Rhett’s already there, removing the ropes around the guy’s wrists only to re-use them to tie his hands behind the back of the chair. The man groans, probably from pain due to the bullet wound in his gut, but is ignored. I leave to grab my bag of interrogation tools from the main basement space on one of the shelves. When I rejoin Rhett and our new guest, I find the latter lifting his head to look around.
“Ah,” he mutters as his eyes land on me and my bag. “So it’s to be like this then.”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I let the man stew as I walk over to the table and open my bag.
“You don’t have to use any of those, I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” the man offers, conversationally. The fact that there’s no panic or fear in his voice tells me that he’s been in this position a time or two before. If he’s escaped before, then he probably thinks he can do it again.
Rather than reply, I begin to pull out my instruments. When everything is laid out in front of me, I pick up a pair of pliers. When I turn around, I find Rhett leaning against the wall by the door with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the man intently. He lifts his gaze to mine and nods his head for me to continue. He’s not going anywhere.
I make my way back over to my victim and stand there before him.
“You’ll talk?” I ask, clarifying.
The man looks up at me, eyeing me curiously. He’s probably trying to see if I’m full of shit when it comes to torturing a human being or not. I try to guess his age. He’s probably in his sixties,which is pretty good for those in my line of work. A lot of us don’t make it past our prime. Old age means that we begin to slow and grow complacent which, in turn, is a death sentence.
“Yeah…” he drawls slowly, a half smile pulling at his lips. “I’ll talk.”
“Why are you here?” I ask him.
“To see a contract through,” he says with a shrug. “I assume you’re here to do the same?”
My smile isn’t half-hearted like his, it’s full blown and colder than ice. “Maybe. Who’s your hit?”
“Probably the same as yours.”
“These aren’t answers,” I tell him. “So if you’re looking to get out of this with all your fucking digits, I suggest you start talking.”
The man sighs, his eyes rolling slowly and dramatically. “I’m here for a girl.”
“Who sent you?”
“My handler.”
I scowl. “Where do they get their information?”
“The same way they always do, I suppose.” The man shrugs. “But how am I to know that?”
It’s not too far-fetched to believe he doesn’t know all the details. The few guys I know in this line of work that have a handler don’t ask many questions. They simply accept or refuse a job and that’s it. But given that this man is after Blair, the daughter of one of the most infamous hitmen alive, I have a feeling the handler would’ve shared more information than just the bare minimum.
I glance over at my spectator. “I think this is going to be our first kill together, Rhett.”
“About damn time. I’ve been waiting to see you in action,” Rhett replies, his tone suggesting his boredom. His face, however, brightens a bit at the prospect of a kill.
“Hold on a minute,” the man pipes up. “Now that I think about it, I think my handlerknowsthe girl.”
I sigh. “That’s not good enough.”
“Well—”
Before he can finish whatever bullshit he was going to spew, I grab his jaw and jab the pliers in my other hand forward, straight into his eye socket. His screams are ignored, his thrashing useless. It’s not until his eye falls to the ground that I step back.
“I want real,detailedanswers from here on out,” I tell him as I wipe the blood from the plier on my pants. “Your handler—what’s their stake in this? How do they know about this girl?”
My captive breathes hard as blood drips from his empty eye socket. His face has gone pale and his shoulders heave.
“I… I don’t know,” he wheezes out.
“Well, I’ll tell you what. There were only two people in existence that knew about Blair up until recently. One’s standing in front of you, and the other helped bring her into this world,” I explain darkly as I turn and head for the stainless table.
