“It’s a school night,” I say finally, crouching in front of him, elbows resting on my knees. My voice is calm, conversational, like I’m asking about the weather. “So here’s the deal. You talk, you tell us what we need to know, you get to limp your way home, maybe see another sunrise. Or…” I glance back at Rico, who is already smiling wider, reaching for the tool bag he dragged in. “You don’t talk, and my friend here gets creative. And trust me, you don’t want creative.”
The accountant’s eyes widen, darting between us. He shakes his head again, stammering, “I—I can’t. I’ll have it. I swear to God. Just give me—”
Rico sighs, dramatic, rolling his eyes like a disappointed teacher. “This bastard’s not going to talk.” His voice is full of glee as he crouches, rummaging through the bag. “So let’s cut the bullshit.”
When he pulls out the saw, my stomach clenches. The blade catches the light, dull but jagged, the teeth crusted with something brown that isn’t rust. He runs his thumb along it, then grins at me. “Want to do the honors?”
I shake my head, standing up too fast, pacing a step back. The room feels tighter, air heavier. My shirt sticks to my skin, sweat dripping down my back. The hum of the fluorescent light above buzzes too loud, rattling in my skull.
“Jesus, Rico,” I mutter, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. “He’s still Victor’s guy.”
“Not anymore,” Rico singsongs, flicking the saw on and letting it whir to life. The sound is sharp, mechanical, slicing the silence into jagged pieces. The accountant’s scream rises before the blade even touches him, eyes rolling white as he thrashes against the chair.
“Wait.” I grab Rico’s arm, hard enough to make him pause. “Let me call Victor.”
His eyes narrow, amusement fading just a fraction. He doesn’t like being interrupted mid-performance. But he lets me step away, pulling my phone out with shaking hands. My thumb swipes across the screen, and a moment later, Victor’s voice slides through the speaker, smooth, cold.
“Well?”
“He’s not talking.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Rico wants to cut him up.”
There’s a pause. A long one. Then Victor sighs, the sound sharp as glass. “If you can’t get answers, he’s useless to me. Dispose of him.”
The words are final. Absolute.
“Victor—”
“Do not waste my time, Miles.” Then the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, my throat tight. Rico’s smile spreads again when I look at him, like he’s been waiting for this exact order.
“You heard the man.” He presses the switch, and the chainsaw roars to life, louder, heavier, the sound vibrating in my bones. He holds it up like an offering, teeth spinning, spraying flecks of rust and oil.
The accountant thrashes harder, chair legs screeching against the floor. His voice is hoarse now, shredded, pure panic. Pleas tumble out, incoherent, begging, bargaining with a God who isn’t listening.
I take a step back. Then another. My stomach flips, bile rising in my throat. The chainsaw noise is too much, drowning outthought, drowning out everything but the smell of blood and sweat and piss.
I can’t stay here.
Not tonight.
Rico’s laughter echoes behind me as I push through the door, the warehouse air giving way to the night outside. It’s cooler here, crisp. My lungs expand for the first time in hours, even if the stench clings to me, iron and grease soaked into my clothes, into my skin.
I need a drink. Something strong enough to burn my throat, to cut through the taste of violence sitting on my tongue. I need a shower, scalding hot, water pounding against me until my skin is raw, until maybe the sound of the saw is drowned out by something else.
Then maybe I’ll head to The Crest.
The music, the bodies, the whiskey—anything to remind me I’m still alive, that there’s more to this than Victor’s orders and Rico’s chainsaw. Anything to drown out the screams that are still echoing through that warehouse right now.
Because tonight, I don’t want to be the man with the hammer.
I just want to forget.
The Crest smells like spilled beer and old smoke, like sweat soaked into the wood grain of the floorboards. It’s half dive, half second home, the kind of place you can walk into looking like hell and no one will ask questions as long as you put cash on the bar.
I shoulder through the door, fresh clothes sticking to me because I scrubbed myself raw in the shower before coming here, hot water hammering my back until my skin felt new. But it doesn’t matter how many times I wash, I still smell blood on me. Still hear the chainsaw in the back of my skull.
No sign of Jamie.
