Mr. Winters

His body hurt as he knelt. He could just making out just make out the legs of his captor, cirling him like a vulture waiting for the wounded beast to die. Was the light dim? Or were his eyes swolen?

The thug left his field of vision. A moment later he felt the painful crack of a cane across his back. He fell forward, his face hitting the cold concrete floor. He was unable to break the fall with his hands - they were tied behind his back.

Broken and bloodied, he rolled onto his side. His life was leaking out of the wound in his side.

His captor stopped for a moment and looked him over.

"This could have been very simple, Mr. Winters. If you had given us the information we needed before we found it ourselves you would have died quickly."

The captor's dark spittle hit his face.

Winters mumbled something, but his speech was slurred by his broken jaw.

"What was that?" asked his captor, squatting beside him.

"Your information is wrong," Winters managed to whisper. He closed his eyes and gave in.

He lay there, a slight smile on his bloodied face.

And his captor howled.