Page 40 of Any Means Necessary

Callum stops short at the desk, staring him down.

“Hello, Sal. You haven’t been answering my calls.” The steel edge in Callum’s voice has the man behind the desk glancing at the door in hopes of finding someone to save him. Instead, all he finds is a blonde in pastel scrubs and the enforcer blocking the only exit.

“Russo.” Sal’s false friendliness falls flat in his attempt to put on a brave face. “I was just about to call you back.”

“Were you.” It’s not a question. “And what were you calling to say?”

“I—uh—I went up the ladder. There’s really nothing I can do for you.”

I can’t help but wince at the arrogance tinting his voice. The tension that settles over Callum’s shoulders has a dark cloud falling over the room. This isn’t gonna be pretty.

“That’s the wrong answer.”

Uneasiness creeps up my spine when Callum’s hands move to unbutton the cuffs of his dress shirt—the same ones he rebuttoned in the car.

“I told you, my hands are tied,” Sal stammers.

“You know, Sal, the easiest way to free tied hands is to simply cut them off.”

The threat’s not directed at me, but my stomach drops just the same. My entire body stiffens at the violence in Callum’s words, spoken so casually. This is definitely not the first time he’s delivered a warning like that.

“Woah, hey. Wait, there’s no need for that—” Sal’s puttering doesn’t register as Callum continues, rolling one of his shirt sleeves up past his elbow.

“We won’t start there, of course, we’ll work our way up.” Callum’s tone darkens, his head nodding to where Roscoe stands behind him. “My friend here likes to start with the fingers, he’s actually quite good at it. The knuckles sever nicely. Then maybe, if you’ve decided to be a little more cooperative, I’ll have my nurse stitch you back up.”

Sal’s wide eyes dart to the door frantically. He’s gonna make a run for it, it’s obvious to everyone in the room. When he scrambles from his chair with the grace of a rhino to dash towards the only exit, his feet don’t make it three strides before he’s being lifted off the ground. Callum’s large hand catches him easily by the collar and yanks him roughly backward.

The man goes flying, slamming against the corner of a filing cabinet with a groan. The air isn’t even back in his lungs before Callum’s hauling him up and slamming a fist into his face—once, twice, three times. Blood spurts from his nose, coating his teeth when he howls. The strong hand that Callum clamps around his throat violently drags him to the wall next to the desk, causing stacks of papers and folders to scatter to the floor dramatically.

A gasp escapes me at the sound of Sal’s skull cracking against the wall with the force of the powerful grip, hard enough to fracture bone. Callum’s eyes cut to me, his dark gaze cold and unfeeling.

Terrifying.

“That was the last stupid decision I’ll tolerate, Sal.” His deadly focus returns to the man he’s choking out. “Do you understand?”

Sal’s desperate nodding is restricted against the vice grip beneath his jaw.

“When I call, you answer it. When I ask you a question, you what?”

“Answer it.”

“Very good.” Callum’s powerful grip bleaches his knuckles as it tightens on the man’s throat. “Don’t make me come here again, Sal. Or I’ll be paying your family a visit covered in your blood.”

“I won’t.”

“Now.” Yanking him from the wall, Callum tosses the older man into the desk chair like a ragdoll. Sal grips the armrests for dear life when the chair threatens to tip over from the force of the impact, blood running from his bashed nose and battered mouth and coating his chin where it dribbles down the front of his shirt. “Because I’m feeling generous, I’ll let my nurse clean you up before you start making more calls.”

When the other eyes in the room turn to focus on me, I’m caught off guard. I stand frozen, at a complete loss.

“This is why you’re here, Doc. Fix him up.” Those are the same damn words he used the night he led me into that storage room to sew up a finger and ripped me from my reality.

My feet have already carried me halfway across the room before I register that I’m moving. When I kneel down in front of the bloodied man in the chair, our eyes connect briefly. For a split second, we share a moment of shocked horror, both trapped in the violence brought by the hands of the Fixer standing behind me.

Ok, you can do this, Lexie. You can handle this, he’s just another patient.

Yanking my eyes away, it takes everything in me to keep breathing—in, then out—as I go about the task of tending to my patient. He needs three stitches, and his nose is very broken. There’s nothing I can do about the concussion or the fractures I’m sure now decorate the back of his skull.

There’s a heaviness in my chest that seems to grow with every beat of my heart until it’s crushing me under its weight. Whatever conversation happens between the three men in the room as I work doesn’t register past the blood pounding in my ears.

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