Page 59 of Any Means Necessary

“Noted.” Is the only response I get.

I was right, nothing good happens in a building like this. The long foreboding hallway opens up into an expansive room with ceilings over two stories high. Old industrial shelving sits empty and forgotten at one end of the space. But that’s not what catches my attention.

I can hear them before I see them, the sound echoing through the warehouse. Shouting, incoherent and angry, spewing nonsense and profanities. Just like the night in the storage room that started all of this, a man sits tied to a metal chair. Only this one isn’t comatose, though he’s definitely broken. His eyes are crazed as he gnashes his teeth, his mouth practically foaming with his screaming. Roscoe stands in front of him, knife in hand. The blade looks clean, so the blood dripping from the psycho man’s face must be from something else.

Three men I’ve never seen before create a radius around the captive, looking like real goons. There’s a small table set up a few feet from the chair the man is secured to, waiting for me to set up camp. It’s a visual reminder that I have to get close to the deranged stranger, and the idea of having to touch him has dread settling over me heavily.

“I have a bad feeling about this.” I’m fighting against the sinking feeling in my stomach as we get closer to the crazed man. He’s absolutely seething, his glassy eyes manic. Callum pulls me closer and leans down to speak into my ear as he propels me towards the sinister scene.

“Roscoe has him secure, and that door leads outside,” he says, nodding his head to a metal door along the back wall. “You’re safe, Dewdrop. You’re not going to end up in any true crime documentaries.” I believe that. A man like Callum knows how to get rid of any and all traces of evidence. If something does happen, no one will ever know that I was here.

Approaching the group, I stop a safe distance away and focus on setting up the small table for treatment. I’ll have to get a better look to know exactly what I need to treat him, but I start off by laying out the basics; gauze, suture kit, local anesthetic, disinfectant. Callum doesn’t hesitate to get closer until he’s towering over the captive.

“Well if it isn’t the bastard we’ve been waiting for.” The man sneers, glassy eyes gleaming. “You’re a dead man walking.”

“Big words for someone who doesn’t even know my name.” Callum’s hand clamps under the man’s jaw, forcing his mouth shut and his head up to examine his eyes. His pupils are blown out, and a thin line of blood trails down from his inflamed nose to his top lip.

“Is he high on cocaine?” I ask, staring at the captive man from my safe distance.

“Among other things,” Callum says. “Fucking idiot, sampling your own product.”

“That was some good shit you gave me. Columbian, right? You’re gonna give me more or I’ll destroy you. I might be a Finch but I’ll sing like a canary.” His tone switches from taunting to raging in a single breath, spit flying from his mouth on the last words.

“And who are you planning on telling, Finch? Mikhailov is the one who gave me the green light.” Callum replies calmly, seemingly unfazed. He shoves the man’s head back before taking a step, turning his back to the man without a care in the world. He walks over to Roscoe, who leans in to mutter something to his boss I can’t hear.

“Mikhailov might know, but what about the rest of them? I know enough about how this works. One right word and it’s war. Once the Russians find out Alek’s arrest was a set up, you’re fucked.” his maniacal laugh sends a shiver down my spine and his eyes land on me, pupils dilated. “Your fat bitch is fucked too. They’ll have fun raping and torturing her after they kill you. Maybe I’ll even take a turn, make you choke on my cock. I can’t wait to hear you scream while I tear open your fat ass and watch you bleed.”

The man’s profanities are silenced when his head jerks violently to one side, blood and brain-matter spraying out the opposite side of his skull. Cold shock settles into my bloodstream, my eyes wide on the now lifeless man staring through me. Tearing my eyes away, I slowly turn my head to see the gun Callum holds aimed at the dead mobster, a silencer extending the barrel towards me.

He killed him, he fucking killed him. Callum shot him in the head, and now he’s dead. Dread churns my iron stomach, threatening to make me sick.

We both know it’s pointless when I reach down to check for a pulse. Glancing up at Callum's unapologetic eyes, he knows I won’t find one.

“He’s dead,” I state the obvious to everyone in the room. Looking down at the body, I can feel Callum's gaze on me, burning. The feeling of his eyes on me doesn’t leave as he barks orders to the other men. I watch numbly as two goons step forward to untie the bloodied body from the chair and haul it away.

Struggling to breathe through my pounding heart, I lean down to start collecting the medical supplies laid out on the short table. There’s no use for any of this now. A dead man doesn’t need stitches.

Dead.

I’ve seen death before, I work in a hospital. I’m a fucking ER nurse for crying out loud. But this, this is different.

Murder.

Callum is a killer. I've never seen that look in his eyes before, the emptiness. His look of blank calculation lacked any empathy or remorse. He pulled that trigger and ended a man’s life like it was an item on his to-do list, like it was the next step in an equation where death was the clear and simple solution.

A cold calm settles over me as I close the kit and snap the latches closed. The panic and fear have twisted into something far more troubling—numbness. Acceptance. I turn on my heel and walk towards the door. Passing Callum where he stands overseeing the cleanup process, I can barely meet his eyes. I don’t think I can stomach ever seeing that emptiness again.

“I’m done,” I state coldly, my declaration landing heavily in the air between us. I say it knowing I’m tempting fate. But instead of waiting to see what my announcement ignites, I continue walking quickly towards the exit.

I barely make it out of the building when a strong hand grabs my wrist and I’m being backed against the rough brick wall. The medical kit clatters to the ground, ignored and forgotten. Trying to catch my breath, I stare up at Callum, who has me pinned between his large frame and the building. Our eyes lock, and I can’t help the relief that I’m not staring into the gaze of a calculated killer. Callum's heated expression emulates fury and passion, threatening to swallow me whole.

“What did you just say to me?” It’s a challenge, a warning to change my answer instead of repeating myself. It doesn’t work.

“I’m done.” This time I say it slowly, purposefully enunciating each word.

“You’re not done.”

“You killed him. Shot him in cold blood.”

---