Greyson zip-tied the officer’s wrists and ankles to the chair quickly. No wasted movements, no hesitation. Sometimes Callum forgot that beneath the brooding and moral conflicts, his friend was still a Serel. Still trained from birth in the application of violence.
Callum took his time preparing. Theater was half of interrogation, after all. He rolled up his sleeves slowly, each fold exact. His rings came off one by one, placing them in a perfect line on the metal table, their surfaces catching the overhead light.
The briefcase opened with a soft click. Inside, his tools lay in custom foam cutouts—hammers of various sizes, pliers, scalpels, and other implements he’d collected over the years. Some innovations of his own.
He noticed as Shadera perched on the table’s edge, legs swinging slightly. Greyson leaned against it beside her, close enough that their elbows touched. Neither pulled away. In fact, they seemed unconscious of the contact, like their bodies had developed their own gravity independent of their minds’ protests.
Fascinating.
Callum wondered as he turned to face the officer, if Greyson had ever noticed these same small tells between him and Lira. If he’d also filed away questions that he never asked.
He pushed the thought from his mind and refocused, reaching for the hood and pulling it from the officer’s head to reveal an older man, mid-fifties. His eyes went wide as his vision was restored, frantically fluttering around the room at the three unmasked faces staring back at him.
“Now,” Callum started, selecting a small hammer from his collection, testing its weight in his palm. “Let’s establish some ground rules. I ask questions. You answer truthfully. Each lie, each refusal, costs you something.” He tapped the hammer against his palm for emphasis. “Each truth buys you time.”
Callum watched as Greyson crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the officer like he was studying the fear build in his eyes. This was Callum as few ever saw him—the mask set aside to reveal the calculating creature beneath. The Broker, the collector of secrets, the man who knew how to extract information from even the most resistant source.
“Let’s start simple,” Callum said, pulling up a chair to sit directly in front of the man. “Name and unit?”
“M-Marcus Webb, sir. Special Security Division.”
“Good.” Callum’s voice was warm with approval. “Very good. And who ordered you to surveil the Executioner, Marcus?”
The officer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Captain Mikel. Direct orders f-from the President.”
No surprise there. Maximus was getting paranoid, as dying kings often did.
“And what exactly were you looking for?” he continued, casually leaning back in his chair.
Marcus hesitated, his eyes darting to Greyson, then back to him. “Evidence of . . . disloyalty.”
“Disloyalty,” he repeated, tasting the word. “Fair enough. What kind of disloyalty was Maximus concerned about?”
Another hesitation, longer this time. Callum sighed, his expression one of exaggerated disappointment. He moved without warning, the hammer connecting with Marcus’s knuckle on his right ring finger. Bone shattered with a wet crunch as he screamed, the sound bouncing off the metal walls.
“I told you the rules,” he reminded Marcus gently, returning to his relaxed position. “Now, I’ll ask again. What specific disloyalty was Maximus looking for?”
“Divided loyalties,” Marcus gasped through clenched teeth. “He said the Executioner’s sympathies might be compromised by the Daggermouth whore.”
From the corner of his eye he saw Shadera tense, saw the way Greyson shifted forward, almost in protection of her.
That was all Callum needed to see.
The hammer came down again on his right pointer finger, bone splintering as another scream broke from Marcus’s throat. Callum stayed leaning forward this time, elbows resting on his knees.
“I don’t know if you know this about me, but I loathe misogyny.” His voice was colder now. “That Daggermouth ‘whore,’ as you called her, has a name. And if the tension in this room tells me anything, it’s that she is certainly no harlot.”
Callum looked to Shadera, watching a satisfied smirk spread across her lips as she gave him a subtle nod of approval, then turned back to Marcus.
“The team last night,” he started again. “What were their orders?”
“Install updated surveillance,” Marcus replied quickly, clearly eager to avoid further pain. “Replace the faulty audio and visual throughout the apartment. Report directly on their interactions.”
“Were they authorized to use lethal force?” Greyson interjected.
The officer swallowed again, his gaze flickering between Callum’s hammer and Greyson’s face. “N-no.”
“Then what prompted them to do so?” Callum asked.
