He reaches out, almost gently, takes Neck Tattoo's other hand.
“The hand has twenty-seven bones. Each one can be broken individually.” He presses his thumb against the guy's index finger, finding the joint.
A quick, sharp twist. The snap is loud in the quiet room.
Neck Tattoo screams.
Maddox waits for him to stop, patient as stone. “Twenty-six left. Your call.”
I watch Maddox work. There's no pleasure in his face, no anger. Just efficiency. This is who he is. Who we are, when pushed far enough. The thought should disturb me more than it does.
Neck Tattoo looks at me. At Maddox. At his own hand.
“Alright! Alright, fuck.” He's breathing hard, sweat mixing with the blood on his face. “We got the job through a fixer. Guynamed Whitmore. He handles shit for rich people who don't want to get their hands dirty.”
“Whitmore,” I repeat. “Who does he work for?”
“I don't know, man. He just shows up with cash and a target. We don't ask questions.”
“Guess,” Maddox says, pressing slightly harder.
“Hammond! Okay? Word is he's connected to the Hammond family. That's all I know, I swear to God.”
Hammond.The name lands in my gut like a stone.
I stand, body aching in ways I'll feel tomorrow. Maddox releases the guy's hand, straightens, wipes his knife on his jeans before making it disappear.
“See?” I say to Neck Tattoo. “That wasn't so hard.”
Logan finds a bottle that survived the fight, pours glasses. He sets one down next to Neck Tattoo, still on the floor, cradling his ruined hand.
“For the pain,” Logan says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
“Spread the word,” I tell them. “ELK is off-limits. So is anyone connected to me. Next time, we won't be this friendly.”
We walk out the way we came. The night air hits my face, cool and sharp. My hands start shaking as the adrenaline releases.
Maddox falls into step beside me. “Whitmore. I'll have everything on him by morning.”
“Thank you.”
Logan claps me on the shoulder. I wince.
“You hurt?”
“I'm fine.”
“Need a doctor?”
“I need a drink and an ice pack.”
Ethan looks us over with that quiet assessment. “You're both bleeding.”
I glance at my arm. The cut is shallow but seeping. “It's nothing.”
Logan shrugs. Lower lip swollen and bleeding. “Had worse.”
“I'll drive,” Ethan says to Logan, taking the keys from him. “You need a lift?” he asks me.
