by Keri Lake
It’s been a while since I’ve left Oliver alone overnight, and I’m, admittedly, nervous about it.
“Hey, you won’t even miss me.” A fake chuckle escapes my lips, in a poor effort to hold back tears.
Oliver tosses his fries toward the cup holder between us, which sends a few of them bouncing onto the floor.
“Don’t be like that. Look, I know it’s hard right now, but … it’s going to get better. I promise. Just stick with me, okay, kiddo?” Tears blur my view, and I clear my throat. “I can’t do this without you.”
Despite his head being turned toward the window, I can see the scowl on his face, the permanent marks of his resentment that have added new lines.
“I was thinking maybe … in a few weeks, I’ll take a few days off, and we can go up to grandpa’s cabin. Do some fishing. I’ll let you bait the hook.” This time my chuckle is real and brimming with tears. “That sound good to you?”
His chest rises and falls with a huff, and he turns back toward the windshield. Without looking at me, he nods and nabs a fry from beside us.
A few days off will be tight, but if it brings him back to me, I’m willing to figure shit out with the bills. As if I need another reason to hate Denny, I wouldn’t owe anything more than taxes on the house if we hadn’t taken out a loan against it to pay off his debts and tools that were meant to start a new business and change our lives. My father left the house to me when he died, and Jonah inherited the cabin. Between waitressing and the small craft shows where I sell my hand-thrown pottery, I’m still not making it.
I pull up to the curb of my brother’s house, where Diane stands on the front porch. Looking far more healthy and beautiful than I feel right now, in her black turtle neck and hoop earrings, she waves, her face plastered with a bright smile, and makes her way toward the car. Unable to have children of her own, she’s practically begged to have Oliver over to stay with them, and as much as I should be comforted by the love and joy she gets from spending quality time with my son, I’m green with jealousy about it.
But I do appreciate her.
Young and vibrant, she’s a reminder of everything I used to be, when Denny and I were first married. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just as much a reminder to her of what happens when you reach the end of that happy road.
“Hey, Potterhead! Ready for a movie marathon?” she asks, as she reaches the passenger door.
The question catches me off guard. Six months ago, that was a favorite past time with my son, and now he has no interest in watching anything with me. “You guys are watching Harry Potter? I didn’t …. I mean … that’s awesome.”
The door clicks as Oliver nabs his duffle bag from the floor, and I reach out for his arm. “Wait. No kiss?”
He leans toward me and lays a quick peck on my cheek, before slipping out through the half opened passenger door and up the staircase to the house.
Diane’s gaze trails after him a moment, before she swings her attention back to me. “Hey, Nola … if I overstepped—”
“You didn’t. At all. We haven’t watched those movies in … months.” I’ve tried to engage Oliver in doing the things we used to love before that night, but everything I’ve tried is a reminder of everything that’s different now.
Diane stuffs a hand inside her pocket and pulls out an envelope with a bank emblem on it.
Shaking my head, I set the gearshift to drive, but not before she reaches inside and drops the envelope on the passenger seat, where a stack of twenties spills out.
“Take it. Your brother wanted you to have it, but he knew you’d refuse him. I’m not so nice. You need it, Nola.”
“I’m not … taking money from you.”
“I’m not taking it back.”
In spite of the tears in my eyes, a laugh escapes me. “You already do so much for me, Diane. I can’t take this from you.”
“Watching Oliver helps me cope. So there’s that.” She turns away, and I can see her eyes are filled with tears, too. For three years, she’s tried to have a baby with my brother. Every month, she’s greeted with the disappointment of loss. Oliver’s acted as a substitute child, until the surrogate mother they’ve hired delivers, which should be sometime around Christmas. “You don’t let people do enough for you. Go … buy something nice for yourself, and for Oliver. And try not to worry so much about things, okay? Jonah and I … we got you.”
“I know.” Jesus, the more she talks, the more tears I have to wipe away. “Thank you for everything.” Sniffling, I clear my throat and curl my knuckles around the steering wheel. “I’m actually thinking about renting out the in-law suite in the back.” It’s not something I want to do, since I’ve grown just as wary of the world as Oliver, but a few extra bucks a month will certainly ease things, particularly with Christmas right around the corner.
“Be sure to have Jonah run a background check on whoever decides to take it. Don’t want some weirdo moving in.”
I snort at that, shaking my head. “I’ve had enough of those. Believe me. Bethany’s husband asked me if I’d consider a threesome with the two.”
A burst of laughter flies from Diane’s mouth, quickly capped behind her hand. “Are you kidding me?”
Bethany works with me at the diner, and it’s common knowledge that she and her husband swing. In fact, the owner has had to pull her aside to keep her from propositioning the customers. That didn’t stop her husband the last time he came in, though.
“I wish. I’d masturbate a cucumber before I’d crawl into bed with those two.”
“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it, sister.” The waggling of her brows sets my teeth on edge, and I have to mentally force myself not to grimace at the thought of her and a cucumber when my brother isn’t around. “Just make sure you grab some lube.”
“Okay, TMI.” Eyes clamped shut, I pretend to bang my head against the steering wheel. “I gotta get to work. Thank you … for Oliver, for the cash … for the lube advice.”
“Don’t fear the lube. Pour a glass of wine, put on some music, and …”
“Yeah. Let’s not go there. Let Oli know I’ll miss him, okay? And I love him.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you back.”
3
Voss
Apathy is a man’s most destructive weapon.
Drawn, agonizing moans echo through the dark room, which is lit only by the naked bulb dangling overhead. It’s been hours since I’ve last taken a piss, and at the moment, that’s the only thing consuming my thoughts. Not the middle-aged man whose life is slowly seeping out of the wounds I poked into his body, or the fact that I’m about to add another soul to my morbid collection. No, I’m thinking about the thirty-two-ounce coffee I downed before dragging this poor sap’s ass into the interrogation room about six hours ago, which has gone it’s rounds through my body and is just as ready as I am to make an exit.
“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 sile
nt.
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.
All of us under the direction of a man who prefers to be called Dick.
Blood drips over the edge of the table as I gather up my tools and stuff them into the autoclave bag. A cleaner for The Gallows will ensure there isn’t a speck of evidence remaining, though I’m often tempted to hide some shit, just to make Milo’s asshole pucker.
A damn shame. I shake my head, sealing the autoclave bag, and stare down at the dead guy as I remove my gloves . Killing for purpose is one thing. Killing the wrong guy for purpose just pisses me off. Which means Jackson’s in deep shit the next time I see him.
A worn brick building looks like any other off Church street, with its sealed brown doors set below the fire escape. Having already scanned my surroundings, I type the code on the keypad that’s hidden beneath what looks like a line of mailboxes, and slip my key in the lock to enter.
The guts of the place are nothing like the outside. All state-of-the art technology that encapsulates the modern décor. Any passerby would mistake the joint for an abandoned shithole, but if they tried to break in, they’d find themselves trapped in something of an escape room, rigged with a number of fun little games I can control from my phone. Cost me a bit of money, but as a bachelor in New York who nets more in a single job than most people earn as an annual salary, it’s the fun things that make it all worthwhile.
After tossing my cufflinks and watch onto the granite countertop, I make my way to the fridge and nab a bottle of beer. Bourbon is my drink of choice, but I need something cold to douse the rage burning through me since I left the job.
When The Gallows was first established about ten years back, we were given a file with a name, and it was our job to track, target and capture. These days, there are assistants, like fucking paralegals, assassins in training, who gather the intel on a subject, so all we have to do is show up with a smile. Lazy ass lions in a cage getting fed steaks on a platter.
No chase. No purpose. Nothing but a witless kill.
Kicking back a drink, I feel my phone buzz inside my pocket, and pull it out to see Milo’s number flashing across the screen.
“What’s going on, Milo?” I answer.
“About today … don’t let one mistake—”
“Look, I’m going to level with you. You’ve been a great mentor and friend, but this shit’s getting old. And I’m not just talking about Jackson’s fuck-up. There’s nothing in it for me, anymore. Thrill is gone, man.”
“Voss. You’re our best agent. I know this place has turned into a goddamn media franchise since Kelch, but don’t go fucking existential on me. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”
A bright future in what, exactly? Poking holes into various organs? Perhaps I’ll strive to become a professional kneecap buster?
“Take a break for a couple months. Check out a tropical island, order some fruity drinks and fuck some exotic ass. Whatever you gotta do to reset your brain. Guarantee
d, you’ll be ready to get back to the grind afterward.”
Rubbing my hand across my face, I shake my head, because I already know a tropical island and some exotic ass isn’t going make this shit any more appealing. “We’ll see, Milo.”
“I’ll call you in a few weeks.”
Clicking off the phone, I tip back the bottle and head toward my bedroom. “Lights on,” I command, and a soft ambient glow fills the room like the sun rising up. “Heat shower.”
Seconds later, the soft patter of the shower echoes from the adjacent bathroom, and I peel my white shirt from my shoulders. It’s then I remember the blade I had to disarm when I first encountered Tony—even that felt like an inconvenience, the way things run these days. He managed to slice across a skull tattoo on my bicep, another scar to add to my growing collection.
The worst one stretches temple to cheek, outside of my eye, and serves as a reminder that no one, not even Milo, for whom I might be willing to take a bullet, can be entirely trusted.
I finish undressing and shower quickly, letting the unforgiving heat of the water wash away the day’s frustrations. Towel wrapped at my bottom half, I exit the bathroom, running my hand through damp short-cropped hair, as I come to a stop in front of a wall. “Panic room open.”
“Password” the robotic voice asks.
“Fuck me.”
The wall clicks and slides to the right, revealing a dark staircase that self-lights as I step down onto the concrete in bare feet. The wall slides closed behind me and clicks locked while I descend, more lights ahead flicking on with every step.
Down there, a cocktail bar stands across from a king-sized bed, and beside it, a Saint Andrews cross is flush against the wall. A shelf stocked with food, and bottles of premium water and liquor means I could essentially survive inside this chamber for months, if I desired.