CHAPTER 20: CROSSED KNIVES — Part 3
The container door screeched open.
"Dex?" Debra's voice, confused but not yet alarmed. "What is this place? Rudy said you wanted to—"
She stopped. Processed what she was seeing. Her brother, strapped to a table. Blood on my wrists where I'd been working the restraints. Brian, standing in the shadows with a tool in his hand that definitely wasn't an engagement present.
Training took over. Her hand moved toward her hip—the service weapon she always carried, even off-duty.
Brian was faster.
The taser caught her in the chest before she could draw. Debra convulsed, dropped, hit the container floor with a sound that made my stomach clench. Brian was on her in seconds, zip ties appearing from his pocket, securing her wrists behind her back with practiced efficiency.
"Don't touch her!" The words ripped out of me, raw and primal. I strained against the straps, feeling the left one creak but not give.
"Shh." Brian lifted Debra—unconscious now, or close to it—and carried her to the second table. "She's fine. Just a little nap. When she wakes up, the real show begins."
He worked methodically, strapping her down with the same leather restraints that held me. Ankles. Wrists. A strap across her forehead to keep her facing forward. Facing me.
"This is the part I've been waiting for," Brian murmured as he arranged her. "Not the killing. The watching. Seeing your face when you understand what's about to happen. When you realize that all of Harry's training, all of his precious Code, can't save the people you love."
[SYSTEM ALERT: STRAP INTEGRITY COMPROMISED] [LEFT WRIST RESTRAINT: 40% WEAKENED] [ESTIMATED FORCE REQUIRED FOR EXTRACTION: HIGH] [TISSUE DAMAGE: LIKELY]
I kept working the strap while Brian was focused on Debra. Every twist, every pull, widening the gap incrementally. My wrist was bleeding freely now—the leather had abraded through skin in several places—but I couldn't feel the pain. The System's enhancement had pushed everything except survival into the background.
Debra stirred. Made a small sound.
"There she is." Brian patted her cheek gently. "Wake up, Debra. You don't want to miss this."
Her eyes opened. Focused. Found me first—strapped down, bloody, helpless. Then Brian, standing over her with that terrible smile.
"Rudy?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What... what are you doing?"
"My name isn't Rudy." He leaned close, letting her see his real face for the first time. "It's Brian. Brian Moser. I'm Dexter's brother. The one your precious Harry left to rot in the foster system while he turned my baby brother into his pet monster."
"I don't... I don't understand..."
"You will." He moved to his tool table, selected a scalpel. "By the end of tonight, you'll understand everything."
"Dex." Debra's voice cracked. "Dex, what is he talking about? What's happening?"
I met her eyes. My sister. The woman who'd loved "Rudy Cooper" without knowing he was a serial killer. Who'd believed in a brother without knowing what he really was.
"It's going to be okay," I said. The biggest lie I'd ever told.
"No," Brian corrected gently. "It really isn't."
He positioned himself between us, scalpel gleaming in the dim light.
"Here's how this works, brother. You watch me work on her. Slowly. Carefully. And at some point—maybe when I start on the fingers, maybe when I move to the face—you'll break. You'll beg me to stop. You'll offer anything. And then... then I'll give you a choice."
"What choice?"
"Join me. Truly join me. Abandon Harry's Code, abandon the pretense, become what we were always meant to be. Or..." He shrugged. "Watch her die. Piece by piece. Until there's nothing left but meat and memory."
Debra was crying now. Silent tears streaming down her cheeks, pooling in the hollow of her throat. Her eyes never left my face. Looking for rescue. For hope. For her big brother to fix this like he always fixed things.
I had nothing to offer except rage and desperation.
Brian raised the scalpel.
I pulled.
The strap didn't break—it tore. My left hand ripped free in a spray of blood and leather fragments, skin flaying off my wrist in ragged strips. The pain was abstract, distant, something happening to someone else.
Brian spun, startled by the sudden movement. "What—"
My free hand caught the edge of his tool table. Upended it. Implements scattered across the container floor—scalpels, saws, surgical steel ringing against concrete.
"Impressive." Brian recovered quickly, dancing back from the chaos. "But you're still half-strapped, brother. Still at a disadvantage."
"I only need one hand to kill you."
He laughed. "With what? Your bloody stump?"
My fingers found a scalpel in the debris. Closed around it.
"With this."
The laughter died.
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