Page 51 of Mason

Mason

Does a villain wake up one day realizing that he’s a monster? Or does he think he's the hero till the very end?

Because right now, in this moment, surrounded by blood, vomit, and suffering, I’m pretty fucking sure I’m the villain. It’s taken days of carnage, but this puts me over the edge. I’m losing control.

I slam the hammer down, disgust rolling through me as the sound of bones shattering fills the air.

“Who killed Spencer?” I demand, glaring at the junkie who’s screaming bloody murder and staring at his decimated hand, tied to a chair and completely at my mercy. I wield the hammer, waiting for an answer.

Grady found him tweaking out on a sidewalk in the old neighborhood this morning, jabbering on about Carlyles and bad guys. Something about Giambellis too, but he hasn’t said shit about Anthony since I showed up at the docks.

“I don’t know who that is!” The junkie’s blubbering over his hand like he needs it for anything beyond shooting up. Like I’m not saving him from killing himself with his next needle. Track marks line his arms, a few of the scabs oozing with infection. His face has the telltale signs of dope: sunken cheeks, red splotches, droopy eyes.

Kozlov did this to him. Kozlov are ruining our city, flooding our streets with poison. Turning the old neighborhood into a land of chemical zombies. The very men we let slide in for a fee. We’re doing this to our people. Selling them off to the highest bidder. Turning a blind eye. This shit needs to end.

The man’s losing his fucking mind with fear. Tears flood his cheeks. Piss stains the jeans that hide a skeleton of a man. The work light beaming on him exposes everything he’s got, and he’s got nothing but agony.

“Grady,” I say, moving to stand. “He ain’t it.”

Grady shakes his head, flicking ash from his cigarette. “He knows something. Get it out of him.” He’s wearing a suit like Dad does for meets, his gray rather than Dad’s usual black. He’s morphed into a mini Spencer, though his shoulders don’t fill the jacket the same, and he still can’t comb his hair to save his fucking life. There’s no need for it. No meets today. None tomorrow. Everything’s on hold until we find out who killed Spencer.

I drop the hammer, letting it clatter against the shipping container’s floor. “I can’t. He’s got nothing for us. He needs to detox.” Even then, I’m not sure he’ll live. He looks like someone stretched skin over the Crypt Keeper. A stone’s throw from rigor mortis.

My brother isn’t backing down, sucking in a mouthful of smoke. “He’s talking, or I’ll start shooting. He knows who killed Spencer. He’s the piece that leads to Anthony.”

“He’s off his fucking rocker, Grady. Dope heads talk crazy all the time. Maybe when he sobers up, he’ll remember where he heard what he’s parroting. He needs a doctor.”

I’m not wasting time on a dead end. I still need to get to Hillar Park to restock the cabin. It’s been a week. Emily’s likely running on fumes and cussing up a storm. I kinda miss my little pain in the ass.

Grady pushes off the side of the shipping container, pacing back and forth while he billows smoke. Sucking and blowing. Sucking and blowing. Rinse, wash, repeat.

The junkie watches, his sniffling slowing while he looks between us, a power play playing out for his entertainment.

We’ve butted heads all week about one thing or another. The struggles over keeping up with the increase in hot materials. Who does what when at the docks. Who reports to who. It’s nonstop, and Dad’s making us work it out between ourselves, which is a fucking joke. Grady would rather drink than talk, and I’d prefer to punch him in the mouth.

“I know Anthony did it!” Grady grinds out, clenching his free hand at his side. “I know it. The pieces are there. He’s just paying off lowlifes to cover for him. He always does.”

I’m about to suggest a walk to cool down when he reaches into his waistband, pulls a gun out, and shoots the junkie in the forehead. Blood and tissue hit the back wall of the container with a thunk, and my ears ring violently from him firing the weapon in an enclosed space.

“Grady!” I bellow, throwing my hands over my ears as the man’s body goes limp in the chair, the back half of his skull reduced to a leaking crater. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Grady scratches his temple with the barrel of a .45, a new toy to his arsenal. “He was lying.”

“You don’t know that!” I explode. “You can’t go around shooting people here. What the hell?”

He cocks his head, laughing. “Oh, we can’t? Didn’t you just shoot someone a few days ago? Twice? In the open, no less?”

“That was different,” I snap, stepping away from the mess he made. The mess I’m not handling. “That man was breaking in. He might’ve had answers. Not this guy.”

This poor son of a bitch likely didn’t even know where his next meal was coming from. Probably didn’t care, either. Because of us, he was more concerned about his next high.

Grady shrugs, indifferent. “I put him out of his misery.”

“You killed an innocent man.”

He slides his cigarette back between his lips. “I did society a favor. Made room for a fresh Kozlov customer. More money for us.”

I don’t honor him with a response.

I leave him with his mess.

I have a colossal one of my own to deal with far from this.

Forget losing control. I’ve already lost it.

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