Page 99 of Honorable Sins

When he pitches forward, I strike him between the shoulder blades.

The pellets shoot from his mouth onto the blanket.

He drags in a ragged breath, then another.

I let him. I am not ready for him to die. "You don’t like your food?"

O’Grady's body stiffens, terror emanating from him in waves. "Mick."

"It’s designed especially for rats." I pick up the pellet that rolled nearest my boot and hold it between my thumb and forefinger. "Perfect balance of protein and fibrous nutrients."

"What are you doing here, you psycho?"

"Why do people say that like it’s an insult?" I quote Kara.

For my exceptional wife, it is a term of endearment.

O’Grady scrambles backward until his shoulders strike the headboard. The pungent smell of piss joins the sour stench of fear coming off him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Feeding another rat."

"I’m no rat." His voice cracks. "I’ve never informed on anyone."

Wraith would disagree. O'Grady told Kenneth that Áine was converting the books from his former businesses to a digital system. Knowing what she would find, Kenneth set up another, last desperate attempt to eliminate Áine before she could reveal what he'd been up to.

It didn't succeed, but that doesn't make Kenneth, or this man, any less culpable.

I don't bother bringing that up though. Tonight's visit is personal.

"You want me to believe you knew nothing about Kenneth’s plans to hand me over to the FBI?"

"I didn’t. I swear to you!"

"I know better."

His eyes dart toward the bedroom door. No help is coming. He doesn't have on site soldiers. And after her son was fostered to another mob, Mrs. O'Grady took their daughter and went to visit her parents in Boston. Indefinitely.

She's less of a fool than her husband, but women often are.

"If Kenneth told you different, he was lying."

"Here’s the thing." I push away from the bed and stroll toward the dresser. "I don’t believe you."

His breathing speeds up.

"Sucks to be you, I suppose. Because I’m sure you know what that means."

"Stop trying to scare me." His words come faster now, desperation pretending to be defiance. "If you were going to kill me, you would’ve done it in front of the whole mob."

"That’s where you’re wrong."

I lift the framed photograph on his dresser.

O’Grady and his wife at some charity dinner, both of them smiling for the camera. He has one hand at her waist and the expression of a man who believes his life is secure.

I put the photograph back.

"Six years ago, we had too many rats. Psychologically, it would be bad for morale if the men thought we had another infestation."