Page 17 of Enemy of the Heart

Jace approaches, his stony gaze melting for half a beat as we lock eyes. Guilt, forewarning, and sorrow loom there before he schools his expression.

Thompson steps up to his side, and together, they wrestle me into restraints so that my arms are locked behind my back. I’m shoved roughly to my knees. This time, I resist with every measurable ounce of strength I possess.

Jace opens the hinged door on the box, and it doesn’t matter how much I thrash and fight the inevitable, I’m forced inside.

No, fuck no.

They slam the lid shut, and the fateful sound ricochets through the cell, blaring like a bad omen. The denotative clicking of a lock echoes next, making all the cells in my body go on high alert. Jace’s heavy gaze briefly meets mine through the small slit over my face—which allows oxygen into this box of misery—before disappearing entirely. I hear the iron door to my cell locking again, isolating me to the confines.

I’ve never been a fan of small, tight spaces, but this is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’m a big fucking guy; pushing six-foot-five, built of solid, stacked muscle, so this is five hundred kinds of Hell. Second only to losing Louhi, this is my worst nightmare.

Hours pass, and I feel as though I’ve just been buried under a tonnage of rocks. At some point, the panic pressing down on me like an anvil morphs into grim terror so menacing that I almost break, almost give in to the tenebrous abyss. There’s no amount of calming breaths or meditating that will subdue my mind, and the mouth of death takes shape: its lip peeling back to bare its teeth, its jaws threatening to mangle my mind.

Although the physical agony of having my body contorted to fit into this box is extremely uncomfortable—painful even—it has nothing on the psychological aspect.

A small rectangular cutout is my only source of light and air, and there wasn’t much light in the cell to begin with. The darkness and limited oxygen are messing with my over-crowded mind.

I have no way of knowing exactly how much time has passed before someone materializes in my cage, the grating sound of the hinges of my cell door opening reverberating beneath me. At least, I think so, but it could just be my mind conjuring someone.

Unfortunately not a mirage, Major Thompson’s masked face appears through the small slit in my box, and he begins spewing his revulsion like a fire hydrant.

The feeling is mutual, asshole.

I don’t see the small bowl in his hands until he tips it upside down and pours the contents through the hole in my box. Heavily salted lemon juice rinses my face and chest, settling into the numerous tiny abrasions covering my skin. I blink it from my burning eyes as I cough and sputter, but the solution is everywhere.

“Some seasoning for the rats’ dinner,” he informs me before disappearing again, the sound of my cell shutting with a clang. My cuts sizzle with acute pain, and I grit my teeth, wondering just how long I’m going to be left here before they kill me, or worse, let the rats do it.

Between the position I’ve been locked in and the metal music roaring through the speakers, it’s truly impossible to fall asleep. I’ve nearly lost all the fight left in me, too. My body is weakening, numbness having set in. I can’t imagine that being cramped in this position for an interminable amount of time is good for me either.

The light in the darkness that is Louhi is beginning to fade into the distance of my subconscious, floating farther away on a windless gale. I don’t know how long my hope will hang on before it disappears entirely. My body feels as though it’s abandoning me, leaving me to rot in the wicked hell that my mind has become.

The timer is running out.

Louhi

My body’s warm despite the snow on the ground as I huddle against the brick wall of the building. Glancing at my watch, I adjust the hood of my jacket lower over my face with my gloved hand, my lips curling into a faint smile.

It was too easy to remotely hack Lenny Johnson’s bank records to find that he pays for a monthly membership at the gym a block away. From there, it was child’s play to access the CCTV at the stoplight half a block from where I stand to find that he walks there every morning at five thirty-five, which is three minutes from now.

I’m practically bouncing on my toes with adrenaline—or maybe that’s the copious amounts of caffeine I guzzled at the twenty-four-hour coffee shop for the last few hours—when his shoes come into view. Like clockwork.

My arm darts out, and I yank him into the alley with me. He stumbles, but I have him shoved against the wall before he realizes what’s happening. Once his sleep-addled brain kicks on, he thrashes against me, but the cold edge of my knife pressed to his jugular vein has him going utterly still.

Lenny’s simply the last in a long line of targets I’ve eliminated over the last forty-eight hours. He’s an unremarkable, rubbish mark, but he’ll serve his purpose just fine. Honestly, I’d rather inflict a bit more violence, but this will suffice since I don’t have the time or space to draw things out the way I’d like right now. This murder spree was only meant to take the edge off and clear my mind.

“P-Please,” he begins to beg, his skin ashen even in the nearly nil light. “I have m-money.”

Why do they always offer to pay before they die? I sigh. “I don’t want your money.” I don’t know why Conall wants him dead, nor do I care. It’s irrelevant.

I drag the edge of my knife across his neck, and his blood seeps out as though I’ve knocked over a can of crimson paint.

As he slumps to the dirty pile of snow on the ground, I grin broadly, and calm trickles back into my veins as though I’ve been hooked up to an intravenous drip. This kill was messy. I’m drenched in blood, and I have to wipe my face on the inside of my black hood, but it was entirely worth the hassle. Luckily, my black clothing hides the evidence.

I snap a picture of the sod on my burner phone. Later, I’ll upload it to the job posting for kuoleman jumalatar as proof for Conall. He’d take me at my word, but this is how I run my business.

Abandoning the man, I stride out of the alley, ducking onto the street at the other end, ensuring that the hood is still pulled low over my smiling face.

My black combat boots are silent as I stalk through the subterranean corridor that’s made entirely of too much bloody concrete. I never wanted to see this much cement again. Alas, I’m not that lucky.