Page 24 of ’Til You Break

I keep the Colt trained on his chest, ready to fire if he makes the wrong move.

“Turn on the light,” I order.

He does. If he has a gun within reach, I can’t see it.

“You’ve been a very naughty boy, Frank,” I say, twitching the gun in my hand so he understands the threat is real.

“Wha—who the fuck ar—”

“No, no.” I wag a gloved finger to silence him. “You don’t get to ask questions.”

He coughs and stares at my face. Except it isn’t my face.

I don’t conceal my identity because I’m afraid the men I interrogate might recognize me. That would be pointless when anyone who makes it this far has very little chance of leaving alive.

I wear the mask because it strips away everything that makes me human. It hides the features that might reveal weakness in moments like this. Standing here, I am judge, jury, and executioner, and my black mask reinforces that role. The skull replacing my features transforms me into The Reaper I must become to carry out these unholy acts.

It also gives men like Frank exactly what they deserve. Unrestrained terror in their final moments.

I take slow, deliberate steps around the bed and stop beside him. I’ve already made my threat clear, so there’s no need to train the gun on him again. My presence alone should be enough to make him cooperate.

“I ask, you answer.” I stare down at him, relishing the way his face twists with sleepy confusion as he tries to make sense of this waking nightmare. “Satisfy me, and you might live.”

Frank’s head bobs up and down.

“Two nights ago, you met with Mark Anderson. Why?”

He runs a hand through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “He’s an old friend. We were catching up.”

“Unsatisfactory.” I drive my fist into the bridge of his nose.

These things happen. Men like Frank know better than to speak until a point has been made. Threats are only words until they’re backed by action.

“Ah, fuck.” His hands fly to his face, cupping the blood pouring from his nose.

“I won’t ask the same question twice.”

“He asked for my services,” Frank yells through his hands.

“To deliver a message?”

I still don’t know exactly what that means, and this may be my best chance to find out. Perhaps I’ll even learn why my mother died that night.

His bloodshot eyes widen in shock at what he thinks I might know. “Yes.”

“To whom, and what for?”

“Fuck if I know.” I raise my fist again.

“Wait, wait,” Frank squeals, throwing his arms up in surrender. “I really don’t know. It’s not my place. I deliver the message. That’s all.”

“Hmm.” I lower my fist. “Then you send a team to retrieve the item it was delivered in?”

He nods, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Tell me about them.”

“What?” His jaw begins to tremble.