Chapter 23 #2
Jovan’s weapon of choice had surprised them.
Usually, Mafia guys carried efficient weapons like Glocks and Berettas, which can be reloaded quickly.
But Jovan had a Smith & Wesson Model 63 .
22 LR, complete with gold filigree on the barrel, and a dark red mahogany grip.
It was clearly a custom piece. One that would have cost a pretty penny.
Hayes had no particular affiliation for guns, besides his attachment to his own sniper rifle, but even he could admit it was an exceptionally well-crafted gun—if not the most practical.
Annoyed, but with no way of making them suffer, Jovan spat at them again.
Beckett avoided the projectile, and made a show of whistling as though impressed.
“What do you think? Should we go with Larry the Llama? Or Bozo the Clown?” Beckett asked, smiling at Hayes.
Hayes considered those choices for a few seconds and the fact that Jovan had sneered when Beckett spoke the second name.
“Bozo,” he announced, smiling confidently.
Beckett snickered as he turned to face Jovan.
“Alright then,” he said. “Here’s the thing, Bozo—you don’t mind if I call you Bozo, do you?
” he asked with painstaking politeness. He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing.
“It’s pretty fucking simple. You tell us what your boss is moving for the Rosarios, or you can become the secret ingredient in my Nonna’s special Sunday sauce, if you catch my drift. ”
“Fuck you,” Jovan barked angrily.
Beckett eyed him impassively.
“Tsk, tsk,” Beckett said, patting Jovan’s face lightly. “Mind your language. Young virgin ears are present,” he said, nodding towards Hayes.
“Fuck you,” he repeated, words crystal clear even with his accent. “You can do what you want—I won’t talk,” he assured them, looking awfully brave, so he obviously wasn’t buying their threats. Beckett considered him for a moment, then turned to Hayes, as if inviting possible suggestions.
Hayes was a little out of his depth here. He’d been a marksman specialist. He wasn’t exactly versed in the complex art of interrogation. But he’d read a lot of books, so he was willing to add something to the suggestion box.
“Do we have pliers?” Hayes asked. “Maybe start with removing fingernails?”
Bozo squirmed in his chair at that. Beckett pretended he hadn’t noticed.
“Takes too long,” he decided after a moment of deliberation. He sighed, then walked over to the table and smiled, having clearly come up with a new strategy to get Bozo to talk.
“Alright then—” Beckett sounded positively gleeful as he picked up the revolver. “Nice piece you got here. There aren’t too many guys who want to fuck with revolvers these days.” Flipping the cylinder release, he tipped the gun sideways and the bullets fell into his open palm.
Hayes counted seven.
Beckett showed them to Bozo, and said, “Always wanted to do this.” He loaded a single bullet into one of the empty chambers, making sure Bozo was watching.
Hayes barely caught the motion of how Beckett tipped it back and removed the bullet a split second before spinning the cylinder and slapping it back into place. Beckett truly was a master when it came to sleight of hand.
“What do you say we play us a nice little game of Russian roulette?” Beckett asked and gave Jovan a toothy smile.
“I’m Serbian,” Jovan snarled in disgust.
“You’re a captive, is what you are,” Beckett said coldly, dropping any pretense of civility.
“See, the thing is, you don’t think I’ll shoot you.
Maybe you think I’ll pussy out—or that I’ll grow a conscience, but unfortunately—I lost my good sense a longgggg time ago.
Your life, my life,” he shrugged, pulling up a chair to sit squarely in front of Bozo. “It’s more or less all the same.”
He put the gun to his temple and cocked the hammer. “I’ll give you a fair chance, and take the first two,” he said, before he pulled the trigger.
Hayes had seen the bullet exit the chamber—at least—he was pretty sure he had—yes—no.
Yes. He’d for sure seen the bullet slip back into Beckett’s palm.
The sleight of hand had been clever and quick, but Hayes was positive that he’d witnessed the covert move.
Still, his heart was hammering like he’d just run a 4-minute mile as he watched his boyfriend press it to his temple and pull the trigger.
Nothing happened beyond an empty click, but Hayes couldn’t help himself.
He reached for Beckett reflexively, placing a hand on the arm holding the weapon.
“Don’t,” Hayes growled.
“See now, this guy is still a little sane,” he told Bozo, casually shrugging off Hayes’ hand.
“Unfortunately, as you can see, I’m the one still holding the gun.
” He cocked the hammer again and in the same breath, pulled the trigger again.
He didn’t even wince as it clicked and nothing happened, but Hayes saw Bozo flinch and grow pale.
Good. It was working.
“Alright, buddy. Now it’s your turn,” he said conversationally, cocking the hammer again. “What is your boss moving for the Rosarios?”
Bozo looked between Beckett and the gun barrel that was suddenly pressed against his forehead. He swallowed hard, eyes widening with shock.
“Come on, Bozo. I’m going to count to three, and when I’m done—”
Bozo swallowed audibly, beads of sweat rolling down his temples.
“One,” Beckett said.
Bozo wiggled in his chair, trying to get away from the gun pressed firmly to his head.
“Two.”
Bozo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Three—”
Beckett pulled the trigger. Another empty click.
Bozo heaved a sigh of relief.
“Oh—lucky guy—” Beckett remarked with a twisted smile.
“That’s four now—in a seven-chamber gun—odds aren’t looking too good now, are they?” Beckett cocked the hammer and once again pressed it to his own temple.
“Might want to shut your eyes—brain matter splatters like a bitch,” he warned, but before the Serbian had a chance to react, he pulled the trigger.
Hayes hitched a breath when nothing happened.
Of course nothing happened. The gun was empty, Hayes reminded himself.
But every time Beckett pressed that gun to his own head—God, the terror that flooded Hayes’ body was unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
Feeling sick and shaky, he could only stand there, mesmerized by Beckett’s insane methods of interrogation.
Was this crazy shit sketched out somewhere in the C.U.N.T. ’s manual?
“Guess that means you’re 50/50 now, buddy,” Beckett smiled, cocking the hammer and pressing the barrel against Bozo’s forehead for the next round of roulette.
“So, my friend, here’s an easy question. No one ever needs to know you’re the one who talked. Just tell me—what are you moving for the Rosarios?”
Bozo shook his head, but his ragged breathing and profuse sweating was proof that he was about to crack.
“One,” Beckett threatened.
Bozo stuttered something, shaking in his chair.
“Two—”
There were tears forming in his eyes.
“Thr—”
“Doors! Windows, doors, hinges!” he screamed.
“I swear! I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what’s in the boxes!
And then, sometimes, coffins! Two, or three of them.
Just—real weird shit! Sometimes he has, like—chains and shit, but usually, it’s doors, windows, and coffins.
Old ones too—like in movies!” Jovan’s choked out confession was a messy jumble of words that Hayes struggled to make sense of.
“What’s in the coffins?” Beckett asked.
“Don’t know!” he cried, panicked and shaking. “We don’t look. We never look! They look—real, you know? Not empty. Like they were buried underground for a long time!” his Slavic accent thickened, panic and desperation making his words increasingly difficult to decipher.
Beckett hummed, crossing his arms over his chest as he pondered what he’d just learned.
“No drugs? No—live cargo?”
“Live cargo?” Bozo asked, confused.
“People,” Hayes said.
“No!” Bozo assured them, shaking his head.
“Nothing else?” Beckett asked, waving the pistol about with little care for where he was pointing it.
“No! No!” Bozo assured them again. “Please put the gun down—please!” he begged tearfully, having seen true madness in Beckett’s eyes.
Beckett snorted and shook his head. He opened his other hand, showing the concealed bullet.
“Chill, Bozo. Gun’s empty,” he said, dumping the bullet in the pile with the other six.
“No,” Bozo said, shaking his head like he disagreed.
Beckett ignored him, “Seriously, chill, see?” Then he pulled the trigger on the revolver—except this time, the chamber exploded—the sound unmistakeable. The resulting howl of pain as the bullet hit Bozo’s foot was solid proof of Beckett’s mistake.
“Huh?” he said, looking at the gun as if it was magical. “Ah! Looky here, Daisy—it’s an eight chamber! Isn’t that wicked? Rarer than a pope’s fart, too!” he exclaimed, while their kidnapped Serbian howled in pain from his gunshot wound.
Beckett dropped the gun back on the table, and backed up a few feet to stand next to Hayes. He turned his back on Jovan, knowing Hayes was guarding his six.
That level of trust meant a great deal to Hayes and he felt an odd twinge next to his heart.
“What now? Leave him here?” Beckett asked, because truly, they’d gone into this like rank amateurs without much of a plan.
Somewhere out there in the world right now, Hayes’ former commanding officer in the SEALs was howling in frustration that his years of emphasizing that the plan must be followed had apparently been a waste of his time.
“Not what Pashov told us to do,” Hayes said, name dropping one of the big guns in the competing Russian mob throwing their weight around in Montreal, which Matthew had discussed in some detail with them earlier.
Tossing that name out there for Jovan to take back to his boss wasn’t enough to start a war, but it would certainly give the Serbians a tail to chase for a while.
“So—pack him back up and drop him off?” Beckett asked.
Hayes gave a curt nod. “Can’t have him bleeding all over the car, though.”
Beckett nodded.