Creative Writing: As The Marshal

Like the quiet before the storm, there was another nigh-complete silence, a well-needed respite after the deafening gunfire they had been subjected to; then, the thunderous sound started up again, the crack of Daniel Stoll shooting indiscriminately like a madman. The gang members, surging through this unreliable curtain of bullets, did not pursue their entourage, instead slamming the door shut with a tremendous clamor. It was a bizarre, ridiculous decision. Had they wanted to escape the wrath of Mr. Stoll and his equalizer, it was entirely possible to simply not walk towards the doorway! Instead they pressed forward into a place with no cover to merely shut a door. Yancey McLaren was not a man to complain at the intelligence, or lack thereof, …show more content…
How would his subordinates react? How would Helena react, a woman who had probably dedicated her life to helping those in pain? In the back of his mind, Yancey could faintly recall the first time he had witnessed his first 'brute' questioning. The stomach churning, the unease, all the misgivings - but most of all, the desperation. He had just needed it over, wanting their target to just cough up the answer so his torture could stop. Nowadays there was just curiosity. How long would this victim last? What would be the response of the sheriffs? People like Maddie Burnside would probably take it in stride - it seemed she took everything in stride - but what of her son, or Daniel …show more content…
Why him? It was something out of a horror movie - kidnapped by foreign people and tortured. He was going to be tortured to death. Would anyone even look for him? A gang member? No chance. They were going to kill him. The idea was terrifying. He found himself shaking and shuddering, trying to shrink back as the man approached him again. Out of the blue, the guy picked up a salt shaker, dashing the salt onto his gloved palm. Something about salt-on-wound seemed familiar to him. Fear surged through him as his tormentor turned back towards him, the man's hand reaching out toward his wounds and rubbing something into the cuts. Rosario's breathing turned ragged as the stinging sensation began overtaking his body. The pain. There was so much pain. He tried to protest his innocence, to claim that they had the wrong man, but the words came out a scrambled wreck. He had to get out and escape. The ledge was not too far away. If he could only move a little closer; yet, before he could do anything, his body was shocked by more discomfort. There was an audible crack each time Yancey McLaren fractured his victim's fingers on the left hand. It wasn't slow or elegant; instead, Yancey operated with an air of apathy. As Miceli tried to speak again, Yancey mashed Miceli's hand down into the ground, pressing the broken digits into the concrete platform. The words Miceli tried to speak quickly turned into