Page 93 of Unholy Union
My jaw sets, tension cording tighter through me.
I don’t appreciate being interrupted. I especially don’t like being told not to kill a man who’s had the audacity to so boldly pose a threat to me. But as I press the pistol against his temple and let her words sink in, I know she’s right.
It would be foolish to kill him in cold blood like this. Right on the pier on Coney Island where there are still plenty of tourists, even if they’re in the distance.
We might be able to make a getaway in the moment, but people will hear it; his body would be discovered and there’s no way we haven’t been seen today.
“We need to be smart,” she continues. “Take him somewhere else. Somewhere private.”
My breath comes in ragged pulls through my nose.
Slowly, I nod, though the pistol remains pressed against Joe Blow’s temple.
I reach into my pocket for my phone and thumb through my contacts until I get Lazaro. The line rings once before his voice answers as composed and alert as always.
“I’m going to need your help. Something’s just come up.”
Rust flakes from the old pliers Lazaro uses. He’s standing over the bastard like a dentist preparing to make his next extraction. The tips are stained with fresh blood, gleaming under the low-hanging bulb that flickers every few minutes.
The air in the room smells of sweat and the metallic tang of blood.
I pace in front of where the bastard’s tied to the chair, dragging a hand over my jaw. My knuckles are still sore from earlier. He’s taken every punch, every blow, every tooth without giving me a damn name.
“It’s obvious,” I say, “that this prick doesn’t want to do things the easy way. These are very simple questions. Take another one.”
Lazaro understands the command. He fists a hand in the man’s hair, jerks his head back, and drives the pliers into his mouth like he’s fishing. The room fills with his muffled scream. Then comes the slick squelch as Lazaro yanks. Blood pours from the socket in thick streams as a molar clinks to the floor beside the others.
Our mystery man bucks in the chair, body writhing, but the zip ties hold. He’s drenched in sweat, chest heaving, eyes wide and wet.
But he still refuses to give up any info.
I stop in front of him, pinning him with a narrowed stare. “When you’re ready to talk, the floor’s yours. You can tell us who you work for at any time.”
Blood drips from his mouth, staining the front of his t-shirt. He makes no sound other than ragged breaths and grunts of pain.
The clock above the metal door reads 2:54 a.m.
We’ve been down here for hours, deep underground in the soundproof dungeon on the Valente estate.
It’s where we often take some of our suspects for a friendly chat.
Lazaro already searched him earlier. No ID. No wallet. No phone with anything useful except for a burner with one number in the call log. We called it twice.
Nobody answered and it never led to a voice mail.
It just rang forever.
The number itself wasn’t associated with any person or business on record as far as we could tell.
Just some random fucking number this random fucking Joe Blow had on his burner.
I exhale sharply, letting the air hiss between my teeth. “Alright, we’ve played dentist long enough. Now let’s play carpenter. Grab the nail gun.”
Lazaro nods and heads to the tool table in the corner. I turn my gaze back to our captive, who slumps in the chair, dazed but grinning defiantly through the blood.
Just as Lazaro reaches for the DeWalt, the steel door creaks open.
Cassian strolls in, crisp and calm despite the late hour.
