The Life and Times Of Erin Wilson

A year later, as the building of the first development was comming to a conclusion, a new threat arrived not with a bang, but with a bow. Hiroshi Tanaka was a study in contradictions. He was a weedy-looking Japanese man, small and almost frail in his bespoke suit, his appearance a deliberate camouflage for the razor-sharp mind and ruthless ambition that lay beneath. He arrived at Erin's penthouse with a mountain of a bodyguard and two women, severe-looking figures in tight, black suits whose eyes were as cold and hard as polished jet. His demeanor was falsely pleasant, a veneer of civility that Erin saw through immediately. He had come to make her an offer for the remainder of the Dockyard project, a proposal that was less an offer and more an ultimatum. He would leave her with 10%, a meaningless percentage meant a a public relations fig leaf while he seized control of her vision. Where she envisaged upmarket apartments, exclusive restaurants, and a prestigious arts venue, he saw a massive, soulless mall, a consumerist behemoth designed to bleed the surrounding areas dry and kill off what little local competition remained.

He left with a sweeping bow and a smirk as Erin practically told him to fuck off. Now she stood before the window, the city lights glittering below her. "He's just another John Macbride," she said to Donna, who stood silently behind her. "He thinks he can stamp all over me because I'm a woman, because I don't have a Yakuza tattoo on my neck." She turned, a cold fire in her eyes. "The difference is, this one is smarter. And he's not going to be scared off by a phone call to a gangster."

A second meeting was arranged. Tanaka arranged to send cars to collect Erin and Donna from their respective offices. Donna's car never arrived. A call to Tanaka's office was met with a smooth, unhelpful apology and a promise to "look into it."

A cold knot of dread formed in Erin's stomach. She could sense trouble. Still, she got into the car. To refuse would be to show fear, and she had never shown fear. The car drove deep into the Kent Downs, down winding country lanes until it pulled up to a large, isolated house, Dark and ancient against the rolling hills. As Erin stepped out, the car drove away, leaving her alone. She felt it in her spine, a primal, chilling certainty that something was terribly wrong. The bodyguard opend the main door and led she through to a large reception room.

The interior was minimalist, cold. Two Japanese women waited for her, standing on either side of Tanaka, who sat in a large, expensive-looking leather chair, a king on his throne. He took a long drag on an expensive cigar and smiled at her, a thin, reptilian expression. That was the last thing she remembered clearly, that and the sharp, prickling sensation in the back of her neck.

She woke up in a scene she was well accustomed to, though she wasn't usually the one stripped naked and secured in a damp cellar. Her arms and legs stretched out in an X. A sharp slap across the face brought her groggily to her senses. One of the Japanese women stood over her, grabbed her chin with a vice-like grip, and spoke. "Mr. Tanaka is not used to being disrespected," she said, her perfect, Oxford-educated English a jarring contrast to the brutal setting. "He is used to getting everything he wants. He wants the Dockyard. He was willing to leave you a little slice, but now," she paused, her smile chilling, "he has decided he wants it all."

Erin just stared her straight in the eye and spat, a glob of saliva hitting the woman's cheek. The woman let go of her chin, stepped back, and wiped her face with the back of her hand. She looked at her companion and nodded. The beatings began. First with canes, thin, flexible things that left fiery red lines across her back and legs. Then with whips, their crack echoing in the cellar. Erin held out. She barely let out a whimper, her body a canvas of pain, but her spirit a fortress. She stared straight ahead, retreating into the deepest, most fortified corners of her mind, back to those days as a kid on the playground, building the walls that had kept her safe. She knew, logically, that they would break her eventually, or kill her while they were trying, but she didn't care. She was Erin Wilson. Fuck them.

The English-speaking woman returned and crouched beside her. "Erin, this is stupid. It's just a useless piece of land. What do you hope to prove?" Erin was dry, her mouth a desert. She couldn't spit. Instead, she just stared at the woman and laughed, a hoarse, powerful, utterly defiant sound that seemed to startle even her tormentors. The woman sighed, a flicker of something like respect in her eyes, but she had a job to do. She spoke to the other woman in Japanese. They unchained Erin from the wall and forced her over a padded bench, face down. They stretched her legs and strapped them down, then her wrists. She knew what was coming. She prepared herself mentally, building her walls higher, thicker. A strap-on, thick and unyielding, was forced into her virgin arse. She grunted, a guttural sound of pain, but she kept her eyes open, staring at the damp stone floor as she was brutally fucked. Then the filthy thing was forced into her mouth, and she was used until she was choking, bile retching up from her stomach. More beatings followed, and then suffocation with a black rubber sack. That was the nearest she came to giving in, the primal panic of being unable to breathe a terrifying assault on her control. But she held out.

The English-speaking lady crouched down beside her again, pulling Erin's head up so their faces were at the same level. "Erin, you know you haven't got much left in you. What do you think will happen if you die here tonight? The Dockyard will go up for auction, and Mr. Tanaka will get it all anyway. You don't need to suffer like this. Mr. Tanaka is not a patient man, and he doesn't care if you die, but I do. It would be such a waste." Erin summoned the last dregs of her strength, the last vestiges of her defiance, and, in perfect, cold, clear Japanese, told the woman to go fuck herself.

The woman smiled, not unkindly. A wide gag was shoved into Erin's mouth and strapped tightly. A noose was then tied around her neck and pulled just tight enough to restrict her breathing, a constant, oppressive pressure. The other end was tied off to a ring above her. It was a warning, a promise of what would come next. The lights went out, and she was left alone, shivering with cold and shock, to contemplate her fate in the suffocating darkness.