I don’t answer. He knows I won’t. He just likes watching me pretend I’m the reasonable one.
Our guy scurries out of his car, does that nervous half-jog vanillas do when they’re terrified of getting mugged by their own shadow. He glances over his shoulder once. Doesn’t spot us, but he feels the reaper breathing on his neck.
Then he disappears.
“Look at you,” Callum sing-songs, “going full Boy Scout. Juliet gets one shiny badge in the toy box and suddenly you’re worried about witnesses and camera angles. Next you’ll be reading him his rights before we break them.”
“Shut up,” I say.
Because he’s not wrong.
Reid’s a cop. A dirty one, sure, but still a cop. And tonight we’re about to make another guy regret every life choice that led him to Oksana, Dmitry, and by extension our girl.
Callum pops the lollipop out of his mouth and points it at the building like a gun. “Ten bucks says he pisses himself before we even get the duct tape out.”
“Twenty says he cries for his mom first.”
Callum whistles low. “Twenty it is. Loser mows the lawn all summer.”
Yeah. Not happening. “That’s already your chore, asshole. You win I mow the lawn. I win you repaint the fucking siding.”
I kill the engine.
Showtime.
We wait like patient wolves who’ve already picked which parts they’re eating first.
Forty-three minutes later, Beige Boy scurries out clutching a cheap vinyl briefcase like it’s his last will and testament. He’s sweating through his jacket now. Big dark circles under the armpits.
Cute.
He never even makes it to his car.
Callum ghosts up behind him, one arm looping casually around his neck.
“Hey, buddy,” Callum whispers, cheery as a chainsaw. “You dropped your spine back there.”
The briefcase hits the ground with a pathetic thud.
I’m at the trunk, lid yawning open. Black plastic sheeting, zip ties, and a roll of duct tape arranged in a pretty welcome basket from hell.
Beige Boy tries to scream.
Callum’s hand clamps over his mouth so fast the only noise that escapes is a sad little wheeze.
“Shh,” Callum croons, dragging him backward. “We’re borrowing you for a bit. It’s team-building.”
I grab the guy’s ankles.
He kicks like a toddler in a grocery store.
Together we swing him up and in.
He lands face-down on the plastic with a meaty thump.
Callum climbs in after him, straddling his back like he’s riding a particularly disappointing pony.
“Hi there!” he says brightly, slapping two strips of duct tape over the guy’s mouth in an X. “Safety first.”
