“You want to…fix it?” I rest both palms on the table, and the pressure makes the cutlery clink.
“You think you deserve a second chance? My trust?”
His throat bobs, and he nods. “I promise I’ll make it right.”
“Your promises mean nothing to me.”
“Sir—”
“But I’ll give you another chance at redemption.” Martin exhales, like he’s in the clear, and I realize then the sick twist of it. Maybe this whole thing is my fault. I should have seen the signs. My anger at myself only fuels my need for revenge.
“You get me names. Everyone who knew about that drop, every number you’ve traded, every man you introduced to those crates. You type them into your phone, and you hand it to me. You don’t call anyone. You don’t think. You copy. You send.”
His fingers shake as he reaches for his phone. He types and swears fast under his breath as contacts blur together and he hits send. When the file lands in my inbox, I don’t open it right away. I let him feel the heaviness of this moment for a second longer.
“What happens now?” he asks, leaning back into his chair.
Before I can answer, light footfalls approach, and a young waiter steps into the room with a tray of drinks. He slides one to Martin and places the second in front of me, then retreats.
“It’s an Oban. Best this place has. Drink up. On me,” I say, lifting the glass and taking a measured sip.
The light catches the grease on Martin’s skin, and the sweat beads at his hairline. He eyes me before wrapping his shaking hand around the glass and drinking. I grin.
“Thank you for being honest with me, Martin. It means a lot.”
He laughs—small, nervous. “Of course. You can trust me. I’ll fix this.”
“You already have,” I rise, and adjust my cufflinks.
His smile flickers, then drains as realization dawns. “I’m…sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I’ve got what I need from you. And you need to know that I don’t give second chances.”
“Wait…please?—”
His chair scrapes the floor as he attempts to stand, but my hand clamps around his throat.
“Sit and open up for something useful this time.” He squirms, and I squeeze until he stills, drink in my other hand. “Open.”
My father taught me that empathy and tears separate weak boys from men. Pyotr taught me the same lesson, with boots and fists to the face. Martin’s tears begin to track as I tip the glass and force the liquid down his throat. He chokes it back, gagging.
“Tell Shane Oliver I send my regards.”
I smash the glass into his open mouth, fist his hair, and drive his face into the table until his front teeth scatter beside the roast duck. His broken moans fill the room, and he closes his eyes, resigned to his fate…until they pop back open.
There it is.
Bloody foam bubbles gurgle from the corners of his mouth. Deep, agonized groans follow. I release my grip, and he collapses, face buried in his food, twitching as his insides are ravaged.
“Well, Martin, looks like you weren’t lying after all. Food poisoning is a bitch.”
Thirty
MAKSIM
Ifollow the echo of gunfire and stand behind the glass, watching her feed round after round down range. Each hitting their mark. Growing up in a family like ours, and working around people whose job is death, marksmanship stops being impressive, except when it’s hers.
Maybe I’m just biased because I like her.
