He slumps forward, coughs. But he doesn’t speak.
“You took a job without asking who the target was. You that desperate for money? Or just stupid as hell?”
He spits blood off to the side. “You think I’m scared of you?”
I smile. “Yes.”
His eyes flash, and I can tell I’ve called his pathetic little bluff.
I turn my attention to the workbench along the wall, the one lined with tools no one has used for their intended purposesin years. I pick up a wrench and roll it in my hand, testing the weight of it. It’s cold and balanced.
“This’ll do nicely,” I say, stepping over to him.
“Wait, wait!”
I don’t need to get messy to make a point. One good strike to the thigh—muscle, not bone. Then one to the shoulder, right on the edge of the collar. It’s enough to ring the nerve and light his arm on fire without actually breaking anything. He grunts and moans, gritting his teeth.
“Who hired you?”
His head lolls back, then forward. “Just… just some guy! Just some random I know through a friend, someone I’ve gotten jobs from before.” He shakes his head in desperation. “I don’t know names. They just told me where the target would be and when.”
His breathing gets louder. The bulb hums.
“You missed,” I tell him. “And then you got caught.”
The man’s breath rattles, shallow and wet. No doubt the pain from the wrench is still ripping through him. He looks up at me, like maybe he’ll find mercy.
He won’t.
“You came for my woman,” I say. “You tried to kill her.”
His throat bobs. “Please. He’ll kill me if I talk.”
So he knows more than he’s letting on.
“Then I’ll save him the trouble.”
The man trembles, and soon his whole frame is quivering. I grab the man’s chin, force it up with the wrench still in my hand. He reeks of fear.
“Tell me who ordered the hit.”
His eyes dart to mine, then away. Bogdan stands off to the side, hands clasped behind his back.I raise the wrench.
“Peter,” he finally croaks. “Peter Morozov.”
Confirmation.
“You’re sure?”
He nods. “Yeah. Peter Morozov. Came into the meeting himself. Said it was important. Said it’d be the last hit I’d ever have to do.”
Rage courses through me, hot and raw. I’d suspected Peter, of course, but hearing it confirmed is something else.
I straighten, then slowly step over to the workbench and replace the wrench. I reach to the back of my waist and draw my pistol. When I turn, fear flashes in the man’s eyes. He struggles, hands jerking against the ties.
“Please—please?—”
I step over to him and stop. “No one comes for what’s mine and lives to talk about it.”
