Behind him, Ren holds up a bloody knife.
He shrugs.“Too slow. Need to speed things up.”
I glance at the camera in the corner. If I step out of my blind spot, I’ll be visible.
“You’re good to go. Video’s looped,” Aleksei says. “Damn fuckers. Closed-circuit system only accessible on site. But that’s why you got me. And you’re welcome.”
My lips twitch. I stride to the wheezing bastard and hoist him by his collar. “I thought being in The Association gave you power and money. Why are you locked in a sublevel dealing with the dead, Carlos? What did you do?”
His eyes bulge; his face pales as he strains against my chokehold.
I whisper, “You Alvarezes wrote the book on torture. So no, that won’t happen here. Instead, I’ll take your hard drives. I’ll plant evidence of your betrayal. Partnering with the Albanians? Stupid move. Then I’ll remove your hands and tongue so you can’t speak or write. All you can do is watch your own kind hunt you down and kill everyone you love. Usual punishment. How’s that, Carlos?”
He quivers and shakes his head. We all know The Association—or his bloodthirsty family—won’t let him off easily. A quick death at my hand is preferable.
“Are we clear? Obey, and your death will be swift, with dignity.”
That’s all we can hope for in my world. I have no remorse or regrets. I’m numb to it all.
“Kian,”Lana whispers in my head.
He’s dead. Never coming back.
Silence falls. Only the hum of the refrigeration unit fills the room.
“Shit. The hazmat team got done sooner.” Aleksei eyes his laptop. “Time’s up.”
I jam the barrel of my pistol under Carlos’s throat. “A swift death or the wrath of The Association. Your choice.”
The man exhales. He types. The printer squeaks behind him.
Ren hands me the printout. His hand shakes, and he suddenly gasps.
I frown. He’s clutching his chest.
“I’m fine. Heartburn.”He motions to the paper.
It’s a medical waste contract. The schedule starts every Tuesday at 3:28am. Twenty-eight again. This is dated February twenty-eighth, twenty years ago.
Date of the massacre.
Two adults. One baby. Their names.
My pulse blasts through my eardrums. Red veils my vision. I grit my teeth, forcing focus.
At the bottom, a signature I don’t recognize, scrawled in a distinct violet ink, with a quill stamp next to it.
“Who’s this?” I point.
“They call him S-Sable. That’s all I know.” Carlos sways, his face as pale as the paper in my hand.
Blood loss. Ren was too efficient.
“I’ve given you everything I know,” he whispers, then clutches my arm. “I’m…I’m sorry for what happened to your family.”
I freeze, papers crinkling in my fist. My gaze snaps back to him.
“Your father—different, older—you resemble him. He was a good man. I often wondered what happened to you. I added your death to the system later.” He gasps, red pooling at his lip. “So they wouldn’t look for you.”
