Cautiously, I approach the wounded man.
He’s on his back, his hand pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. His gun, knocked from his grasp when he collapsed, lies a few feet away. He’s gasping, his cheeks shining with tears in the dim light.
When he spots me, he grapples for his weapon, his fingers scrambling on the gravel.
I stamp his wrist, grinding bone against pavement.
His short, strangled scream echoes off the alley walls.
“That’s enough.” I crouch beside him, maintaining pressure on his wrist. “You’re going to deliver a message for me.”
His eyes widen with pain, fear, and a flicker of recognition. He knows who I am.
Good.
I increase the pressure on his wrist until the joint dislocates. Then I wrench.
His raw, animalistic scream is louder this time. With my free hand, I dig my thumb into the bullet hole in his shoulder. Beneath me, he thrashes and begs incoherently.
“Listen carefully.” I reach down and break each of his fingers, one by one. Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity. So he’ll remember this message. After all, pain makes for the best memory aid.
The man yelps. With each break, his body jerks. He opens his mouth to cry out again, but he only manages a quiet, dry rattle. He’s out of air, out of energy.
I snap his last finger. “Tell Gio Falcone that the Shark always confirms that his prey is dead. Getting a building dropped on him will feel like a walk in the park after I’m done with him. Repeat that back to me.”
He gasps it out between sobs, word for word. Going by the spark in the guy’s glazed eyes, I guessed right when naming Gio.
Kolya should have confirmed his death. We all should have.
Now that mistake is biting me in the ass.
Leaving the man sniveling on the ground, I head for the van to check for any lurking survivors.
Empty.
Then I put the transmission in neutral and straighten the wheels.
On the way back to my car, I fire one shot into the messenger’s kneecap, ensuring he won’t follow but can still deliver my warning.
His howls reverberate as I slide behind the wheel of my Audi.
Jordan huddles against the passenger door, clutching her seat belt with white-knuckled hands. Her wide eyes reflect the distant streetlights. When I finger the keys, she flinches.
“It’s done.” I start the engine.
She simply stares straight ahead as I back out of the alley, completely unresponsive. I drive slowly, the car bumping as the wheels roll over the first body. Just his lower legs, but he still shrieks before shock knocks him unconscious.
A strangled noise escapes Jordan’s throat, and one hand flies to her mouth. For a second, I think she might vomit, but she instead swallows hard and squeezes her eyes shut.
Strong-willed.
I can respect that.
Then I run over the second body. And third.
These remain silent. Jordan whimpers and presses her forehead to the window’s cool glass.
Bumper to bumper, I push the van out of the way and accelerate into the night.
