He groans in pain, and only then do I remove the gun from his hand and store it in my holster.
“So,” I say. “Tell me who you are, or you’ll join your two friends.”
I pull his arm higher; it burns heavily in the shoulders, and he screams from the pain.
He’s giving me the same silent treatment I gave him.
“I know exactly two hundred and thirty ways to make you die slowly and very painfully,” I say. “The nicest of it is to skin you alive, so I’d advise you to talk right now, or I’ll pick something extra painful,” I add in a very dark and yet amused tone.
“Let’s start with your name.”
Blood drips from my arm, but not as badly as it could. He didn’t aim to kill me. It was a warning.
“Simon,” he says weakly. “Simon Koehler.”
“And why are you here, Simon?”
“Because you trespassed on private property.”
“Not what I meant. Who’s your employer?”
“Iscariot Industries,” he says, and I snap.
“Cut the bullshit,” I tell him with warning anger in my voice. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
He laughs derogatorily, and I shoot him in the leg.
“Find your words now?” I ask when he finally stopped screaming.
What a pathetic sissy.
“You’ll kill me anyway,” he says. “Why should I talk?”
“I won’t, if you bring me in,” I say. The words just came out of my mouth.
“We don’t take women,” he says disparagingly and with disgust in his voice.
“Well,” I say, “Your choice. Bye-bye then.”
“Wait!” he roars.
“Speak, now, or we’re done,” I say.
“Take my phone. Call Wes Peter, speak to him. The number is only viable until the assignment is done, then it burns.”
So that’s how they do it.
I do as he says, store the gun in my back holster, and fumble the phone from his pocket.
“Let me guess,” I ask, “The pin is 8888?” Those wanna-be nazis are all the fucking same idiots. I have come across some of those Hitler-loving bastards over the years.
“Yes,” he growls.
I unlock the phone and call the number.
A male voice answers.
“Is it done?”
