Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“I’m not a snitch,” I tell them. “I wasn’t concerned with what your crew was doing last night.”
“So ye say,” Fitzy scoffs. “But so does every bloke who passes through this basement.”
I glance around the room and take it all in. It’s nothing fancy, just four walls and a bunch of tables littered with cards and remnants of cigars. In other words, the home base for their underground gambling establishment. Just like the ones my Pop used to tell me about. He lost a finger in one of these once.
“Maybe you could keep me around.” I gesture to the tables. “I’m a gambling man meself, and I know how to deal.”
Crow laughs and doesn’t try to hide it. “Tell ye what, kid. We’re going to do ye a solid. Ye asked to kill the clown in the blue shirt, aye?”
I nod.
“Well, my pal Reaper here, he’s going to show ye the ropes. Help ye kill him real good. I suspect you’ll be pleased with the results.”
It almost sounds too good to be true, but I play along. “Okay.”
Crow goes on. “The lad will die, and you can do whatever ye want to him. Anything your dark little heart desires. Only thing is, when we’re through, Fitzy’s gonna have to do ye in as well. But he’ll make it easy on you.”
Silence falls over the room as they both study me, waiting for a response. They’re probably waiting for the fall out. Some moaning and pleading and even a few tears maybe, but I’ve got none of that to barter with.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Crow’s lips flatten, and Fitzy gives me a respectable nod like I’m a man of honor. I’ve never considered that I was until now, and it feels pretty fucking righteous. My Pop was always bitching about me being too weak, and I just wish he were here to see it. If I’m going to die, I think it’s a fair shake. I’ll get what I want, and what I expected anyway.
“Alright lad.” Fitzy bends down and helps me up off the floor. “I suppose we should go ahead and do this then, aye?”
“Aye, I’m ready.”
Crow slaps me on the back and squeezes my shoulder. “Have fun then, lad. And try not to chuck.”
I’ve never killed a man. And before Brady, I never really gave it too much thought either. Pop told me he’d killed a couple of guards in his day. They’d get in the way, sometimes, he said. Trying to be a hero cost them their lives. Hearing these sorts of stories made me think it ran in my blood. Something had me convinced that I was just as hard as Pop was, and when it came time, I could do it too. But that was all before I met the Reaper. He’s the one with the glasses and an emotionless face.
The man is clean cut and as precise as a surgeon the way he moves about the little room where our prisoner waits. He discards his suit jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves while he listens to classical music. It seems like an awfully weird fucking way to prepare to murder someone, but it looks like he’s probably done it at least a hundred times over.
The guy I’ve been waiting six months to kill is already strapped to a table, mouth gagged, shirt cut off. There isn’t an ounce of fear in his eyes when he looks at me. The Reaper, though, that’s a different story. Albie knows, just as I do, something isn’t quite right with this Fitzy character. He’s too stiff. Too formal. And way too calm. I feel sick all over again when he turns and gestures for me to come look at his selection of tools.
“Pick your pleasure.”
I take a gander at the metal contraptions, but I only recognize a few. Reaper must sense it, because he hands me a pair of shears. “I suggest starting with the fingers and toes. Makes it real for them.”
Jaysus.
I turn back to Albie, and he’s laughing at me with his eyes. Even he knows I don’t have the stomach for something like this.
“Do ye think he made your brother suffer?” Reaper asks.
I have half a notion to tell him to fuck off, but he has a point. The entire reason I set out to do this in the first place is because Albie made Brady suffer. And for what? Because he fucking could.
“He tortured him,” I answer, my voice barely audible.
“Then it’s time to return the favor, lad. One last act before ye go. Would it not give ye peace to know you’d done what ye set out to?”
Reaper’s words give me the conviction I need, and I move to the table. He follows with a metal bowl in his hands, setting it beside Albie. “For the appendages.”