Page 35 of Fury

I grab the saw and begin cutting at Logan’s elbow. Chevy’s mobile rings and he stands. “I gotta take this,” he says as he leaves the room.

Xanthe crouches down and hisses, “Why are you looking so comfortable doing this?”

“Let’s just get the job done so I can get you out of here,” I whisper.

“You’ve done this before,” she accuses.

“That’s what you want to discuss right now?” I snap. “My body count?”

She gasps. “There’s a body count?”

“Look, Xanth, I know you have questions—of course, you do—but now isn’t the time. So, let’s get this bagged up so we can leave.”

“And then what?” she asks.

“And then I’ll answer all your questions.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it.”

She gives a stiff nod and grabs the nearest bag, holding it open so I can drop in the lower arm.

Xanthe

I’ve toucheddead bodies before, as it’s part of my job. And there, in the hospital, I can shut it off. Maybe it’s something I learned to do without even realising it. It’s not like anyone pulled me to one side when I was training and offered me words of wisdom—it just came as part and parcel. But as I watch Fury cut off each part from Logan’s body, I want to scream. There’s a rage burning deep inside me that is desperately trying to get out. How did I even get here?

Chevy comes back in. “Did you remove his fingertips?” he asks, holding the phone to his chest.

Fury gives a frustrated sigh. “No. Aren’t we doing the usual?”

“He said remove them,” he replies, shrugging. He leaves again, and Fury reaches into the tool bag to retrieve a pair of pliers.

“What’s the usual?” I ask. He glances up then pulls the lower limb from the bag and proceeds to snip off Logan’s fingertips, letting them fall carelessly onto the plastic sheet. “Reese?” I push.

“Burning the body,” he mutters.

“And if they’re not burning him, how will they get rid of him?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, Xanthe, it’s not my job to ask questions.”

“But it’s your job to cut people up into bits?” My voice wavers with emotion. How did he end up here? My Reese. Sweet, kind,Reese. The boy who kissed my knees when I fell and comforted me when my parents got to be too much.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Xanthe. This isn’t exactly my job. I don’t do this part. But, yeah, I end lives. That’s part of my job.”

“What happened to you?” I whisper, allowing more tears to trail down my cheeks.

“To make me so cold?” he asks with a sneer. “Maybe I was always like this.”

I shake my head. “No, you weren’t.”

He scoffs, “Because you knew me so well?”

“Yes.”

He laughs, but it’s cold and empty as he hacks off the upper arm. “You knew what I wanted you to know.”

“That’s not true.”

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