If I had a conscience, that is.
But since I don’t, I get up from my chair and amble toward him. Something must’ve given me away because the man shrinks.
“Mr. Kent…” His voice cracks.
I catch his chin, tilt his face up, and pat his cheek. “Do you know what I hate more than anything?”
My words are a quiet whisper. The man stills, his sour breath puffing against my face.
I lean closer. “I hate crimes against women. People like youdisgustme to the core. If I had my way, I’d peel every inch of skin from your body just so I could hear you scream. And that’d only be an ounce of the torture you put those women through.”
Akim’s breath quickens. “But you work for the Berishas! You’re part of The Association!”
I smile and step back, wiping my gloves with a napkin.
The door opens, and Niko walks back into the room, holding a toolbox.
“I got it from here,” I tell him.
He hesitates. “You sure?”
Oh yes, I’m fucking sure.
Niko’s eyes narrow with something like understanding. He hands me the toolbox and leaves.
“So many choices,” I tsk under my breath as I flip through the tools, “what shall I use?”
Akim whimpers, pleas blubbering from his mouth.
Useless, spineless idiot.
I hold up a sharp tactical knife and walk back to him. It gleams under the fluorescent light.
I check my watch. “Too bad. I don’t have time to play with you today.”
“No please! Talk to Dalmat Hoxha. He’d know more. I swear it wasn’t—”
Hoxha. The Albanian mob secretary. Of course. Sick satisfaction warms my chest as I find my next target.
“You.” I press my boot on his chest and bear down, watching with satisfaction as he gasps for breath, his face turning red. “I know it wasn’t you.”
Rule one: look them in the eye.
I stare straight at him. The rage I’ve tethered away comes roaring back to the surface.
Rules two and three: Tell them their sins and no innocents.
I lower my voice, a raw whisper. “It might not have been you, but your sins are just the same. Those women you hurt? Now, who will avenge them?”
My fingers curl around his neck, feeling the tendons yield beneath my grip. The bones crack and give. He struggles against his binds, eyes widening, bloodshot and wild.
“S-Stop…h-help—”
I lean in. “I sent the virus.”
His eyes widen and I plunge the knife, the hilt slamming into his chest. Wet gurgles reach my ears. Then fruitless struggles.
When he stops moving, the room stills, thick and silent. I step back and slowly peel off my gloves—another pair ruined—and toss them into the metal bin.
