“I'll cover the back.”
He smirks as sharp as a blade. “Try not to fuck this up.”
“Try not to bleed out.”
He slips from the car, effortless arrogance wrapped in violence. I vanish into the alley, picking the back lock with practiced ease.
Once I’m through the back door and walking through the kitchen, I hear footsteps above, followed by a muffled shout and then something heavy crashing to the floor.
Archie.
Silent, I ascend, gun steady. At the landing, Archie grapples with our target—a wiry man past his prime, but desperate strength keeps him fighting. Archie’s got him pinned, but he's struggling, furious, and undisciplined.
“Need help?” I ask, savoring the sight.
“Shut up and fucking assist me.”
I surge forward, slamming my fist brutally into the man's ribs. Bones crack audibly, breath exploding from his lungs. Archie jerks his twisted arm upward, the popping of ligaments sharp and satisfying.
“You took something that wasn’t yours,” Archie growls.
I plant my boot firmly on the man's throat, watching his face turn crimson, veins bulging grotesquely beneath pale skin.
“You...don't...understand,” he gasps pathetically.
I press down harder, driving the heel of my boot into his throat, watching him sputter and squirm like a fish on a dock. “No, you’re the one who misunderstood,” I say coldly and even. “Choices have consequences. I’m yours.”
His hands scrabble at my leg, nails scratching uselessly against leather, trying to pry me off like it’ll make a difference. It’s pitiful. He’s not resisting, he’s flailing. Archie crouches beside him, voice calm and direct. “Where is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just glares, teeth clenched, blood pooling under his cheek. So I bend down and grab his pinky. Without ceremony, I snap it backward and watch as bone punctures the skin with a sickening crunch. He lets out a high-pitched, ragged scream, the kind of sound that fills a room and hangs there. His body convulses from the shock, but he still doesn’t talk. I watch as his face pales to grey, but he is still holding out.
I sigh, then reach for the knife I keep tucked at the waistband of my trousers, knowing it’s time for some more substantial efforts. It’s not a flashy knife, just a simple carbon steel blade sharp from use.
“You think pain makes you brave?” I ask, gripping his wrist. He starts thrashing again in an absolute panic, but I don’t stop. I press the blade just below the base of his palm and start sawing through the flesh. Blood pours fast, hot, and dark, splashing across the marble as he howls, his legs kicking wildly. I keep going methodically, carving through tendons and muscles like I’m slicing meat. “You’re going to tell us,” I mutter more to myself than him, “it’s just a matter of how much of you’s left when you do.”
He breaks before I hit the bone.
“Second—row—bookshelf!” he screams, voice cracking, soaked with spit and blood. I stop, wipe the blade on his coat, and then dust off my slacks before standing. He’s shakinguncontrollably, his face a mess of snot and tears and terror staring at me like I’m something he didn’t believe could exist.
He tries to get up and make a run for it, so Archie shoves him violently into a desk, splintering wood. Straightening myself, my eyes find the shelf, and I pull away books, exposing a safe.
While I’m focused on the task at hand, a greater responsibility looms in the back of my mind, and something about this situation seems like it may be of help to me. It looks like the Huntington-Russells are all around me, and it’s a convenience I can’t deny.
Something about this man tells me he’s about to share information I didn’t know I needed.
“Combination.”
Silence.
Archie doesn’t hesitate, snapping the man's forearm with a visceral crunch. The scream is wet and raw, blood dripping from bitten lips.
“9-1-7-3,” he wheezes through agony.
The safe opens easily, and the files are neatly arranged. I collect them swiftly.
“Time's up,” Archie shouts coldly as he throws the man to the floor.
“You...don't know what you've done,” he sobs weakly.
