Page 39 of Marked

“Fuck.” The man moves his jaw from side to side, like he’s oiling a rusty joint.

“What’s your name?” Zack leans over him with his hands pressing down on the man’s shoulders.

“You’re gonna kill me no matter what I say, so why would I tell you anything?” Our captive slurs his words. He’s saying them right, and in the right order, but he sounds like he’s drunk a few bottles of whiskey.

“Because.” Zack moves behind him, turning our captive’s head toward the card table. “Everything I need to draw this out for days is in that toolbox. And I know you don’t want that. You want a quick death.” He leaves his head hanging back against the chair. At least he’s able to look at us now without dropping forward.

“People aren’t going to just be okay with me dead. You’re gonna be hunted down.” It’s hard to take the threat seriously when every word sounds like it’s weighed down with an anchor.

“His wallet’s in his back pocket.” I point at the square bulge.

Zack smiles at me. “He can’t be that stupid, can he?” He laughs, jerking the guy forward so he can get to the pocket.

He pulls out a leather billfold and flips it open.

“Fuck. He is.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed. When he shoves the guy back to a sitting position, he frowns at him.

“You were supposed to be asleep. Easy kill,” he says, his words getting easier to understand with each new sentence.

“But why?” Zack opens the wallet. Arthur Anderson,” Zack reads the license inside.

I walk around to the front of Arthur, and he brings his eyes level with mine again. “Oh, god.” I cover my mouth, jumping back from him.

“Oh. God.” I suck in a breath.

“Harley.” My name drops hard from Zack’s mouth. “You’re okay, little bird. Take a breath.”

I suck in another breath.

“You.” I point a finger at him, at the man who touched me, touched my sister. Who kept us bound for days, starving and thirsty and scared. Who took our mother away so we would have no comfort.

“Ah, I guess your memory really is coming back.” He shakes his head. “Fucking shame.”

I step up to him and slap him as hard as I can across his face. He tumbles out of the chair onto the plastic covering. He grunts, shakes his head.

“Good hit.” Zack grabs hold of his arms and picks him up like some sleeping toddler and shoves him back in the chair.

Once Artie is upright, Zack grabs his face and pushes it back.

“Laurens sent you?” he asks, but we already know. Who else would have done it?

“I’m not telling you shit.” Artie’s starting to get some of his bravado back. At least he’s stopped drooling.

Zack throws a fist into his nose. Right after the crunch of cartilage breaking, blood spurts out.

Artie howls.

“Who does she work for?” Zack pulls a knife out from the holster beneath the leg of his jeans.

“Fuck off.” Artie spits blood from his mouth. He’s a dead man, and he knows it. Giving us information might speed up his death, but to his twisted mind, going out without becoming a rat gives him something to be proud of. Some sort of legacy.

Zack stabs the knife into Artie’s thigh.

Artie howls. Tears fall while he bellows his pain.

“See.” Zack yanks the knife back out and wipes it clean on Artie’s black shirt. “You can’t move, but you can still feel everything.” He pats the flat of the blade against Artie’s cheek.

“Artie. Artie!” I yell at him until he finally looks at me. “Who killed Quinn? Who was the other guy there that day?”

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