Chapter 28 #3
“You think I’m a rat?” Beckett scoffed, to maintain his cover. “I’m not even invested in—whatever the fuck it is you people do. I’m just a bodyguard. I guard bodies. All sorts of bodies. Small, skinny, fat, tall—fuck, for the right price I’ll even guard rivers and lakes!”
Another hit. Then two more. All to his ribcage. His right side erupted in pain, something like a streak of fire taking his breath away and it took a minute for the searing pain to subside to a manageable level of discomfort.
“Here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to tell me your name. Your real name. Then you’ll tell me who hired you and why you’re trying to infiltrate the Rosario’s family business.”
“Sure!” Beckett agreed, all too eager. “My name’s is Donovan Carpenter!
I was hired by Tracy Goodman, well, her assistant Geraldine.
They—I mean, CLEVER, Inc., that’s the name of the company—hired me three years ago.
Pretty place. Good people—sometimes the gigs are shit, like this one time, I had to wear a gold tong—”
The hit landed high on the right side of his face, scraping his cheekbone and shoving his right eye into its socket as far back as it could go.
“The truth!” Meathead growled, clearly pissed off.
“Fuck! I’m telling you the truth! I have proof!” He hoped like hell that he sounded as panicked as Donovan Carpenter should, since he was supposed to be a retired jarhead and not used to being tortured. Being too composed would give him away.
“Proof?” Meathead asked.
“I was hired by this old dude through Ms. Goodman! James or Joseph—no! Jonathan! Jonathan Kent! My partner and I worked the gig. Went to a gala with the old fart. Had to get all dressed up and wear masquerade costumes and weird masks! I’m sure you can find a picture online! It was highly mediatised!”
Meathead hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists like he couldn’t quite decide what he wanted to do. Zounds! Those two remaining brain cells were working overtime to process Beckett’s story. Beckett figured he’d help the guy out a little.
“Sorry, that’s a difficult word I used there.
Mediatised, meaning there was a lot of press there.
Lots of people with big flashing cameras and—” he got punched again, a clear and efficient method of telling him to shut the fuck up.
It didn’t work, of course. It never did.
If Hayes or Gill had been here for this, either one could have told Meathead not to waste his time.
Beckett turned his face to spit out the blood flooding his mouth as Meathead turned to the shadowy figure at the back of the room.
“Go check it out!” Meathead barked, and despite the lack of further instructions, the other man seemed to know what to do. He fled the room quickly.
“Thank you,” Beckett said, hoping his tone would convey earnest gratitude, rather than the rapidly growing desire to snap the bastard’s neck like a twig.
He took a minute to study his surroundings, trying to make out where he was. There wasn’t much there to look at, and the wet surface he was standing on was made of dirt and rocks, not cement.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” Meathead snapped in warning. “Maybe Jean comes back with good news—maybe he finds nothing, but in the meantime, we’ll dig a little,” he said, clearly enjoying himself as he began circling Beckett once more.
“Jean? Seriously?”
“It’s French,” Meathead snarled defensively, growling with displeasure.
“It’s fucking stupid!” Beckett snapped back because he didn’t have a single fucking ounce of self-preservation.
That earned him two jabs to the gut, followed by a brilliantly placed kick that landed squarely between two ribs.
He felt one of them give slightly, and it was painful enough that his knees buckled as he fought to breathe.
He dangled for a second, head swimming with the dual bombardment of pain from his ribs and instant onset of pain in his wrists.
“Anything else to say, smartass?”
“Are you guys like—official? Or are you just a piece of ass he likes to use on the weekend?”
And God, sometimes he wished he’d heeded his mom’s advice about the inherent dangers associated with his constant habit of running off at the mouth and just shut the fuck up.
Thankfully, after the series of punches to his gut, along came a sharp right hook that knocked him out cold for the rest of it. A small blessing. And an instant pain reliever.
When he came to—for the second time—Meathead was leaning against the wall in front of him, and the play of light near his right hand told Beckett he was holding something metallic and no doubt sharp.
Oh, goody—a knife. Probably a nice Ka-Bar.
“Sleeping beauty awakens!”
“You find me beautiful?” Beckett baited, between painful coughs. He spat out yet another mouthful of blood from his bruised—potentially broken—nose and smiled at his captor. What’s that old saying? Some people never learn?
“Stop—you’ll make Jean jealous!” He worked his tongue around his mouth, inspecting the damage and it seemed he now had a loose molar to add to his list of injuries.
Christ, he sure hoped his dental plan would cover it or else he’d be sending Matthew the goddamned bill. Maybe he’d send him one regardless.