7. Magnus #2
He doesn’t appear much over the age of twenty, and clearly in over his head on his choice of occupation.
Most of us are, in the beginning. But then the weak are thinned out, either by a bullet in the head, a knife in the back, or simply biting off more than you could chew and crawling home with your tail tucked between your legs.
That’s when the true colors are shown, and you commit yourself for life, or hope like hell you can make a clean exit.
These two guarding our hostage look like they’re still in the trial period of figuring out which direction they’ll take.
I do a quick, but thorough sweep of the contents of the building, checking behind containers and in any potential hiding spots.
All points of entry are sealed, aside from the unlocked door I came in moments prior.
I steady my gaze on the man tied to the chair, the single bulb above him swinging gently and casting a glow around the bloodied area.
His eyes focus on me, the vessels in them broken. His brow is split open and seeping a steady trickle of red that has dripped down the side of his face.
I approach and verify his restraints are tight.
The man sucks in a breath and attempts to spit on me, but I shift my body and avoid his pathetic effort, the gob landing on the concrete floor near my shoe.
A triple knock sounds on the metal side of the building—a signal from Coen that the coast is clear.
I walk a few feet over, indicating from my end that we’re good to go, too.
“You’re excused,” I tell the guards, noting the way the one stays quiet and avoids eye contact with me.
It could very well be nothing but intimidation, but there’s something off about him.
“You,” I point at him.
He stops and glances from his co-worker to me. “Yes?”
It’s a damn good thing he’s talking to me and not Dom or Coen. The lack of using the term sir would have been enough to end him right there. I’m all for respect, but those two are a bit extreme with their demands. This kid could easily be nervous and forget the formality of ranks.
I stroll over, stopping only a foot away. “Your name?”
“Frankie.”
The taller guy clears his throat and nudges him, his eyes bulging a bit as if he’s trying to communicate via telepathy.
“Oh, Frankie, sir. Sorry.” He blushes, something anyone else would deem embarrassment, but to me, it’s different. Almost like he’s faking the shame to cover his ass.
The door creaks open and I glance behind me to spot Coen and Dom making their way inside.
Coen with his gun in hand, trained forward but low, ready to strike at a slight notice.
Dom with his resting bitch face intact, practically gliding across the floor.
That dude is deadly, but with an elegant grace.
"Leave," Dom tells all of us. He pulls a shiny pair of brass knuckles out of his pocket and slides them in place.
I focus back on Frankie, my internal meter scanning him once more.
He takes Dom’s demand as a saving grace from whatever I was going to ask him next and goes straight toward the door.
Coen and I follow them out, watching them intently while they climb into their burgundy car and drive away.
“What was that all about?” Coen asks me.
“I’m not sure. Had a weird vibe.” One that I couldn’t quite pinpoint, especially with my shortened interrogation.
But we have more pressing issues at hand, and Dom needs to do his own questioning if we want to get in and out of here without one of Beckett’s teams coming after us.
Beckett doesn’t exactly take kindly to us kidnapping and torturing his men, but we do what we have to do to advance the likelihood of our win.
These aren’t really the type of situations you can dawdle in.
“Should we call it?” Coen’s gaze skims the close proximity.
“We should be fine.”
“Should?”
“I don’t fucking know, man. Christ. It was a vibe for fucks sake.”
“Isn’t that your specialty? To recognize threats.”
It could be very possible that I’m off my game.
The tension between us boiling up and over into my professional life.
The fact that I can’t get June off my mind is not helping one bit at all.
Separating the idea of her moaning my name and identifying if a couple of nervous kids are a risk or not is more difficult than I thought it would be.
I hate when Dom is actually right about shit.
Hardly any time has passed at all and I’m already slipping up at work.
A work that consumes my entire life and could easily determine if I live to see another day.
“It’s nothing we can’t handle.” I straighten my posture and keep my eyes trained around us. My hand eagerly rests against my gun.
A scream pierces through the building and out to us.
Dom doing what he’s best at, inflicting pain on people.
It’s no wonder he’s a fucking natural in our professional world.
He was bred to take control, to lead, to dominate.
Half the time though, the dude really just needs a hug.
He puts up a hell of a front, but he’s as broken as the rest of us.
Unlike everyone else, I notice it, given my specific expertise.
He’d never admit it, and I’d never bring it up.
He might have a hidden soft side, but I’m not the one to go poking around on that one.
Coen glances over at me out of the corner of his eye. “You going to listen to him?”
“The fuck you talking about?” Although I know exactly what he means.
Coen exhales. “Don’t make me say her name. Not here.”
There’s a piece to the puzzle I’m missing.
A concern for her safety unlike anything I’ve ever seen from Coen.
On the outside, he’s the sweet and innocent one, but at the end of the day, he’s probably the deadliest out of us.
The sleeper that everyone underestimates.
Which makes him a great asset and one hell of a flight risk.
“Why does it matter?” I’m well aware he cares but I want to hear it from him.
“Because I don’t want to have to kill her.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“What makes you so fucking sure?” His jaw clenches, continuing to give away all his raging emotions.
Another scream from inside the building, then Dominic’s low laughter.
That sick fuck is enjoying himself, which in turn will hopefully reduce the stress at home.
"You already gave yourself away. A dozen times. I think you forget who you're talking to right now. Even the simple statement of, I don’t want to have to kill her. When the fuck do you ever not want to kill someone?”
Coen’s nostrils flare, and for a second, I worry he’ll shoot me just to end this conversation, but he keeps his arm lowered, his finger off the trigger.
I shouldn’t, but I continue. “You won’t hurt her, and neither will Dom.”
“Stay away from her.”
“I’m not going to hurt her either.”
“That’s not what I said. I said to stay away from her.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” I turn to face him. “But why? Who is she to you?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“It is when you make it my business.” I sigh and run my hand through my hair. “You and Dom think you own me. Control me. Get to call the shots. Get to dictate who I fuck.”
Coen’s expression hardens. “You will not use that tone with her.”
“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it? You going to stop me? I was already all up in that sweet…sweet…”
But before I can finish pushing Hayes’ June button, he raises his arm, pointing his gun directly at me.
I stare down the barrel, a wicked grin forming on my face at having pushed him this far.
“Do it, I dare you.” Hell, he’d be doing me a fucking favor.
What’s the point anymore if all I am is some puppet in a game that’s out of my control?
If I can’t even pursue one damn thing I want, then why go on?
If I’m going to go out, I’d rather it be at Hayes’ hand than anyone else’s.
Hayes steadies his grip, and pulls the trigger on his exhale.
Like a coward, I flinch, closing my eyes and letting the loud vibration rattle through me. A slight wind passes my ear along with a cracking sound, then the brief groan of a person and a thud on the ground.
I peer through my lids at Coen as he shoves past me to examine the lifeless body.
“Holy fuck, I thought you were going to kill me.” I chuckle despite the humor of the actual dead person nearby.