Chapter 284: Chapter - 284
Chapter - 284
The Rusty Anchor wasn’t just a bar; it was a testament to failure. The kind of place where dreams came to die and get pickled in cheap whiskey.
The Harley’s roar was swallowed by the oppressive silence of the street as they parked. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, fryer grease, and the faint, unmistakable tang of urine from the alley beside it.
Inside, the darkness was a physical presence, broken only by the dim, nicotine-stained glow of a few bare bulbs and the flickering neon of a beer sign.
A dozen or so patrons were scattered around the room, hunched over their drinks like gargoyles, their faces etched with the kind of weariness that soap and water couldn’t wash away.
On a small, carpeted platform in the corner that generously qualified as a ’stage’, sat a scruffy man in his late twenties.
He had a cheap acoustic guitar resting on his knee and a pained expression on his face as he crooned a mournful, painfully off-key ballad about his truck leaving him for another man. This, presumably, was the artistic genius known as Crimson Sparrow.
Rick and Sharon slid into a grimy booth, the vinyl sticking to their clothes. The table had a permanent layer of stickiness that no amount of wiping could ever remove.
Sharon leaned in, her voice a low, strategic whisper. "Okay. Here’s the plan. We wait. We watch him. He’s got to take a piss or a smoke break eventually. When he finishes his set, we grab him quietly in the alley when there are no witnesses. No scene, no cops, no complications. That’s how this is done."
Rick was about to nod in agreement—it was, for once, a sensible plan—when the familiar, ethereal chime echoed in his mind. A translucent blue screen materialized in his vision, a private message from the universe’s most deranged quest-giver.
[Ding!]
[System Notification: New Timed Quest Issued!]
[Quest: Public Humiliation]
[Objective: Incapacitate and extract the target, ’Crimson Sparrow’, in a loud, public, and demeaning fashion from the stage. Must be completed in under 60 seconds.]
[Reward: 20,000 XP, $50,000, Skill Upgrade: ’Intimidation’ becomes ’Terrifying Presence’ (passive fear effect on weaker enemies).]
[Penalty for Failure: 12-hour ’Clumsiness’ debuff (high chance of fumbling items and tripping).]
Rick read the quest, and a slow, cold, deeply amused smile spread across his lips. This was going to be so much more fun than Sharon’s boring, professional plan. He knew she was going to absolutely lose her mind, and the thought filled him with a certain wicked glee.
Sharon saw the smile and her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"What? What’s so funny? Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying the music."
Rick cracked his knuckles, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet bar. "Change of plan," he said, his smile widening. "Quiet is officially off the table."
Before Sharon could even form a question, he slid out of the booth and began walking toward the stage with a calm, predatory purpose. The few patrons in his path seemed to sense something and instinctively moved aside, creating a clear path for him.
Crimson Sparrow was deep in his art, his eyes closed as he tortured a high note that sounded like a cat being put through a woodchipper. Rick walked right up to the edge of the low stage and stopped, his shadow falling over the singer.
The terrible music faltered. Sparrow opened his eyes, blinking in annoyance at the man who was now blocking the view of the three people who were actually paying attention. "Hey, man, can I help you? Requests are five bucks, and I don’t play any of that pop crap."
Rick didn’t answer. He simply reached out a hand, grabbed a fistful of Sparrow’s cheap flannel shirt, and yanked him clean off his stool. The acoustic guitar fell to the stage with a loud, discordant TWANG, a sound more musical than anything Sparrow had produced all night.
The entire bar went dead silent. Every single patron, from the grizzled bartender to the woman crying into her beer in the corner, turned to stare.
Sparrow let out a surprised yelp, his feet scrambling for purchase on the sticky floor. "What the hell, man?! My set’s not over!"
"It is now," Rick said flatly. He began dragging the kicking, struggling musician across the floor toward the back exit like he was taking out the trash.
A large, beer-bellied man with a ZZ Top beard decided to be a hero. He lurched to his feet, blocking Rick’s path. "Hey, buddy," he slurred, puffing out his chest. "Leave the singer alone!"
Rick didn’t even break stride. He didn’t look at the man. He simply used his free hand to shove the man’s face, not a punch, just a firm, dismissive push. The would-be hero stumbled backward, his eyes wide with surprise, before tripping over a table and crashing to the floor in a symphony of shattering glasses and splintering wood.
No one else tried to intervene.
Rick kicked open the metal door to the back alley and unceremoniously threw Crimson Sparrow outside. The musician landed in a heap on the grimy pavement.
Rick followed him out, letting the door slam shut behind him.
Back in the booth, Sharon sat with her head in her hands, the picture of utter defeat. She stared into her glass of water, muttering to herself.
"I’m going to kill him. I’m actually going to be arrested, and I’m going to go to prison for murdering my only lead in a kidnapping case." She sighed, downed the rest of her water in one gulp, and reluctantly headed for the alley.
The alley was a special kind of disgusting. It stank of urine, rotting garbage from the overflowing dumpsters, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood from some long-forgotten fight. A single, flickering security light cast long, dancing shadows that made the whole scene look like something out of a horror movie.
Rick had Sparrow slammed against the grimy brick wall, one hand clamped around his throat. Sharon arrived just in time to see the singer’s eyes bulging with terror.
"Rick, what in the absolute hell was that?!" she hissed, her voice a compressed ball of fury. "You just assaulted him and another patron in front of twenty witnesses! Do you have any idea the kind of paperwork you just created for me?"
Rick completely ignored her. His focus was entirely on the terrified, scruffy man pinned against the wall. "Nadia Ahmed," Rick said, his voice calm and low. "She gave you something to hold onto. A key. Where is it?"
Crimson Sparrow, his mind a foggy cocktail of cheap weed and sheer terror, blinked slowly. "Whoa... a key..." he stammered, a stupid, dazed grin spreading across his face. "Like, the key to your soul, man? That’s heavy. Is this, like... performance art? I dig it. I’m more of an A-minor guy myself, you know? It’s got that... that soulful vibe." He finished with a weak giggle.
Rick’s face remained a mask of cold patience, but Sharon saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. He glanced down at the ground, and his eyes settled on a large, greasy puddle of stagnant rainwater, cigarette butts, and what looked suspiciously like vomit floating on its surface.
He let go of Sparrow’s throat and instead grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair and the back of his collar. Sharon saw his intent and her eyes widened. "Rick, don’t! That’s not how you get information! You’ll just scare him into silence! Let me handle this!"
Parked at the end of the alley, hidden in the shadows, Sparrow Two lowered a pair of night-vision binoculars. "Damn," he said to his partner, a low whistle escaping his lips. "The boyfriend has a mean streak. I like it."
Sparrow One, sitting in the driver’s seat, nodded, a flicker of what might have been professional respect in his cold eyes. "Warner was right about him. He’s not a civilian. He’s a tool that hasn’t been sharpened yet." He raised his own binoculars. "This is good. Let him do the dirty work for us."
Rick acted as if Sharon hadn’t spoken. With a single, powerful grunt, he shoved Crimson Sparrow’s face directly into the disgusting puddle, holding him down with his full body weight.
The sound was a sickening, wet sploosh. Sparrow’s muffled screams were lost in the filth as he began to thrash wildly, his hands clawing at Rick’s arms, his legs kicking uselessly against the pavement. Bubbles of stale air, mixed with grime, rose to the surface of the scummy water.
Sharon took a step back, a horrified look on her face, but she didn’t intervene. She knew it was too late. This was Rick’s show now.
After a few agonizing seconds, Rick yanked Sparrow’s head out of the water. The man came up sputtering, coughing, a long string of algae and filth hanging from his chin. He gasped for air, the drug-induced haze in his eyes completely gone, replaced by the stark, crystalline clarity of pure terror.
Rick didn’t give him a moment to recover. He slammed him back against the brick wall, the impact knocking the wind out of him. Rick’s face was inches from Sparrow’s, his eyes like chips of ice. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, calm, terrifying whisper that was more frightening than any shout.
"We’re done playing games," Rick began, his voice barely audible over Sparrow’s ragged gasps. "Here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to talk. If you don’t, I’m going to start with your fingers."
He held up his free hand for emphasis. "I’m going to take a pair of pliers—I saw some in that dumpster over there—and one by one, I am going to rip your fingernails out. Then, after I have all ten, I’m going to break each finger, slowly, so you can feel the bone grind and hear the snap."
Sparrow’s eyes were wide with horror, tears and filth running down his face.
"After your hands are just mangled, useless stumps," Rick continued, his voice never changing its calm, conversational tone, "I get creative. Ever wonder how long your small intestine is? It’s about twenty feet. We’re going to find out for sure. I’ll make a small cut right here," he tapped Sparrow’s abdomen, "and I’ll start pulling. We’ll see how much of it we can get out before you pass out from the pain. It’ll be an interesting experiment."
Sparrow was openly sobbing now, shaking his head frantically.
"And that guitar of yours," Rick finished, his voice dropping even lower. "I’m going to take it, and a family-sized bottle of cheap lube from the gas station, and I’m going to show you a whole new, personal meaning for the term ’A-minor’. By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging me for a merciful death that you will not get."
He leaned in, his nose almost touching Sparrow’s. "So. For the very last time... where... is... the key?"
It was too much. The detailed, sadistic, and utterly believable threat, delivered with such calm conviction, completely shattered him. The musician, the stoner, the artist—it all just crumbled away, leaving a terrified, sobbing wreck.
"Okay! Okay, man! God, okay!" he blubbered, snot and tears mixing with the puddle grime on his face. "I’ll talk! Just... just don’t do any of that! Please! I’ll tell you everything!"
Rick held him pinned against the wall for a moment longer, letting the terror marinate, ensuring the lesson was learned.
Sharon stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, her face a mask of horrified fascination. She had lost all control of the situation, and part of her didn’t even care.
Finally, Rick eased his grip, though he didn’t let go completely.
"Good choice," he said. He stared into the man’s soul, his final question hanging in the foul-smelling air like a death sentence.
"Start talking. Who is Nadia to you, and what did she make you hold?"