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  Pierre towered over her. He had to be at least six foot tall and nearing 300 pounds. His finger pointed wildly inches from her face. She bit back a scream. Fought back tears. It was imperative she hid her fear.

  “I am fucking sick of you. You are nothing more than a thundercunt, a slaggy fucktard. Everyone hates you. You’re a loser and we don’t want you here. Do you hear me? When are you going to get that through your thick head? We don’t need a skittle tit bitch. I’m going to organise a vote of no confidence. Everyone will say you can’t do your job. I’ll go to management and you’ll be out that door. It doesn’t matter what you say to them. They won’t believe you. I have the numbers behind me. I have witnesses. I run this place not you, you Adolf Titler, thundercunt whore,” he spat.

  Bridget stood petrified. She had no doubt about his intentions. All her efforts to gain assistance from senior management had failed. She was alone and in a second he was gone. His overpowering aftershave lingered, as did his hateful words.

  And now, they were again alone. Oh, how the tables had turned!

  Pierre groaned and began thrashing on the floor. He blinked rapidly, obviously trying to focus. She was sure the last thing he remembered was walking home.

  “What’s happening?” he groaned.

  Bridget’s attention returned to the room. Pierre kept blinking. His head began to thrash. His eyes darted. Bridget could not change the past. She had to deal with what lay before her. This time she was in control.

  Pierre went ballistic, yelling and screaming, when he realised he was bound. He struggled and strained. Sweat ran from his brow, his face contorted with fury. He flipped from side to side.

  Bridget stood to the right of the door, near the window that had been sealed closed. It was covered with foam board and heavy insulated material to sound proof what would be his holding pen. In fact, the whole room was a mass of white foam insulation sheeting. No one would hear his cries. Escape was impossible. Hog-tied, rope extended from his ankles and ran firmly along his legs twisting around his wrists. A slipknot had been created wrapping around his throat. The more he struggled, the more it restricted his air supply – it was amazing what you could learn on the Internet.

  He stared towards her. “Who are you?” he screeched. “What do you want?” His voice echoed around the room. His kicking halted, as he realised the consequences of his actions.

  A masked Bridget stood still, and silent. She was in control. Her large coat with padded shoulders, full-length overalls, gloves and heavy combat boots concealed her identity.

  “Who are you? Show yourself you weak bastard, be a man and face me,” he spat.

  Looking down upon him, she felt pity and revulsion in equal measure. Echoes of advice she had received from those in charge at Wolf Industries danced around in her mind, “Don’t let them see they have affected you or that will give them greater power.”

  She turned her back on him. She remained silent. She walked out of the room. The door slammed behind her. Inside his yelling continued. Outside it was barely a muffle. She removed her mask and gasped for air. Oh my god what am I doing?

  There was no going back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  G

  asping for air, Bridget felt the warmth of a tear slip from the corner of her eye. A wave of nausea gurgled up from the pit of her stomach. She inhaled deeply as a twinge tickled her nostrils. What the hell am I doing? She swallowed hard. Fear from events of the past wouldn’t dictate her life. Painful memories infiltrated her mind but they would never win. Many people experienced different struggles in life, but with support, love, friendship and determination they could overcome hurdles. She would be no different. Pierre Rainer would not dictate her future happiness. He had to be dealt with.

  We cannot live in the past; we can only acknowledge what has happened and look to the future with hope.

  Taking a deep breath she regathered herself. Focus. Ruminating over past experiences would get her nowhere. She pulled her balaclava down over her face and collected the hammer she had placed on the floor. Another deep breath and she returned to his holding pen.

  Closing the door behind her, Pierre squirmed on the floor. It was time for him to be moved. The next phase of her operation had to be completed before sunrise. There was no time for delay. She lunged forward, and struck him on the side of the head. Thud. Pierre’s body went limp.

  Blood seeped from his wound. She checked his pulse. He was alive. She grabbed him under his arms, and pulled him up and lent his body next to the wall. She gathered her trusty wheelbarrow, wrenched his senseless body into it and wheeled him outside and down into her garage. Stars blanketed the sky. Everything was quiet. Everything was still. The only sound her rapid heartbeat.

  She closed the garage door behind her. No one would suspect a thing.

  Bridget was committed to sharing experiences with her partners, and Zack had had a passion for restoring old cars. They had enjoyed countless hours tinkering together, and one task she had been assigned was operating the electronic winch. It was vital she knew how to operate it so she could move the engine into position while Zack completed the required adjustments and fixings. Zack had forgotten about it when they’d discussed who would get what in their separation. Suspended from the roof of the garage, it was a vital piece of equipment for this stage of her operation.

  Bridget wheeled Pierre into position then pushed him forward, his forehead striking his knees that rested on the edge of the wheelbarrow. He moaned.

  Bridget grabbed his head and studied his face – still unconscious. She sighed with relief then wrapped the winch cable around his chest ensuring she secured the hook around the cable. Dashing to the controls, she pushed the button. The motor whirled. Pierre began to lift from the wheelbarrow, and Bridget smiled.

  Pierre’s feet dangled in the air, and Bridget released the button then manoeuvred Pierre’s body over her target before using the button to lower him again. His body slowly dropped. The cable became slack. She retrieved her stepladder from the garage wall and climbed into Zack’s boat and released the cable from around Pierre’s waist. Next, she untied the ropes that had bound his wrists, feet and neck. Gagging him with an old rag, she secured it in place with duct tape. Cable ties held his wrists together, and she wrapped chain around his ankles, ensuring it was securely connected to the long length of chain she had coiled on the deck of the boat. Everything was as she had planned. Covering his body with a large green canvas tarp, she flung a long length of old rope over it – no one would suspect a body was concealed beneath. She smiled. She chuckled. She fist-punched the air. This phase of her operation was complete.

  Pierre Rainer was going to get more than he bargained for.

  Bridget climbed down from the boat and returned the stepladder to the wall then checked her watch. Everything was running to time. She still had a couple of hours before the sun would rise. Her car was packed. The only thing that remained was to connect the car to the trailer and she would be on her way. What she deserved now though, was a nice hot cup of coffee. Every great achievement should be celebrated with a reward. A hot cup of coffee would be wonderful.

  Bridget sipped her coffee, as she paced her kitchen. The combination of blows to his head and drugs she had slipped into his drink would see Pierre Rainer asleep for a few hours yet. Hours in which she would travel to the seaside.

  Her fun was only just beginning.

  His nightmare had only started.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  D

  aybreak delivered a stormy sky and ocean swell. A bank of ominous looking clouds sat on the horizon. Weather forecasts predicted afternoon thunderstorms. Strong winds and white caps on the ocean discouraged the recreational fishers, but Bridget would not be deterred. They were alone on the water. The ocean was theirs. Rolling waves rocked against Zack’s boat. The swell had picked up, pounding waves smashed into the rocks. Cool, salty sea spray hit Bridget’s face and danced on her tongue.
The sandstone cliffs around The Gap on the South Head peninsula of Watsons Bay sat in the distance. She turned off the engine and lowered the anchor. She put her balaclava on and confirmed everything was as she’d planned.

  She grabbed the old red bucket; they used as an at-sea toilet, and reached over the side of the boat and filled it with the icy water. Pierre was flat on his back. His white shirt was speckled with blood. The right knee of his jeans had been ripped when she’d moved him. His pants were rolled up his calves, and she’d removed his shoes and socks. His gag was now gone, and he was still secured by cable ties and the chain. Time for him to wake.

  Bridget hadn’t seen Pierre in years, though the thought of him had never left her mind. Today was the day of reckoning. She threw the bucket of water over him. No response. She refilled the bucket and dumped its contents over his face. He moaned.

  She repeated the process. Another moan as he struggled to open his eyes. He blinked away the saltiness. Coughed. Spluttered. Bridget threw another bucket and Pierre turned his head to the side and groaned. The harsh timber decking scratched his face, and his eyes sprang open. He thrashed his head. His eyes darted. And when he realised the seriousness of his predicament, he began to rock back and forth.

  Bridget dropped the bucket and walked to his side. Her identity was perfectly hidden. In her dress rehearsals it had been impossible to identify her as a man or woman. Pierre Rainer would have no clue.

  Pierre squirmed; rolled to his side. She tapped her steel-capped boot against his bloodied nose. He flinched and struggled to move away, pushing as far back against the side of the boat as he could. But there was no escape. His lips began to quiver. His face reddened, and his eyes became wide. Bridget picked up a steel bar and delivered short, sharp blows, one after another, to his body. Jab. Prod. Poke. Her strikes became harder, the intensity increasing to match her rage. God, I hate him! He deserved everything he got. He had stripped her of her dignity, robbed her of her life.

  “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” he screamed. “Stop! Please stop… please let me go!” But she would not.

  Fifteen minutes passed and her terrorising continued. She threw water over his struggling body. She kicked and poked. Pierre’s howls danced in the breeze and disappeared into the distant waves. His pain was evident, and the screams in her mind were silenced. A calmness washed over her as she dished out his punishment. Looking into his terror-stricken eyes she remained silent. She wondered if he’d seen a similar fear reflected in her eyes when he’d launched his attacks, when he had had her trapped. She wanted him to experience the dreaded unknown. She wanted him to feel the trauma and unpredictability of the situation. He had abused, harassed, threatened, and assaulted her. She recalled how in one instance Pierre had lunged forward and groped her breasts. She screamed and pushed him away. Pierre laughed, clutched his groin, thrust his hips, and then released a loud moan. Members of staff watched and giggled. When asked by management no one acknowledged the incident. Pierre claimed he had tripped, said it was a dreadful accident. Bridget knew better. His action was deliberate. It was not the first time he had placed his hands on her and it would not be the last. Her stomach churned as her anger grew.

  His whimpering began to get on her nerves. She had greeted his pleas with silence. Time to take her attack up another notch. She had heard enough and seen enough. She was wet and cold. Crystal salt covered her body. No doubt Pierre was traumatised beyond anything he could imagine, but for Bridget things were far from over. She needed to silence his pleas for mercy. She was sick of his bellowing.

  She grabbed the bottom of the balaclava and yanked it up and over her face. Pierre flinched. What little colour he had fled, almost as if he had come face to face with the grim reaper. He stared. His mouth dropped open. For a moment he froze. Then his body began to shake violently, as he finally grasped the gravity of the situation. His attacker was no longer unknown. His life flashed before him. Utter hopelessness filled his body. Bridget was a crazy bitch, a woman possessed. Tears streamed down his face. The air appeared cold and thick. His loud whimpering echoed around them.

  “You…” It was more a whisper. “It’s you…”

  “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

  Pierre froze, then began to sob. He was exactly where she needed him to be. Defenceless.

  “You know I picked this place especially for you. It’s so hard for me to find joy these days. You stole that from me, Pierre. The way you twisted everyone around your fat little fingers for your own amusement. You disgust me,” Bridget said, leaning forward. “You destroyed my life, my sense of trust. I carry around so much guilt and shame because I couldn’t stop you. I ask myself everyday why… why did I allow you to do that to me?” She paused, took a deep breath and clenched her hands. She stared then spat. “You know what I’m talking about. You know every gory little detail. You know what you did. You spun and contorted everything so you would come out smelling like roses. You claimed to be the protector of the innocent. You claimed you stood up for the simple worker and that I picked on you due to your position as the Union Delegate. They were all lies. You were a master manipulator but you will manipulate no more.”

  Bridget seethed. Water lashed the deck. Anger filled the air. The clouds turned black. She grasped his shoulder as his tears glistened, and she spat her words at him.

  “What you did ruined my life. I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up. Do you realise each day I asked myself why? Why would someone bully me? Why didn’t you stop when you saw the pain you were inflicting? How could anyone find joy in ruining someone else’s life?” She delivered a stinging slap. “You made my life hell. I felt as if I was sinking in quicksand. Tell me… tell me why. I want to know why,” she screamed. She glared down at him, and in his eyes she saw a reflection of fear. Did he recall seeing the same in her eyes when he had her pinned against the wall? His finger prodding into her chest, his voice loud and threatening?

  “Why?” she screamed.

  “I don’t know,” Pierre said, as he burst into tears. Turning his head away, his body shook.

  Bridget felt no pity. He deserved no sympathy. “I’ll tell you why. Because you are a good for nothing bastard that felt empowered by someone else’s suffering, a narcissistic prick who thought it possible to destroy another.” She slapped him again, bringing his attention back to her. “The only thing you didn’t anticipate was my resilience. You see, you did knock me down and yes it has been years but I’m back now, stronger than ever. I’m invigorated. Alive.” She leaned in close. “In control. I’m patient, and I know how to derive joy from the simple things. You see, it’s the simple things in life that matter, and while I cannot stop the waves of emotions I’ve experienced, I can stop you.” Bridget turned her back on him and walked to the back of the boat. When she glanced back at him, he was staring at the large pile of chain coiled on the deck between where he lay and she stood. She watched as his gaze travelled the length of chain, his eyes widening when they came to rest on the large grey block. The block moved slowly as she pushed, and Pierre struggled to free his hands. A scream bursting free when he realised his efforts were in vain. Bridget ignored him. A splash. The boat rocked. Bridget stood and faced Pierre. She smiled. The coiled chain sprang into motion, and Pierre released a deathly scream. The clanging of metal increased in intensity. Knocking, vibrating, rattling.

  Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.

  Pierre’s eyes bulged. His face now a glowing red beacon. He screamed. The veins in his forehead protruded. He began trashing, trying to cling to anything that would prevent him being pulled into the icy waters.

  “Stop it!” he bellowed. “God please, stop it… I beg you!”

  Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.

  “No, this is for all I suffered.”

  “Please…” he begged.

  “No,” Bridget snapped. She smiled, as she watched his terror. His screams music to her ears.

&nb
sp; Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.

  Looking down she stared at the chain. The pile that had once stood at a height just below her knees was now half way down her shin. A feeling of disappointment overwhelmed her. She hadn’t anticipated it would unwind so quickly. She wanted his suffering to be slow. Pierre released more howls. She smiled. It was a forced habit. She had been told so many times that the best thing to do was to smile so he would not know he affected her. She certainly didn’t want him thinking she was in any way disappointed, not at this late stage. Pierre continued thrashing and screaming and abusing.

  “You fucken crazy cunt! I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance,” he spat.

  Standing in front of him she showed no fear, his words meant nothing. He meant nothing.

  Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.

  A couple more minutes and her fun would be over. Thank God I had decided to travel out so deep in the ocean.

  Resting against the side of the boat, she placed her hands on her hips and grinned. She wanted him to see her face. She wanted him to know exactly who she was. She wanted him to know who was responsible for his suffering. She began to laugh. This would be something she would never forget. Revenge was fantastic!

  Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.

  “Not long now,” she sang out. “A couple more metres!”

  “Please!” he screeched.

  She stared at him, expressionless. When you react, you give other people the power. There was no way she would react to his pleas. He was powerless. His cries meant nothing.