Chapter Fifteen
Orion
The guy we’re tailing looks like the human equivalent of unseasoned boiled chicken. Beige sedan, beige windbreaker, beige personality that probably apologizes to furniture when he bumps into it. He checks his rearview for the fourth time in two blocks. Not paranoia.
Guilt.
The man’s soul is sweating.
Callum has his size-fourteen boots on my dash like we’re picking up dry cleaning instead of about to stuff a sleazy middleman into a trunk.
“So,” he says, rolling the lollipop across his tongue. “On a scale from one to Juliet, how many pieces does this guy leave in tonight?”
“Juliet is not a unit of measurement,” I say.
Callum snorts so hard the lollipop almost flies out. “Bullshit. One Juliet is ‘I followed you home and learned your blood type for fun.’ Two Juliets is ‘you looked at my man too long, now I’m keeping your eyes in a jar.’ I’ve got a schedule to keep, mate.”
The sedan finally signals. Three feet from the turn.
Then hooks into a dark little alley behind a dying strip mall. The kind of place where the rent is cheap because nobody asks why the vans only show up after midnight.
“Juliet and a half,” I say. “We need him coherent enough to name names. Limbs stay attached. For now.”
Callum grins like I just told him Juliet texted the chocolate lube is back in stock. “So all ten fingers, but kneecaps are participation trophies?”
I don’t answer. He knows I won’t. He just likes watching me pretend I’m the reasonable one.
Our guy scurries out of his car, does that nervous half-jog vanillas do when they’re terrified of getting mugged by their own shadow. He glances over his shoulder once. Doesn’t spot us, but he feels the reaper breathing on his neck.
Then he disappears.
“Look at you,” Callum sing-songs, “going full Boy Scout. Juliet gets one shiny badge in the toy box and suddenly you’re worried about witnesses and camera angles. Next you’ll be reading him his rights before we break them.”
“Shut up,” I say.
Because he’s not wrong.
Reid’s a cop. A dirty one, sure, but still a cop. And tonight we’re about to make another guy regret every life choice that led him to Oksana, Dmitry, and by extension our girl.
Callum pops the lollipop out of his mouth and points it at the building like a gun. “Ten bucks says he pisses himself before we even get the duct tape out.”
“Twenty says he cries for his mom first.”
Callum whistles low. “Twenty it is. Loser mows the lawn all summer.”
Yeah. Not happening. “That’s already your chore, asshole. You win I mow the lawn. I win you repaint the fucking siding.”
I kill the engine.
Showtime.
We wait like patient wolves who’ve already picked which parts they’re eating first.
Forty-three minutes later, Beige Boy scurries out clutching a cheap vinyl briefcase like it’s his last will and testament. He’s sweating through his jacket now. Big dark circles under the armpits.
Cute.
He never even makes it to his car.
Callum ghosts up behind him, one arm looping casually around his neck.
“Hey, buddy,” Callum whispers, cheery as a chainsaw. “You dropped your spine back there.”
The briefcase hits the ground with a pathetic thud.
I’m at the trunk, lid yawning open. Black plastic sheeting, zip ties, and a roll of duct tape arranged in a pretty welcome basket from hell.
Beige Boy tries to scream.
Callum’s hand clamps over his mouth so fast the only noise that escapes is a sad little wheeze.
“Shh,” Callum croons, dragging him backward. “We’re borrowing you for a bit. It’s team-building.”
I grab the guy’s ankles.
He kicks like a toddler in a grocery store.
Together we swing him up and in.
He lands face-down on the plastic with a meaty thump.
Callum climbs in after him, straddling his back like he’s riding a particularly disappointing pony.
“Hi there!” he says brightly, slapping two strips of duct tape over the guy’s mouth in an X. “Safety first.”
The guy’s eyes are doing that cartoon spinning thing. Urine starts pooling under him almost immediately.
“Told you,” Callum calls out to me, triumphant. “Pisser! Mower likes it when you sweet talk it before you yank the pull.”
“Like you then?” I stare at the mess. “You’re cleaning the plastic, asshole.”
“Worth it.” He zips the guy’s wrists, then his ankles, humming the Jeopardy theme the entire time. “You want me to break anything on the drive, or we doing the full customer-service experience when we get home?”
Beige Boy is thrashing now, muffled screaming into the tape, tears and snot bubbling at the edges.
I lean in, pat his cheek gently. “Relax, mate. We’re the good guys. Mostly. You’re gonna tell us every dirty little secret about Oksana and Dmitry, and if you’re very polite and cry only a little, we might let you keep all your original joints.”
Callum rips another strip of tape just for fun and sticks it over the guy’s eyes. “There we go. Sensory deprivation. Very trendy right now.”
He hops out, slams the trunk, and wipes his hands on his jeans like he just finished changing a tire.
Inside the car, the muffled sobbing sounds like a lullaby.
Callum slides into the passenger seat, buckles up, and pulls a fresh lollipop out of nowhere.
“Drive slow,” he says, grinning around the candy. “I wanna hit every pothole between here and the warehouse. Call it foreplay.”
I pull out of the lot, turn the radio up (something with a good bass line), and smile at the rhythmic thumping coming from the trunk.
The warehouse smells like rust, old blood, and broken dreams.
We’ve got Beige Boy zip-tied to a metal chair that’s bolted to the floor.
I assume because past guests got creative.
I don’t ask Callum.
Love the little fucker.
Don’t need to know why he has a torture warehouse when he lived in a fucking trailer before Juliet adopted him.
Callum circles him slow, lollipop back in his mouth like a cigar in a bad mafia movie.
“Evening, sunshine,” Callum says, popping the candy out with a wet smack. “You’ve got a face that screams ‘I peaked in high-school debate club.’ Be honest, did you at least win regionals?”
Beige Boy’s eyebrows are half gone from the impromptu tape waxing. He’s hyperventilating through his nose. Tape’s still on the mouth, so it sounds like a broken accordion.
I rip it off in one motion.
He screams like I just castrated him with a spoon.
“Jesus. Please. I have a family,” he begs.
“Wrong,” Callum interrupts cheerfully. “You have an ex-wife in Reno and a goldfish named Mr. Bubbles. We know who you are. Mr. Bubbles is very disappointed in you.”
The guy’s eyes bug out. Fresh tears. Fresh piss.
I crouch so we’re eye level. “Oksana. Dmitry. Who else is inside the circle?”
“I don’t know anyone,” he sobs. “Oksana is careful. She trusts no one!”
Callum whistles low. “That’s what they all say right before the fun starts.” He leans in, twirls the lollipop stick like a tiny baton of doom. “Define ‘no one.’ Because I’m getting mixed signals from your pants.”
“Only Dmitry!” Beige Boy shrieks. “I swear on my mother.”
Callum slaps him so fast the lollipop flies out and sticks to the wall. “Do not bring mothers into this, Adam. That’s rude.”
I sigh, pull on leather gloves. “We’re gonna need a bigger swear.”
First knuckle on his left pinky goes bye-bye with the bolt cutters. Clean snap. The scream is operatic.
“Only Dmitry!” he howls, snot and blood mixing like a craft project.
Callum retrieves his lollipop from the wall, inspects it, shrugs, puts it back in his mouth. “Huh. Still cherry-flavored.”
I hold up the severed finger. “You sure? We’ve got nine more. I’m thinking we make a necklace.”
He’s shaking so hard the chair rattles. “I’m nobody. Dmitry handles everything. Oksana doesn’t even use my name. She calls me ‘the accountant’ like I’m a fucking Uber driver.”
Callum tilts his head. “That’s… actually kind of insulting. I feel bad for you now.” He pauses. “No, wait, feeling’s gone.”
Callum takes two teeth next.
Pliers. Easy. They ping on the concrete like Chiclets.
Beige Boy is a blubbering mess, blood pouring down his chin. “Please… I’m telling the truth… I’m nothing… I’m nothing…”
I study him for a long second.
Pupils blown, pulse rabbiting in his throat, sweat like a monsoon. Classic truth-face.
I nod once.
Callum actually pouts. “Already? We didn’t even get to the blowtorch.”
“Next time,” I say.
Callum draws a suppressed pistol.
Beige Boy’s eyes go wide. “Wait, wait.”
Two in the forehead. Quick. Clean.
He slumps forward, very dead.
Callum kicks the chair lightly. “You’re no fun anymore. I wanted to see if he’d start speaking Russian from the pain.”
“Buy a lottery ticket,” I tell him, holstering the gun. “Same odds we got anything useful tonight.”
Callum peels the lollipop off his tongue, inspects the corpse, and shrugs. “Eh. At least Mr. Bubbles gets to live.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go hose down the plastic and lie to our girlfriend about how gentle we were. She’ll see through it in seconds, but I like watching her pretend to believe us.”
I look at the body one last time.
Only Dmitry.
Fucking great.
Back to square one, minus one accountant and plus one slightly used finger in a Ziploc in the fridge next to Elliot’s pretentious goat cheese.
Callum’s already humming on the way out, lollipop back in place.
Some nights you get answers.
Some nights you just get to disappoint your girlfriend.
Tonight’s the second one.
Or maybe Dmitry is the only loose end that needs tied up with Oksana.