Wraith lands a few solid kicks to the guy’s stomach. Drags him back toward the center of the mill, into the light. He beats on him with those enormous fists. It only takes a few punches to mangle the man’s face. There’s so much blood, and although I do enjoy watching Wraith work, I grow bored being a bystander. I politely request my friend to step aside so I can have my fun, too.
Unlike Wraith, I’m not a ground and pound type person. True, there is a certain satisfaction in feeling someone’s bones crush beneath my fists, but that’s more Wraith’s thing. He’s a big bruiser of a person. It’s what made him a great mixed martial arts fighter before Crane got hold of him and why he survived six months in captivity.
I like to think of myself as more of an artist of sorts. Something Wraith never had a problem with until after his time in Gomorrah. Now, whenever I pull out my knives, he gets all kinds of tense. Understandable considering what the dungeon’s guards did to him. Repeated whippings may have ruined his back, but blades scarred the rest of him. I’ve been reluctant to apply my ‘craft’ but tonight is a special occasion.
“Turn around,” I warn as I slip the Smith & Wesson M&P SWMP11B Tanto folding knife from the bag. It’s small but effective. Not my favorite blade, but it gets the job done.
“Don’t be a wiseass,” Wraith growls.
“Whatever, grumpy,” I drawl. “I’m trying to be nice.”
The dealer gives me a bloody smile. “Do your worst.”
“Thanks for the permission.” A flick of my thumb lifts the knife’s black blade. In my peripheral, I see Wraith back away until he becomes a blurry speck that blurs into the background. My mind stays focused on the living dead man I have pinned to the dusty floor. “Good thing is, this will only hurt for…well, the rest of your life. How long the agony lasts is up to you.”
He gathers a mouthful of saliva and hocks it at me. I slap him across the face before using the bottom of my shirt to wipe away the spit.
“Rude.” I drag the tip of the blade down his left cheek, opening a deep gash.
He sucks in a hard breath but doesn’t scream as blood seeps into his ear and hair. Good for him, being a brave little warrior. A few shallower swipes of the blade, and I destroy what’s left of his face.
He’s gagging on blood, whimpering, heaving as I cut away his Polo shirt to expose a smooth, lean torso.
“Unlike my friend, I’m willing to extend an olive branch before it gets too gory,” I tell him.
The stubborn fool shakes his head.
“But I’m the asshole,” I mutter before I dig into his flesh.
I tear at him, ripping his skin. Slice at him until he’s lying in a puddle of blood. Then Wraith pulls me from him and takes over. He hauls him to his feet. Not that the guy can stand on his own at this point. He’s a bleeding mess of meat that Wraith tosses on the chair. The dealer slumps forward, almost sliding back down to the floor, but I catch him and prop him up nice and good. Shove the ropy hair off his face so he can see what’s coming next.
“Record this for Crow.” Wraith doesn’t take his gaze from our victim when he growls that at me.
I pull out my phone, and that’s when the bone-breaking begins. I record everything. Relish every scream, and when the begging starts, it’s a gift that keeps on giving. But the stubborn bastard persists in his refusal to give up his supplier and instead looks directly in the camera, barely lucid.
“I never gave them your name,” he slurs. “My debt is paid. Leave my family alone.”
And this right here puts another piece of the puzzle in place. This guy might not be a mercenary like I thought. Doesn’t change anything, though. The supplier threatening his family doesn’t excuse his actions. He, apparently, got in deep with the wrong man. This right here is still the result of bad life choices. Oh. Fucking. Well. Because if he would have been honest with us, we might have helped him. Maybe. But now, we’ll never know because he made the wrong decisions right to the very end.
I hand the phone to Wraith, who continues to record as I walk to the beaten man. He watches me, his watery gaze darting from my face to the knife gripped in my right hand. There’s more blood on the floor than what’s left in his body. I’m shocked if he can even still see out of his swollen eyes. But I give him credit for speaking at all because his mouth is all fucked up. And when I lean toward him and press the blade to his throat, he raises his chin. Probably because death is better than the pain he’s suffering. With a slow drag, I slide the slick black blade across this throat, smiling just a little bit as the life drains from him.
Crow wanted us to make an example of him. To show what happens when you sell drugs in Mayhem. The horror of what happened to him will become a whisper that will haunt the underground and eventually make its way to this mysterious supplier—this faceless and nameless sonofabitch who has the audacity to keep sending his people to our town.
Because tonight, what Wraith and I did to this guy…
We did precisely what Crow wanted.
We sent out a declaration of war.
6
Faith
Ironically, the one place I never felt welcomed at was the public library—where my mother works. Possibly because my relationship with Olivia Decker is a smoldering dumpster fire. She’s the water to my oil, and although we do, occasionally, call a truce, there’s always an underlying tension whenever we’re together. It’s as if every particle surrounding us is charged, and at any moment, one of us will inadvertently cause an explosion.
When she purposely provokes me, I can never keep my mouth shut.
Her philosophy is simple. She’s the mother, and that means she can treat me like shit. As the daughter, I must give her unconditional respect.
