Lucky is bouncing around, picking up all the different tools that they have laid out and waving them in the guy’s face, accompanied by a string of bloodthirsty expletives and descriptions of what I’m about to do to him. He looks like a kid in a candy store, as usual. He doesn’t even seem high. His eyes are bright and clear, his mohawk is perfectly coiffed and his entire being seems dedicated to scaring the shit out of this man for the fun of it.
Colm, as usual, stands to the side and watches with an indecipherable expression on his face.
I guess it’s time to get this show on the road.
The man looks pissed. His face is covered in dried, tacky blood from a gash on his forehead. I’m assuming that’s how they took him. He has shaggy, chin-length brown hair that’s also matted with dried blood, and his body is almost as covered with tattoos as mine.
I don’t know what all of them mean, but I know enough. He’s mid-ranking—high enough that it’s going to cause problems when he turns up missing—and he’s definitely a member of the same branch of the Brotherhood that wants me dead.
“What information do we even need from him?” I ask Colm, my voice already hollow and echoey in my ears.
“Everything we can get. Where they’re based around here. How many of them there are. What they’re running, if it’s more drugs and guns?—”
He’s still talking, but the sound of his voice is swallowed up by my blood rushing in my ears.
I think I would hate this less if it weren’t all so fucking pointless. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. But I know exactly what level of debauched, gut-churning violence the next few hours are about to contain, and I know exactly how useless it all is.
The Brotherhood hate us, and we hate them, because we’re rivals. We’re all fucking criminals, who will continue to squabble over control of our shitty little trades in drugs and illegal weapons.
Sure, they’re targeting me now, but tomorrow it’ll be someone else. We kill this guy, then they kill one of ours in retribution—although please, God, if you exist, let it be Eamon—and so on and so on.
The demand for drugs and guns isn’t exactly going anywhere. And it’s not like there’s not enough to go around: this country isfucked up.
All the rest of it feels like a lot of posturing at the end of the day. My father loves to brag about my skills in this particular arena. Information extraction. I think he likes the clout it brings him more than he likes any of the information I’ve ever actually tortured out of someone.
What a waste of energy.
With exhaustion nipping at my heels, fighting for dominance with my mounting anxiety, I turn my attention to the task at hand. I let the guys do the talking. I wasn’t listening to Colm when he gave me the highlights, anyway. All I need to do is work.
The man makes it through all the nails on his right hand being pulled before he starts to scream. When I clip a battery to his testicles to start hitting him with low-level electric shocks, he starts to whimper.
But still, he doesn’t talk. Clearly, someone here really drank the Kool-Aid.
I have a headache from all the screaming and the acrid stench of burning pubic hair. When I turn away for a few seconds to rub at my temples, Lucky loses his temper. I’m in my own protective mental bubble, so it takes longer than it should for the havoc to penetrate my consciousness.
When it does, I realize he’s pummeling the guy’s face, blood gushing from the prisoner’s nose and down his chest, screaming at him for information, while the other two try to drag him away and yell at me to help.
My feeling of exhaustion only intensifies.
I need this to be over.
Steeling myself, I pull out a blade. It’s time to get messy, so we can finally all move on with our lives.
The rest happens in a blur.
Blood. More screaming that turns to wet, choked gurgles. My muscles burning with exertion. A dull throb in my wound, where it still hasn’t totally healed and isn’t used to this. The constant chatter of Lucky’s ridiculous running commentary in the background.
And then it’s done.
We’ve gotten what we could from him, and if he’s not dead, he’s about to be. I’m moving like a zombie, shuffling around the barn to gather up my shit. My limbs are all sticky with his blood.
“Sav.” Colm’s face appears in front of mine, looking at me intently like he’s been trying to get my attention for a while. “Do you want to go? Eamon volunteered to ditch the body.”
I shrug. Whatever.
“Are you good?”
“I’m fine. I need a shower. Let’s head out.”
