Page 91 of Jackal

They all nodded, probably knowing what was happening, but they knew better than to acknowledge it.

Petrov stood, buttoning his suit coat. “Ladies, I think I’ll join him. But please enjoy the bottle.” Looking down, they were drinking vodka. “A little wedding gift,” he said.

Hawk told us to be welcoming to him, so I couldn’t smash the bottle over his head. I also couldn’t tell him to wait with the ladies while we did big boy things. But if Hawk didn’t want himthere, he’d tell him.

We headed down the hall that led to the back and I pushed the door open. The rain had finally stopped, but it still smelled like a summer storm outside, and the air was thick.

“I thought it was humid back home,” Petrov said as we headed across the courtyard.

“You can wait inside if you like. The shed isn’t air conditioned.”

“You don’t like me, do you?” he asked smugly.

“I like you just fine. We’re just different.” I didn’t really like him, but I didn’t hate him. I barely knew this kid. I knew his father, and I’d seen his father work. He’d get his hands dirty. From what I knew of junior, he was soft.

We kept walking until we got to the shed. The members that were waiting outside nodded as I knocked. “It’s me, Prez. And Petrov.”

Eagle opened the door, and we walked in. He and Falcon had changed, but Hawk was still in his wedding clothes. The jacket was missing, the sleeves of his dress shirt were still rolled up, and he donned the black pants and dress shoes. His shirt had a hole where he’d been hit, but we had vests on, so it didn’t penetrate. I guess he got out of Shivana’s checkup, but since he was hit and in a car wreck, she’d need to check him out once we were done.

Butch’s face was beaten almost beyond recognition. Hawk’s fist was bleeding and swollen, blood splattered across the white dress shirt. He sat in a chair across from where Butch was tied to another chair. His dark hair was a mess.

Hawk looked back as the door closed. “Petrov, welcome.”

Petrov walked closer, pulling his suit coat off and laying it on the table we kept some of our “tools” on. He looked over the selection and then pulled something from his coat.

He stepped in front of Butch, the small metal item in his hand. “I’m glad we were able to meet again. My father wanted me togive you something.” He held up the small item and a little flame shot out. “You remember I mentioned a few times that my sister was an excellent baker. I watched her make crème brûlée a few times. Delicious dish,” he said wistfully.

He leaned down closer. “You see, it’s this decadent custard. You sprinkle sugar over it, then take this fun little torch and caramelize it for this amazing, sweet crust on top.” He got closer, holding the torch near his face. “But the key is knowing just how long to torch it before you ruin it.”

Butch grunted and squirmed as the flame hit his cheek.

Petrov stopped briefly. “I must say, I’m slightly disappointed, but Hawk asked me, man to man, to not kill you. But when you deceived Raven, you deceived my father. And that’s just a poor choice.” He lit the torch again, this time less dramatically putting the blue and orange flame on his neck.

“But he did not say I cannot torture you.”

After twenty minutes of Petrov scorching Butch’s skin and filling the shed with a smell even worse than blood and urine, he finally grabbed his coat. “Gentleman, I believe I will leave you to your work. But I’ll see you inside.”

He still wasn’t my favorite person, but I thought a lot more of him after watching him barbeque Butch.

“So,” Hawk said. “Who are you working with?”

Butch spit blood at Hawk. Hawk didn’t flinch, but he did wipe his face.

“I doubt you orchestrated all of this. Let’s be honest, you were more useful for brawn than brains.”

“Yeah, doing all your dad’s dirty work and being treated like a pet by your whore mom.”

Hawk flew at him, taking both of them down, chair and all.

We watched as he nailed him over and over.

“Prez,” Eagle said.

Hawk stopped, climbing off of him.He was breathing heavyand popped the buttons off his shirt as he ripped it open, pulling it off and wiping his face and hands with it. His vest revealed where he’d been hit. “Pull him up,” he said.

I righted the chair with Butch in it, taking a swing for myself while I had the chance. I wanted to kill him, right then, with my bare hands. “You ungrateful sack of shit,” I said before spitting in his face.

His head rolled around, so I checked his pulse. He was still alive, just knocked out.

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