Page 23 of Drawn to Death
“I’ve been thorough,” I insist, keeping my voice steady. “There won’t be any problems.”
“I trust your work, Talon. That’s why I sent you.” Another pause, heavy with things he isn’t saying. “Though I have to wonder why it’s taken this long. Not like you to drag out an assignment.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Needed to understand the situation first. Make sure it really was contained. He has… a unique talent.”
“Had?” Vincenzo’s voice sharpens. “Don’t we mean past tense now he’s handled?”
“Has,” I correct too fast. “I said he was handled, not that he was past. But it’s under control now.”
“I see.” Just two words, but they land hard. “Well, I hope the extra time is worth it. I’ve had to reassign several of your usual tasks.”
I get what he is saying. Other marks. Other kills. Jobs I used to take without a second thought, just three weeks ago. Jobs I haven’t even considered since Quell came home with me.
“I’ll be back in rotation soon,” I say. Maybe a lie. Maybe not. It's hard to tell.
“That’s good.” His voice shifts back to business again. “Oh, and Mickey asked about you. Says he hasn’t heard from you.”
My stomach drops. Mickey. The one from Quell’s vision. Mickey glancing back, head tipped back, throat bared. Me holding the knife and attacking him from behind. Well, I assume it's me. I'm not responsible for all his drawings, but the idea of him inside someone else’s head is wrong. So wrong, I'd confess to all of them.
“Tell him I’ve been busy.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it isn’t easy.
“I did. He seemed… worried. You know Mickey. Always watching out for his people.”
This isn’t going anywhere good. Mickey handles logistics, setups, and safe houses. He knows where I stash my backups. He has the codes. Keys.
“I’ll check in with him,” I decide quickly.
“Do that.” Vincenzo’s tone is all business, with a hint of dismissal. “Keep me posted about when you’re back on the regular.”
“Will do.” I hang up quickly. The old weight in my chest doubles down. I've just put a target on Quell’s back. Maybe mine, too.
I set the phone down and stare at it, half-expecting it to ring again with more questions, more suspicion. Instead, it just sits there, silent and accusing, like it knows exactly what I just did.
“Everything okay?” Quell’s voice is gentle behind me. He has a mug of tea in each hand, steam curling around his face, fogging up his glasses at the edges.
“Fine,” I lie for the second time in as many minutes. “Just work.”
His eyes flicker with doubt, and maybe concern. After nearly two weeks of sharing space, suddenly he can read me better than I like. That professional distance I always kept? Gone.
“Was it about Mickey?” he asks, and I hate how easily he says the name, like it is just another word, not a death sentence.
I don’t answer. I move to the table instead, where the drawings are spread out. Quell has lined them up in his version of order, his own system that I don't really understand. The most recent is on top: Mickey’s back, head thrown back looking at me, throat about to be cut. I stare at the lines, the shadow across his face, the fear in his eyes. My gaze follows the curve of the blade, the way it hovers just above his skin.
What catches me, holds me, is the knife. The edge isn’t smooth. It is serrated, jagged, not the kind of blade I use. Not the clean slice I am used to. This is something else. Intentional.
“You never use that kind of knife,” Quell says, coming to stand beside me. He puts his tea down, the mug leaving a wet ring on the table. “In the other drawings, it’s always smooth edges. Clean cuts.”
He isn’t wrong. I have always liked things neat, quick, and efficient. A straight blade does the job faster, cleaner, with less fuss. Serrated edges? They are messier. Noisy. They make a statement. Anger, mostly.
I stare at the drawing again, trying to see past the obvious lines and smudges. If this is supposed to be the future, and Quell’s visions have a perfect track record so far, it means something in me has shifted. Something big.
I say nothing. Just turn around and head for my bedroom. My weapons stash is in the closet, in a false bottom, but it isn’t really a secret from Quell anymore. He knows. He has seen everything, right through my eyes.
I kneel down, lift the panel. All my stuff is lined up inside, tidy as always. Mostly guns, all different kinds. But also knives. A lot of knives. Each one wrapped in oilcloth, sorted by size and what they are best for.
My hand hovers over the old serrated combat knife from my army days. I almost never use it now; it stands out too much, leaves a trail. But in the drawing, I’m holding it. I am about to use it on Mickey.
I unwrap it and balance it in my palm. The handle feels familiar, worn smooth, like it belongs there. The blade catches the light and throws back a row of tiny, sharp shadows.
