45. Killian
KILLIAN
I can feel Ellie's eyes on me through the one-way glass. The weight of her stare sits at the base of my skull like a hand I can't shake off. She's been in this room for hours, trying to crack Julian Ross with words and empathy. She got him talking. Now it's my turn to play.
The steel table is cold. Julian is strapped into the heavy wooden chair, his wrists and ankles locked into the thick leather restraints. His face is calm. Too calm. He's still wearing that boardroom arrogance, like he thinks this is another negotiation he can talk his way out of.
"You're wasting your time," he shrugs. "The Order is family. And family looks after family. You should know that better than anyone, Killian."
I don't answer. Jackson moves behind the chair without a word, his hands settling on Julian's shoulders.
We've worked together long enough that I don't need to tell him what comes next.
He knows the rhythm of this. When to hold, when to let go, when to step back and let the silence do the work.
Julian's eyes flick between us, and I watch the first crack appear in that corporate mask.
He's starting to understand that this isn't a negotiation.
The basement is silent. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the ventilation shaft rattles somewhere in the dark. Kai is upstairs preparing the medical supplies for the aftermath. We could work on Julian for days down here. No one would hear a thing.
Julian's eyes track the sound of the vent, then snap back to me.
His shirt is wrinkled, the collar dark with sweat.
There's a bruise blooming along his jaw from when Gabriel dragged him out of the jet.
His wrists are raw where the leather has been chafing for the last ten hours.
He's trying to hold onto his composure, but his breathing is too fast. Shallow.
"I'm going to ask you simple questions," I say. My voice is calm. Conversational. "Every time you lie, or every time you waste my time with corporate bullshit, this gets messier."
Julian doesn't spit. He doesn't have the moisture in his mouth for it, but I can see the impulse in the way his jaw tightens. If he could, he would. Instead, he glares, his chin tilted up in a final, pathetic show of defiance. "Fuck you," he rasps.
I nod to Jackson. From behind the chair, his forearms flex as he grips Julian's hair and yanks his head back.
The muscles in his shoulders shift under his shirt.
He's not using his full strength yet, but enough to expose the throat.
The skin on Julian's throat is pale, his pulse hammering fast and visible beneath the surface.
I position the scalpel just below his jaw.
The steel is cold against the heat of his skin.
I apply enough pressure to watch the skin part, a thin, crimson thread blooming under the blade.
Julian's first scream is sharp, swallowed by the soundproofing.
It's the sound of a man realizing his body isn't his anymore.
When his breathing finally hitches into ragged gasps, I lean in close.
The smell of him has changed. Sour sweat, copper, and something sharper.
Fear has a scent. I can recognise it anywhere.
"The facilities," I say. "The names we found in Wyoming were only the surface. What else is The Order running?"
"We... we run the networks," he gasps, his eyes wide and unfocused. Blood is already staining the white collar of his shirt, turning it into a wet, dark rag. "Supply chains. Acquisition networks. It’s business, Killian. It’s just high-end logistics."
"What kind of logistics?" I don't move the knife. The blade is still pressed against his skin, waiting.
"Hospitality! Entertainment!" He shrieks the words, his body straining against the leather restraints. "We provide for a specific clientele. People with demands the rest of the world can’t fulfill."
The knife pinches deeper. "Be specific, Julian. I’m not here for the marketing pitch."
"Exclusive services!" He's sobbing now, the arrogance finally cracking. "W…we provide... specialized logistics. High-value acquisitions. That's all I can say. That's all I'm allowed to know."
"The Prague outpost. Location and personnel."
Julian’s eyes widen. He didn't think we knew about the expansion into Europe.
He remains silent, his jaw clamped shut, but I can see the gears turning.
I move the blade down to his collarbone, tracing the ridge of the bone.
I slice. The blade goes deep enough to make him understand I'm not asking twice.
Shallow enough to avoid serious damage, but deep enough to send fire through his nerve endings.
The scream is guttural. Jackson holds Julian's head steady, his eyes locked on the wound I'm making. The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close enough.
"You think this is pain? This is only the warm-up. We have hours, Julian. Days, if we need them. And I'm very, very good at keeping people conscious."
"Wenceslas Square," he gasps. "Red door building. Third floor. Six operatives rotating on three-week cycles."
I select a thin fillet knife next. "Asian operations," I demand. I trace the tip along his ribcage, watching the way his skin puckers. "Command structure."
Julian doesn't answer. He closes his eyes, trying to find a place inside himself where I can't reach. I ignore him.
I pause, the tip of the fillet knife still resting against his skin.
My eyes flick to the one-way glass. Ellie is still there.
I can't see her through the glass, but I always know when she's near.
I could use the knife. Keep it simple. Show her the version of me that does this because there's no other choice.
But that would be a lie.
She needs to see what I'm truly capable of. The sick part. The depraved part. The part of me that finds satisfaction in it. If she's going to love me, she needs to love the whole of me. Even the parts that should disgust her.
Especially those parts.
I set the knife down and reach for the hammer and a six-inch steel nail from the table. Jackson sees what I'm doing. The edge of his mouth flickers into an almost smile. He shifts his grip without a word, pinning Julian's left hand flat against the wooden arm of the chair.
I meet Jackson's eyes. He's a sick fuck at heart.
Julian's eyes snap open.
"Wait!"
I position the nail against the center of his palm. I glance at the glass. I want her to witness every second of this. No more secrets. No more hiding the part of me that doesn’t know how to stop.
I bring the hammer down. The first strike drives the point through skin and muscle. The second punches through bone with a wet crack. The third buries the head flush against his hand, pinning him to the chair.
The scream that tears out of him isn't human. It's the scream of a man whose body has stopped being his own. His right hand claws at the armrest, fingers scrabbling uselessly. Blood wells up around the nail head, dark and thick, running down his wrist in rivulets.
There's not an ounce of disgust. Only dark satisfaction of watching a man realize he has no power left. And I want Ellie to know that this part of me exists.
"Financial routes, Julian. How does The Order move the money?"
His breathing is ragged, his eyes unfocused. He's trying to form words, but the pain is scrambling his thoughts.
"Offshore," he gasps. "Cayman. Singapore. Shell... layered. I can… I can give you names."
I reach for the pliers. Julian's eyes go wide, tracking the tool as I position it around the nail head.
"Wait, wait… I'm talking!"
I ignore him. I grip the pliers and pull. The nail comes out slowly, tearing through the same path it made going in. Julian's scream is high and broken, the sound of a man who's reached the limit of what his body can endure.
When the nail finally pulls free, Julian slumps forward, sobbing. His hand is a mess of blood and torn flesh, but it's free. He thinks the worst is over. I can see it in the way his shoulders drop, the way his breathing starts to slow. Relief.
He's wrong. It’s so fucking pathetic I almost want to laugh. I haven't even started digging yet.
I set the pliers down and pick up the fillet knife. The one I chose not to use before. Jackson sees where I'm looking and shifts his grip, spreading Julian's fingers wide across the wooden armrest. The nail hole is a dark, oozing, ragged wound in the center of his palm.
"The account numbers, Julian. All of them."
"I… I don't have them memorized! They're in a file, I swear!"
I position the tip of the knife at the webbing between his index and middle finger. I start cutting. Not across. Down. Splitting the hand, following the line from his finger down through the flesh and the tendons towards the wound the nail left behind.
The knife is almost at the nail wound. Then I set it down, eyeing the gaping mess of his hand.
I grip both sides of the split hand with my bare hands and pull. The flesh tears with a wet, ripping sound. Tendons snap. Bone separates. Julian's hand splits open like a piece of fruit, the two halves spreading wide across the armrest.
The scream that comes out of him isn't a scream anymore. It's the sound of something breaking that can't be put back together.
Julian pisses himself. The dark stain spreads across his pants, dripping onto the concrete beneath the chair. His eyes roll back, his body going slack against the restraints. He's trying to pass out, trying to escape into unconsciousness.
I don't let him.
Jackson slaps his face, hard enough to snap his head to the side. His eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy.
"Stay with me, Julian. I sure hope that wasn't your jacking-off hand."
Jackson's low chuckle is the only other sound in the room, over the sound of Julian gasping for breath.