Untitled *Chapter 2*

Vincent stood up and walked steadily out of the compartment, thankful that he was only wounded. He walked through the empty carriage and entered back into the passenger’s area. He stared around, hoping to find someone to take out his anger on. Nobody was moving, there was nothing even remotely suspicious. This angered him more and he hated to think how bad the next person who got in his way might feel after he was done.

He moved towards the door of the train and took back his post. Looking out over the hostages, he drank in their fear. The salty, dark smell entered his nostrils and travelled through his system, relieving him momentarily of the pain in his arm. He would survive; the bullet had only nicked him. It was not luck, if the “Falcon” had meant to kill him his blood would have been soaking into the carpet, camouflaged within the dark red threads. He placed aside his gun, confident that if he were to be attacked he would not need it. It would be like a Sawmill against a single tree, reduced to pulp before it could wave a branch. He peeled back the sleeve of his shirt which had stuck to his arm with sweat and blood. He looked down at the damage; it wasn’t the worst he had seen. In fact it was rather mild; a red line had been drawn across his arm. Although it was bleeding heavily it was far from fatal. He firmly pushed down on the wound, ignoring the pain. He would need to stop the bleeding if he were to bandage the cut. He looked up from the injury and noticed that the passengers were daring to look at him. He understood that the vulnerability of his position must have caused a great loss of fear. He felt no need to regain it, he was a patient man, and could wait before taking control again.

He touched the butt of his gun to warn off thoughts of an ambush and nodded towards the bodies of the hostages he had murdered. They were gone; he guessed that one of the passengers had moved the rather unintelligent mother, along with the old man and his wife. The three dead bodies had been offered to the carriage in exchange for the young boy, as he now sat on the lap of a grandmotherly black woman. The fact that there had been movement in his absence frightened him more than angered. If anything were to go wrong “Falcon” would have him brutally murdered. It would not be a simple shot to the head but a long painful process. This plan meant the world to him and he would not let a failure go unpunished. He knew from experience that the “Falcon” was a merciless and brutal man. He broke away from his thoughts; he did not wish to dwell on his previous misfortunes today.
He needed to clear his mind, and decided to interrogate the hostages. This was a favourite of his; he only enjoyed the act of torture more.
He swung his gun into his hands.

“Where are the bodies?” He demanded.
Silence.
“Where are the bodies?”
A lady began to shiver uncontrollably.
“If I have to ask again I will kill all the children.” he remarked calmly.
“In the next com-compartment.” stuttered a teenage boy who Vincent identified as Hostage 12.
“Why?”
“They were disturbing to see, especially for the children. Have some compassion.” Spoke the teen again.
“Compassion? I have enough to not kill you right now. Is that enough for you or do you have better things in mind. I suppose you would be happy if I killed this gentleman instead of you.” At this Vincent reached down and pulled up Hostage 14. “Have some compassion for this man; sacrifice yourself to save his life.”
Vincent shoved the gun into the side of the man’s head. Finger poised on the trigger.
“C’mon, speak up son. What will you do? Who shall I kill? Speak up! Talk to me!”
“Don’t” Whispered the teen.
“Hmmm? What was that?”
Silence.
“I thought so; remember this lesson next time you decide to teach” Spat Vincent as he pushed the gentleman down into his seat with a bruise the shape of a gun barrel in his temple.
He returned to his post content that he had once again won back the terror of his captives.

Intimidation came easy to him, he’d had plenty of practice of course but it seemed to now be a natural instinct, almost animal. He knew the tactics; he had used them many times, back in ‘the days’ as he liked to refer to them. Back when he had been the most terrifying man in all of Asia. His presence had been dreaded, it had meant certain death. He attempted to push the thought out of his mind. Those days were long ago; they had drifted away and vaporized like smoke. He tried intently to concentrate on the plan of attack.
But despite his efforts, Vincent’s mind began to wander; he was once again back in ‘the days’. Back to his first, back to the exhilaration and adrenaline that had bled from every pore. He had been young and the weights of life had not yet fallen. He struggled momentarily with these invading thoughts but failed. He was lost, gone deep within his own mind. Maybe it was a side effect of the pain, maybe it was a hidden desire for ‘the days’. Whatever it might have been, it had enveloped him completely. The memory was clear and in full colour, every detail had been memorized. It had started in the morning, around 7 O’clock; this was when he had been awoken.