“Sure. What’s up?”
“I have a name and address. I need to know what kind of surveillance is in the area, where it’s located and whether you can shut it down for a period of time.”
“The whole package. Yep. Address?”
Pulling my phone away from my ear, I open my text chain with Nori and pass the information she sent me along to Voss. Once I’m sure the message has gone through, I delete my conversation with Nori. I’ll erase the exchange with Voss once our call is finished.
“Not as high tech as it should be, given the money in the neighborhood,” Voss says. “I’ll give you a route that keeps you off the neighborhood watch. I can shut down the grid on that street for an hour. Preferably in the middle of the night when there’s a less likely chance of someone noticing, but I can make it happen whenever.”
I chew the inside of my lip. Tracking down Huntley’s boss and getting the entire thing set up was always going to be the easy part. The more difficult part is leaving Huntley. Alone. In the middle of the night.
“One in the morning,” I confirm.
“Done,” Voss agrees. “Your package will be in your text. Need anything else, Uncle Oxley?”
“No. Thank you. I appreciate you letting me interrupt.”
“Not a problem. You rarely ask me for anything that truly takes me away from whatever I’m working on for any length of time. Not everyone is considerate like that.”
“Indeed.”
Huntley is sitting up in bed when I return. We spend the afternoon and evening wrapped around each other, watching movies, and taking it easy. He mentions a couple more times that he needs to start working on walking again. I compromise by letting him hobble to the bathroom using me as a crutch instead of carrying him.
I know he can’t stay bedridden forever. It’s not healthy for him, and it’ll drive him crazy. I don’t want that. He doesn’t need to be miserable.
But I don’t want him to feel pressured into PT when he’s not ready just because life is happening. The world has unrealistic expectations about recovery for anything. Huntley’s boss is an asshole, but at least some of that comes from the fact that he has no idea what it takes to recover from a serious wound.
I’m not opposed to making him understand by experience. That’s not off the list of possibilities tonight.
But most of his reaction is because of society. Everything is a game of get it done quickly. Be faster than the competition. Physical health, mental health—none of that matters. You’re expected to be somewhere and perform at your peak regardless of whatever might ail you. You’re supposed to be able to turn everything else off. Period.
That’s not realistic. It’s not human. Nick, the asshole boss-man, needs a reminder.
I make sure Huntley has a full stomach, takes a shower, watches me change out the bedding, and is tucked in with an orgasm to put him to sleep—with a bit of pain meds on the side—before leaving my apartment.
Having to leave him makes me irritated, so I’m extra cranky when I make it to Nick’s apartment complex. Voss’ automated virus system sends me confirmation that all Wi-Fi and satelliteare down. There’s even a little countdown on my screen to boot. Love me an efficient system.
I make quick work of letting myself into the secure building and picking the lock of Nick’s apartment. Before waking this scumbag up, I rummage through his belongings silently, just to confirm that this is who I’m looking for. His name tag is sitting on his dresser, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
I’m already decked out in leather and rubber, containing all my DNA and leaving no trace of me behind. There’s a gun strapped to my hip, but my first choice is always the hunting knife. I enjoy the serrated edges.
With it in one hand, I grip Nick-the-Dick around his neck with the other. His eyes fly open with instant alarm and fear. I pull him harshly from the bed and toss him roughly onto the floor, where I hold the knife at his neck.
“There’s money in the top drawer,” he stammers.
“We’re going to have a conversation about being a decent human being,” I tell him. “You’ve apparently led a comfortable life where you haven’t been shot, for which you should thank your lucky fucking stars. However, that’s also made you callous, and I think the best way to remedy that is to inflict an injury just as serious and see how you enjoy the recovery process.”
Nick-the-Dick trips over his words. A trickle of blood drips down his neck from where the sharp tip of my blade digs into his skin.
While I have no intention of shooting him, I pull out my gun and point it at his head. He immediately begins sobbing. “What do you think? Would you like my knife through your biceps, or should I shoot you through the middle of your hand instead?”
“Please. I’m sorry. I’ll be better. I swear to you, I’ll be better.”
“In my experience, the threat of violence without feeling that wrath doesn’t leave a lasting impression,” I note. “As time goes on, you’ll reconstruct the memory as somehow you outwitted me, threatened me, or some other thing that gives you a false sense of accomplishment, and you’ll be back to being the same asshole you’ve always been. I think you need a scar so you have a constant reminder. Don’t you?”
“No, please. No.”
I slip the gun back into its holster and lean into his face, making sure he’s looking into my eyes. “You best listen to me, Nick Yarden. Are you listening?” He nods wildly, which opens the wound on his neck a little more. “Bullies have no space in my city, so you better get your shit together and treat your employees with compassion, empathy, and respect. Or I’ll be back. There’s not a damn thing you can do or any fucking place you can go to get away from me. And if I come back, I’ll kill you. Understand me, Nick Yarden?”
