CHAPTER 35 #2
He sighed. “Does it really matter, Jagger? You’re just going to kill me anyway.”
“That’s true,” Cruz commented, wrinkling his nose. “But I’d still like to know. I mean, come on . . . the fucking Irish?”
Carl’s gaze shifted from me to Cruz, then back again. For the first time since I walked in, something changed in his eyes. The resignation hardened. Went cold. Like a switch had flipped, and the man who’d spent fifteen years doing everything the Syndicate asked was finally done pretending.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he simply said, “I got tired of saying yes.”
Cruz actually froze. His arms dropped to his sides. For once, the man who ran this entire operation looked genuinely stunned.
I felt the air leave my lungs in a slow, confused rush.
Tired of saying yes.
Fifteen years of quiet nods, of covering for us, of handling the messes no one else wanted to touch, of accepting his ever-increasing pay and bonuses. Fifteen years.
Apparently, his work hadn’t been loyalty . . . it had been boredom.
I stared at Carl, trying to find the lie in his face. Trying to find anything that would make this easier to swallow. But there was nothing. Just that cold, steady gaze looking back at me after he’d finally said the truth he’d evidently been holding in for a decade and a half.
Cruz recovered first. He let out a low, disbelieving laugh that had no humor in it.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” he muttered. “You sold us out to the Irish because you were . . . tired?”
Carl didn’t blink. “I didn’t sell you out to the Irish. I sold you out to the people who offered me a way to stop saying yes to everything. The Irish just happened to be the ones who showed up with the right leverage at the right time.”
He shrugged—as much as the zip ties allowed. “You built an empire on people who never say no. I got tired of being one of them.”
The rage didn’t explode. It sank in deep until every breath tasted like it.
“Cruz,” I said quietly. “Tools.”
Cruz didn’t move right away. He was still staring at Carl, struggling to believe what he’d just heard. He finally pushed off the pallets, walked to the metal cabinet, and came back with the black case. He set it on the floor beside me and flipped the latches open.
Carl’s eyes flicked to the contents—pliers, drill, box cutter, blowtorch, bone saws—but the coldness in his gaze didn’t waver.
He looked back at me. “I’m not going to beg,” he said calmly. “So you’re not going to get what you’re looking for.”
I picked up the cordless drill and grinned. “You know, Carl, I’m going to disagree with you on that one.”
I pressed the bit to the back of his left hand—right through the center of the palm—and squeezed the trigger.
The motor whined, and the bit punched through skin and bone in a spray of red.
Carl’s body locked rigid, a raw scream ripping from his throat.
I kept the drill running until the bit came out the other side, then pulled it free.
Blood poured from the hole in steady pulses, and his hand twitched uselessly against the zip tie.
I moved to the right hand and did the same slow push in the same spot. The drill bit went through tendon and bone with a wet crunch. Carl’s head fell forward, his body convulsing and his muffled howls turning into wet gurgles.
“Maybe you’re right, Carl. You haven’t begged yet. I’m impressed. Let’s keep going, shall we?”
I picked up the box cutter, slid the blade out, and pressed the tip to the Paradise logo on his polo, cutting slowly until the fabric parted and I reached skin.
I didn’t stop at the shirt, obviously. I carved deeper—long lines across his chest, deep enough to part muscle, but not deep enough to hit anything vital yet.
The letter T, first, then R, A, I, T, O, R.
One letter at a time. Blood welled up in thick sheets, soaking the polo and dripping onto the concrete in dark pools.
Carl was gasping, tears mixing with his sweat and blood. His body was shaking so hard the chair rattled against the floor.
“Please,” he choked out. “Jagger—”
I pressed the blade to his cheek, just under the eye. “That almost sounds like begging, Carl.”
Dragging the blade down slowly, I opened a line from his cheekbone to his jaw. Blood sheeted over his mouth and his chin as he whimpered.
“We once considered you family,” I murmured as I picked up the blowtorch next and lit it. The blue flame hissed to life.
Carl’s eyes widened. “No—please—”
I held the flame close to his left ear—near enough that the hair shriveled away in seconds and the skin began to blister and peel. He screamed, and I moved to the other ear and did the same thing until the flesh had blackened and bubbled, and the smell of charred meat was thick in the air.
Carl passed out twice, and Cruz slapped him awake.
And each time, Carl was begging.
When I finally stepped back, Carl was barely recognizable. His face was a ruin of burns and cuts, and his hands had been drilled through and charred. His chest was carved like the traitor he was.
I turned off the torch and set it down.
“Cruz,” I said quietly, and he stepped forward with the bone saw.
I crouched one last time and grabbed Carl’s hair, lifting his head so he could see me through the swelling.
“You chose the Irish,” I told him. “So now you’ll die like one of them. I hope you aren’t too . . . tired.”