Page 73 of Fire for Effect

That wasn’t creepy at all!

He tied Trout up by the zip ties on his wrist, and true to his name, his legs kicked like he was swimming. He swung like a fish on a line. Brett tugged on the long end of the rope until our gagged captive hung off the ground.

Trout groaned, his eyes wide, as he must have recognized Brett “I have the worst fake name ever” Bradley.

Maybe I should be like Agent Sierra and have fake names in my back pocket.

I mean I had one… it was John Smith. I even had the documents to prove it. But that passport was strictly for overseas use, and having that ID scanned anywhere would raise a flare in the middle of the situation room that I didn’t feel like dealing with. I wondered what name I’d give myself. Johnny Everyman? Even that would be more convincing than Brett Bradley.

Brett grabbed Trout’s hair, pulling his head up, before he slid a Ka-bar knife across his cheek to cut out the gag.

“How you doing, Navy SEAL?” Brett’s sadistic smirk sent a shiver up my spine.

I was no stranger to enhanced interrogation techniques, but I had the distinct feeling that this part of Brett’s job might also be his hobby. Brett proceeded to use the tip of his knife to clean his fingernails.

“I’ve got a quick question for you, sweetheart,” he said with a smirk. “Just a quick little Get-To-Know-You type of icebreaker. What is your issue with our man, Ghost?”

Ghost… as in the world’s best spy? The man who had been undercover for almost thirty years? I thought the Ghost was… a ghost. A legend. A story we were fed to drive our competitive spirits. A fictional ideal for spies to aspire to.

Trout spat blood and other bodily grossness at the floor, landing it in front of Brett’s shined, patent black leather shoe.

“We know who he is,” Trout said with a laugh. “I don’t give a fuck what you do to me. We know exactly who he is, and we’re going to take you and your Paradigm assholes down!” Trout found the energy to laugh at his own situation, his eyes on Brett full of hate and malice. “You think you’re the good guys, don’t you?”

“My wife thinks I’m a good guy,” Brett said, looking over at Noam with a slight shrug. “Hers is the only opinion that matters.”

“That’s why you have her behind the high walls of your fucking castle, don’t you? Her, and that little Filipino bitch you call a daughter,” Trout started to laugh. “But we know Ghost didn’t do that. We know his kid is just wandering the world, and doesn’t know who the fuck he is… That bitch is going to be found, and we’re going to take our turn with her, before dumping her sorry ass in front of him just like we did to the Green’s woman when her old man didn’t play ball.”

Brett rolled his eyes, though they briefly cut to Trinity when she wasn’t looking.

“The last guy who went after my daughter had my initials carved into his skin, and was shipped home in a box,” Brett said with a small chuckle. “That was after she killed the other two. I’m not particularly worried about my little girl.”

What the fuck was that about? I filed that in my back pocket to explore at a later time.

“You had absolutely nothing to do with the Irish Mafia,” Brett said, letting another detail slip. “I know that. You know that. You stupid fucks really think that you can take credit for every misery that’s ever happened? What are you? Al-Qaeda?”

Brett started to circle his prey, and I grabbed Taz’s bicep, pulling her in close to me until her front was to my side. I had a bad feeling about this.

“I know exactly who did what to Isla Green. I know exactly who was responsible for the attacks on my daughter. They’re dealt with.” I finally detected the slightest hint of a Russian accent on the man. Bratva, maybe? I had never been stateside enough to wrap my head around the underground here but he certainly looked the part. “Now, about Ghost…”

“We’ll smoke him out! We’ll use his kid and we’ll smoke his sorry ass out!” Trout started to laugh. It was a sickening sound. “We know her name. And we’ll find her and that bitch t–”

In a decisive move, Brett’s Ka-bar swung through the air, landing in Trout’s mouth. The Ka-bar went through the bottom of his jaw, through the tongue, splitting his face wide open, his tonsils and uvula dancing in plain view as he gurgled and screamed.

Trinity hadn’t flinched, but I had. Jesus!

People think that one sort of killing is the same as another. Killing is killing. But it’s not.

I killed people through the scope of a rifle, a well-placed bomb, a knife in some vital human part. I didn’t play with my victim like a mouse with an unfortunate cat. Or a snake. Or whatever else it was that fucked around with mice before they ripped them to shreds.

Bottom line, I didn’t play with my food.

Brett, on the other hand, apparently did.

The gurgling, hanging Trout flailed against his binds, the metal hook rattling and sliding against the zip ties at his wrist.

“Noam, I’d like you to formally introduce me to this nice young lady, if you please,” Brett said, looking at Taz with an impassive expression.

Noam rolled his eyes. “Brett Bradley, this is Trinity Guerro. Trinity, this is Brett. You’ll learn to hate him the way we all do.”

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