⁂
Sherrinford glared up at his captor silently, blood running down the side of his face. The woman sighed. “Q, darling, I really don’t want to do this to you. I don’t even have a problem with MI-6, or England. All I want is the name of the agent that killed my son.” He ignored her. He wouldn’t give up Victor. Not for anything.
She waited a few moments before striking him again. “Tell me his name.” She hissed. So far he’d done an alright job at keeping absolutely silent he thought. Not a whimper or cry of pain. Or at least not many. The only thing he regretted was that the woman wasn’t actually with the same organization her son had headed up. Then she might have been able to find his comm and turn it off.
He knew Victor had to be listening. He shouldn’t have to listen to this. She caught him off guard with her next blow and he cried out. “Tell me who killed him!” She screamed. “Give me his fucking name!” He spat blood at her feet.
“Fuck you.” He coughed. She ran her hand through her long hair, starting to get frantic. She pulled her gun and pressed it to his forehead. “Tell me now or I’ll put a bullet through you.” She said coldly.
His lip curled into a snarl. “Go ahead.” Immediately she re-aimed it at his knee and shot him. He screamed. He’d braced himself and tried not to, but it didn’t matter. He panted, trying to get himself back under control. The woman leaned in close, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back harshly. “Give me the name!”
When he didn’t speak she reached down with her other hand and gripped his injured knee, drawing a pained cry from his throat. “Tell me! Tell me you bastard! Who killed my son?!” She was screaming as well now. Trying to be heard over Sherrinford’s screams as she struck his knee repeatedly.
She just hurt. She wanted revenge for her son. She needed someone to hurt they way she was hurting. She couldn’t break the man’s heart but she could break his body. She gave up interrogating him, merely striking him again and again. She pounded every inch of him she could reach, with her fist, with the gun.
Finally she exhausted herself and took a step back, swaying almost as much as Sherrinford was. He hung limply in the chair he was bound too, coming in and out of consciousness. She watched him for a moment, her hate boiling inside her again. She raised the gun, pointing it levelly in a steady hand. “This is for my son.” She whispered and pulled the trigger before walking out of the cold warehouse, leaving the MI-6 agent’s body to grow cold.