THE FEELINGS STARTED the day before, and built until he cut. And if something went wrong, if things didn't go like he planned, it hurt. Bad.
When he was a kid, Henry Nguyen would manage the feelings by slicing his forearms; carving crosses and snakes into his skin. Only when he'd cut to screaming point would the sexual tension ease. The kids who could watch him called him Cutter. The kids who couldn't, never spoke to him at all, kept their heads down when he walked past.
Nowadays, there was nothing he could inflict on himself to stop the feelings. He'd long moved on from that. Blood was still an aphrodisiac, but now he only started feeling normal again when others screamed.
Just lately, though, he hadn't been feeling right until the screaming stopped.
Guns had never done it for him. The pissweak and petrified had brought him plenty over the years, but he'd passed them on again. What do guns get you? Moments of respect, and then you've got to do something. Shoot, or move on. Shoot, and it's all over. Move on and well, what the fuck good was that?
Tonight was different, though. The hit planned for Capitol Hill was on a gun collector. A suburban Rambo getting through his midlife crisis with a new Harley and a shooting-range membership. Word was, he was cashed up, and had a nine-piece collection. Licensed and locked down, of course, but Cutter was looking forward to cracking the safe.
Persuading the owner to open it for him.
His men felt they needed the guns. Tried to tell him only guns could get them through doors now, only guns could convince people to open up and shut up. He saw them look away while he was working. He knew they didn't have his love for the knife.
He didn't understand this about his crew. In fact, he'd given up trying to figure people out when he was in kindergarten. He knew there was a deficit in his makeup. Empathy. He had figured out what it was supposed to be, understood the concept, he just couldn't find the switch to turn it on. He figured it was the same as colourblindness. Some people have it. Some people don't.
Some counsellor clown had tried to teach him empathy once – try to put yourself in the other person's shoes, think how they might be feeling. Best counselling he'd ever had. Helped him imagine just what might hurt the most. He'd used the tip several times to hone his technique over the years.
Tonight, the feeling became maddening while he was putting on his fatigues, packing his bag. Lacing his boots, his groin burned so much he wanted to screech. Last couple of times, when the screaming had stopped, he'd been surprised to catch himself howling. He laughed aloud when he thought of the other guys' faces.
Cutter's laugh came out a shriek.