"Alternative question, then." This time my slapjack comes down on the forearm above the wrist I dislocated in the alley. "Were you here to kill me this week, or were you on a recon only mission?"
Something flares in his eyes. Triumph. Why would he feel triumphant?
I break his ring finger on the same hand.
The popping sound of bone tearing from cartilage is small. His reaction is not. The compound drags a harsh breath from him and sweat breaks out on his forehead.
"Why are you in New York?" I ask mildly.
"Learning his routines." Lars' accent thicker now, but his English is too good for him to have gotten the pronoun wrong.
His routines. Not your routines.
"Whose routines were you learning?"
He doesn't reply.
I break another finger. On his other hand.
The sound he makes is definitely one of pain.
"Procurement and retention of attention," I say. "That’s what the manuals call this part. Keeping you focused on my theme instead of your pain. I find the pain can actually help with focus if applied correctly."
He says something in a vicious tone in Swedish.
I don't ask for translation.
"Whose routines?" I ask again.
"Brogan." Lars swallows. "The boss."
"Why the fuck are you following Brogan?" Did we get this wrong? My mind works furiously as I walk around Lars, so I'm at his back. "Kenneth believes the FBI will arrest me."
So, Lars is not insurance. Not for me.
"Yes," the hitter agrees, revealing two things.
I am not the primary target.
He knows more than a mere lackey would do.
"Are you supposed to kill Brogan Shaugnessy?"
Silence.
Shifting for the right angle, I punch him directly in the liver. With my fist. Not the slapjack.
His body tries to fold forward against the restraints.
The compound magnifies every sensation.
I wait. Patience matters. Too many interrogators rush. Pain without purpose becomes noise. Eventually Lars looks up.
"Are you supposed to kill Brogan Shaugnessy?" The repetitiveness of interrogation is feckin' boring.
But necessary.
"No," he says, his tongue slow to form the single syllable.