Page 48 of It Shouldn't Be You
We sit in silence, both stewing in our anger, until the sound of an approaching engine pulls us from our thoughts. In the rearview mirror, we watch a car speed towards us, flash its lights, and veer away. In one smooth motion, Owen shifts into gear and follows.
We arrive at a second location, pulling in behind the car just as Brennan steps out of the driver’s seat and leans against the boot, waiting for us.
“Took you boys long enough. The sedative will only keep him out for so long, so let’s get a move on,” Brennan says as he pops the boot, revealing a bound and gagged middle-aged man.
“Rock, paper, scissors?” Owen asks, a spark of mirth in his eyes.
“Loser carries him up? Best of three?”
We play, and when I lose two-to-one, Owen laughs and follows Brennan towards the derelict building, tossing a smug, “Sucks to suck,” over his shoulder. With a groan, I haul the dead weight out of the boot, fireman-carrying the bastard inside.
“I get dibs on him,” I call out as I dump the man onto the medical table. We make quick work of securing his wrists andankles, ensuring he can’t move. As we start cutting his clothes off, he jerks awake with a startled cry.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.” I sneer.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” Owen adds, tightening the ropes around his wrists.
The sound of Brennan’s footsteps draws my attention. For all the stories I’ve heard about him and his brother earning the nicknameButcher Brothers, this is my first real glimpse of why. He strolls in with a meat cleaver twirling in his hand. Gone are his glasses and suit jacket. His black shirt sleeves are rolled up, his blood-red tie discarded. The unhinged glint in his eyes makes the man on the table babble in terror.
“It’s a misunderstanding! I’m not who you think I am! Please, I have a wife waiting for me!” the man blubbers, shaking his head desperately.
I was taught that the best way to interrogate someone is to scare the shit out of them and watch them crumble. It’s working. The man pisses himself before we even lay a finger on him.
“I have money! I can pay you!” he cries.
“See, here’s the thing,” Owen taunts, dragging his knife along the man’s leg, just deep enough for blood to bead up. “We already have more money than we know what to do with. Wanna know why?”
“I’ll give you a hint,” I growl, leaning in close. “My name is Logan Graham.” I snarl the words in his ear before slamming my knife into his shoulder. His agonized scream is music to my ears.
“This can go one of two ways,” Owen says, his voice calm and deliberate. “You tell us what we want to know, and you die a painless death.”
“Or,” Brennan interjects, swinging the meat cleaver above his head and narrowly missing the man’s leg, “you make us torture it out of you. Your choice.”
“Either way,” I add, twisting my knife for emphasis, “you’re leaving here in a body bag. It’s up to you how.”
“I don’t know anything!” the man wails, his eyes darting between us, searching for mercy. He won’t find any here.
“Bullshit. You were one of Angus’ best customers,” I snap. “We want to know who else runs the show. If Angus and Peter are gone, who’s your point of contact now?”
“I—I don’t—” Before he can finish, Brennan slams the cleaver down, severing three of the man’s toes in one clean motion. The resulting squeal could rival a pig’s.
“Start. Talking,” Brennan growls, licking blood off his blade like the unhinged bastard he is.
“Peter!” the man screams, desperation lacing his voice.
“Try again. Peter and Angus are dead,” Owen snarls, driving his knife into the man’s ribs. “Who’s in charge now?”
“Fuck, stop! Please! I don’t know! Whoever it is using Peter’s login on the server!”
“What server?” I bark, twisting the knife in his shoulder.
“The dark web!” he cries, sobbing now.
I glance at Brennan and Owen, and it’s clear we’re all thinking the same thing. If these bastards are using a server on the dark web, this mess runs deeper than we thought.
“I’d start talking,” Owen taunts, but the idiot grits his teeth and says nothing. Brennan, unfazed, swings the cleaver down again, severing another toe.
We get to work, determined to make him talk—or bleed out. Whichever comes first.
