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And so, she went in, following the move with her knee with a quick kick to the man’s throat.
He tried to avoid the blow. But it was no use. Again, he was fast, but she was faster. He was training alone in his room in isolation. The training was meant as a security blanket, the same as that door, but he didn’t know what he was doing. This was the difficulty of constantly isolating and hiding. The people who could have corrected his poor form would have been too much of a threat for him to trust with his protection.
Her foot caught his throat. Now, with one broken arm and gasping and stumbling back, he looked pathetic. Cora took a second to let him recover. Sometimes, immediate action and brutal efficiency was the best tactic. But other times, it was helpful to see how a wounded animal might respond to a trap. Allowing them to tire themselves out was the best way to defeat them. Letting them take out their aggression on the air was as deflating as the initial salvo.
Which he did. He had anticipated her to follow-up. And quick as he was, he lashed out, kicking towards her in the same way she had done.
But because she had stalled, he missed.
He was cursing and sobbing. Now, he tried to strike with his good arm. But she dodged, simply leaning back. Another miss.
Some people didn’t know how to fight through pain. Strength wasn’t often a matter of how much someone could lift, but how much pain they couldn’t handle without giving up the things they held dear.
And in that moment, what mattered most to Cora was to keep her word. She wasn’t even thinking about the mayor. Or, in that moment, about Johnny. All she could picture was that frail thing chained to the basement wall. Perhaps shewasthat woman’s angel. An avenging angel.
She kept her tone controlled, almost polite, like Saul might have done. “Where is the key for the chains?” She said simply.
Her voice fell like stones in the silence, rattling the man further.
He especially looked surprised as she spoke. A feminine voice from a feminine person.
A man like this, in her assessment, didn’t think particularly highly of women. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination given the evidence in the room below.
He spluttered, trying to move towards the front door, but she cut him off. This time, she pretended as if she would lean back, but then moved in, fast and merciless. Two quick punches to his gut.
And that was it. The fight was over. He collapsed on the floor in a heap, moaning and desperately trying to gather his breath.
In between gasps for air, he groaned, “You broke my arm.”
She nodded carefully but kept her distance. Wounded animals could still be dangerous if given the opportunity. And so, she wouldn’t. Some people used chains to keep their prey from fighting back. Cora preferred the old-fashioned way.
She kicked him in the broken arm.
He yelled, flopping to the side. “Where is the key?” She repeated, still speaking politely. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of altering her expression or controlling her emotions. It was important in that moment that he knew he wasn’t in control.
“What are you talking about?” He gasped out.
He spoke in a strange way. As if the words were difficult to remember. Or perhaps simply rusty from poor use.
She stepped forward, and he flinched, lashing out with his good arm to try and catch her foot.
But she hesitated, and he missed.
She smirked. “Not having a very good day, are you Anton?”
He stared up at her, panic in his eyes.
She said, conversationally, “You’re going to give me that key now. And then you’re going to answer some questions I have.”
It wasn’t a question. It was certainty. The sort of certainty that communicated a battle of wills. Her will versus his. Her ability to inflict pain versus his ability to take it. The same sort of tone that captors had used when she had fallen into enemy hands on one of those failed missions.
She could still remember those horrible moments, trapped by dangerous men. She had given in eventually to the pain and the torture. She still had the scars to prove it. But she had lasted long enough. It was something of a matter of pride to outlast.
“Well? Key?”
The fight seemed to have left him. Deflated, gasping, he lay on his back in the middle of the room, staring at the ceiling and shaking his head. “Hook, wall.”
His good hand fluttered, fingers directing towards a small coat rack by the front door. She noticed more locks in the front door. Two chains, a bolt, and even a chair wedged under the handle.
