“Well, fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
Sy sends me a sheepish look. “I believe in you, Rahm. I’d pretty much decided you’d never see—even if you suspected—this side of me. In this case, though, I don’t want you to get hurt right when you’re falling in love.”
I flush. “Thanks, Sy.”
“Just know that there is nothing you could do that would make me harm you. But I will happily show my darkest impulses to anyone who tries to go after my family.”
He says this lightly. Not like a threat. Like a fact.
“Got it.” Pivoting away from that terrifying subject, I say, “So we’re good with taking out Whitaker, and anyone else who gets in our way?”
“More than good.”
“You know we’ll have to make this quick, right? There won’t be time for extracurricular activities, like, with the bodies.”
Silas lifts an unconcerned shoulder. “There are plenty of people who get my full treatment. I’m perfectly fine to make this one a quick in and out.”
“Got it.” I send him a grin. “I’m assuming I don’t wanna know…”
“You do not.”
“Sweet.” I take a deep breath. “Note to self: do not ask the serial killer questions the answers to which you do not want to know.”
Sy chuckles. “I should probably cross-stitch that on a pillow.”
We make our way into the parking garage and Sy hits his key fob. A sleek EV fast car, low and matte black like his soul, gives off a subtle beep.
“I thought you’d have a bigger ride,” I say, slipping into the two-seater. “You know, for the bodies.”
He gets in behind the wheel and puts on a seatbelt, then waits until I do the same. “Safety first.” Backing out of the space, he explains, “We used to have larger vehicles before we could get rid of the bodies on site. Those pulse rifles are handy, even though they represent a cultural loss.”
“The culture of?—”
“Taking a life.” We start out on the road, and he turns to me. “Did you know that your grandparents used to help your dad and uncle get rid of bodies by feeding them to the family alligators?”
“Millie and Dave?” I shake my head. “No, I did not.”
I look over at him, and he’s smiling, as if tickled by this detail. “Bit of poetic justice, your dads feeding the perpetrators of that Florida concentration camp to the family gators.”
I snort. History classes taught us that those assholes had fucked off to some private island of theirs when fascism went out of style. I wasn’t sad to hear they’d gotten what was coming to them.
“I feel bad for the gators because they’re still around, you know. They’re old, but everyone loves a Scooby snack now and again.” He taps his rearview, which pulls up the GPS directions for Whitaker’s house. “So if I get assigned an op in East Texas, I cut up the bodies into bite-sized pieces and stop by. You know, for old time’s sake.”
“Is that your subtle way of telling me that if I ever need you to take someone out, you’d be up for the challenge?”
“Oh.” He bites his lower lip. Still speeding down the highway, he turns to look at me. “Was that subtle? I wasn’t going for subtle.”
“It… No. Not subtle in the slightest.”
His shoulders relax as if he’d been anxious about my answer.
“Oh good. I wasn’t sure if I had been clear enough before.” He gestures to his head. “I never know what the normies understand.”
“So…what are we talking about here? Sociopathy? Psychopathy?”
He shakes his head. “Those tests are too easy to manipulate.”
“Then what is your self-diagnosis?”
