needed to find out everything he could about the present Lord Mayor. In doing so, he was hoping that a reason would
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