Page 10
“Who made the deal?” The calm in my voice comes as a comfort to some, unless they’re laid out like Tony here, staring up at me as if he’s reached the end of his wick.
“I …” His answer is cut short by a gurgling cough, and a glob of blood smacks his cheek, small bits of his insides springing forth and sliding down his skin. “Told you.”
‘Fuck sakes, man. I’m about to piss all over this stubborn prick.
Wouldn’t be so bad if a perfect record of extraction wasn’t on the line. I never fail my clients, and if Tony has to be ground into hamburger before he realizes that, then I guess I’ll ignore the urges begging me to add a golden shower to his list of tortures. Hands braced on the edge of the table, I shake my head and expel an exasperated huff.
I’m tired. He’s undoubtedly tired. This has to be the most tenacious subject I’ve had in years. Bordering on ridiculous at this point. The guy’s already lost an ear, six of his ten fingers, a kneecap, and about four liters of blood from the looks of it. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s holding him together, besides some ungodly will to remain silent.
I turn to the tray of tools beside me and lift a scalpel, twisting it in front of him. “Do you know how many muscles hold the eyeball in place, Tony?”
His bottom lip curves with his quiet, tearless sobbing. Bastard must be weak as hell, if he can’t even muster a convincing cry.
“Six. Six muscles and an optic nerve. Enucleation is the detachment of those muscles and that nerve from the eyeball, and I’m not going to lie to you, Tony. Cutting an eyeball out isn’t like cutting off your ear. You may experience some discomfort in this, as I have to tug at the eyeball itself, once it’s popped, in order to keep those muscles nice and taut for the blade.” I rub a gloved thumb across his brow, and he flinches at my touch, his whimper the only sound he’s made consistently through this dog and pony show. “But these orbital bones make it tolerable to lose an eye. Not like … say, I removed your kidney.” I set the blade to the side, staring down at the shit brown irises I may have to stab out of his skull before I get to take that piss. “Or we can say to hell with all that, and you can just tell me, honestly this time, who made the deal.”
Snot mixed with blood bubbles from his nose, as his face pinches into another sob, and he rolls his head on the table. “I don’t—”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know. I’ll rip your goddamn eyeballs out with my fingers, if you tell me you don’t know. I don’t even care about precision at this point.”
My phone buzzes beside me, and Milo’s name pops up on the screen. I don’t typically answer calls during a session, but this guy has tested my patience, and I can’t exactly ignore a call from the boss. Most guys in the agency have never heard the top dog’s voice, let alone have him on speed dial. With my wrist, I awkwardly slide my arm across the screen.
Doesn’t answer the call.
Groaning, I remove my glove, dropping it on Tony’s face and answer the call on speakerphone.
“Yeah.”
“You’re in a session?”
“I am.” I slide the glove from his face and offer Tony a smile and a wink, as he continues to whimper and roll his head. The pallor of his skin tells me the guy isn’t going to last much longer, so Milo better get on with his interruption, or I’ll be reporting back my first failed extraction.
Something I refuse to do.
“Voss … we got the wrong guy.”
His words send a zap of electricity down my spine.
“I’m sorry, there’s a … shitty echo in this basement. Sounded like you said we have the wrong guy, or something. Hang on.” I swipe up the phone from the tray, gritting my teeth to keep from inadvertently stabbing another hole in Tony.
“Jackson pulled the wrong profile. The guy you have should’ve gone to Carter.”
Carter is another agent of The Gallows who covers the Meatpacking District. And Jackson is the halfwit internist, almost like a paralegal for the morally suspicious, who has officially landed my shit-list now.
Christ, no wonder Tony kept throwing out names for the DeLuca family. Here, I thought he was just being a patronizing dick. Bastard probably had no idea who, or what, I’ve been talking about the last six hours.
A whoosh of breath crackles down the line as Milo huffs. “My apologies. This is a goddamn fiasco.”
“A fiasco? No. A fiasco is when you order a fucking caramel latte, and the asshole barista gives you a caramel macchiato instead. A fiasco is when the surgeon removes the wrong kidney, and you end up a millionaire with a free kidney transplant.”
“Voss. We’ll make this right. I promise you. I’ll, uh … report back to …” He clears his throat and coughs. “Richard with an update.”
Eyes clamped shut, I mentally count back from ten, like a therapist once told me to do before I slammed her against the wall and fucked her brains out, instead. Didn’t work for me then, and it sure as hell isn’t working for me now.
“Rajna can finish the job. He’s on his way there now.”
I glance back at the job, lying sprawled out on the table, dead as the doornails I drove into his shins. “Tell him not to bother,” I say, clicking off the call and tossing the phone onto the tray that jingles the tools there. Not so much as a flinch from Tony. Tucking two fingers against his neck, I feel for the pulse I know isn’t there. Deadened eyes and gaping blue lips already provided the visual confirmation of that. “Fuck.”
It’s not so much the mistake itself that bothers me. Not like we’re killing saints in this line of work. It’s the lack of professionalism that pisses me off. The absolute disregard for it since Kelch, my mentor, kicked the bucket, leaving his shithead nephew, Richard, in charge of operations. Not even Milo can say the kid’s name without clearing his throat and emphasizing it every damn time. Must be hard for a retired Special Forces soldier, with as many combat tours as he’s done, to take orders from some spineless twit who just happens to have the connections to keep the business going. Nearly fifty agents work for The Gallows, spanning across the globe—all of us former military, or some line of work that’s allowed us to become highly effective at killing without conscience.
