Page 52 of Brutal Savior

Now, though, I need to wipe her from my mind and focus on the real problem. The fucker who’s about to wish he managed to kill me.

I head straight for detention, and my jaw tightens when I see Brackis standing beside Kendrick. Of course that useless bastard would have to stick his oar in. He holds up a hand as I approach, all self-important bluster. “We’ve got it handled, sir. No need for you to get involved.”

“Like fuck there isn’t.” He starts speaking again, but I cut him off, turning to Kendrick. “Where’s the prisoner? I’ll commence questioning immediately.”

“As I said, sir, we’ve—”

“Was I talking to you?”

Brackis’s mouth flaps like a fish as I address Kendrick, pulling a respectful tone from somewhere. “I’ve convinced the heads of terrorist cells to speak. With respect, I’m the best choice for this.”

Kendrick looks between us, his face tight. Three in the morning, and he’s immaculate in a business suit. Does he own any other clothes?

“After meeting the prisoner, I don’t think convincing him to speak will be an issue. But I agree your skills suit this task, Jacob. You may conduct the interview.”

I manage to resist smirking at Brackis, but only just. He’s a small man, and I shouldn’t lower myself to his level. I’ve always hated mercenaries. I believed in what I was doing in the Specials and left when I couldn’t follow the orders in good conscience anymore.

Mercenaries sell themselves to the highest bidder, and it’s repulsive to me. I’ve done terrible things, but I’ve always tried to keep to my own code.

Though the girl locked in a cage, probably fast asleep, might disagree.

I follow Kendrick into the basement. Was it really only two days ago I spoke to Quinn down here? Since she arrived, everything has exploded into jagged color. I can’t imagine going back to life without her.

Shit, Jacob. Head in the game.

The prisoner is locked in the same cell they had Quinn in. A couple of Gilda soldiers move aside, letting me study him through the one-way glass. He’s slumped in his seat, his postureone of defeat, not defiance. I did a number on his face—broken nose, two black eyes, and a bandage wrapped around his head.

Does he know he’s a dead man? A professional would have a good idea, but I’m not sure this man fits that bill. Skinny frame, ratty clothes, sallow white skin, bad teeth. How did he even get into the hotel? He must have bribed someone to leave the fire escape open. Or someone else did the bribing.

I push the door open and stride in, squeezing into the seat across from him. They have him shackled hand and foot, but he jerks back as far as he can when he recognizes me, mumbling, “Hey, man. I’m real sorry. It was just business.”

I shrug as if getting shot at is no big deal and gesture to one of the young soldiers. “Can I get a bottle of water in here? Thanks.”

We study each other in silence as the soldier brings the drink. I spin the top off and hand it to the man. “What’s your name?”

“Barry. Barry Fern.” He takes a long swig, coughs, then drinks again. His hands shake as he sets it down, and I don’t think it’s just from fear. I’d bet my fucking house this man is in withdrawal.

“How old are you, Barry? Where are you from?”

His eyes skitter around the cell, and he presses his shaky hands to the metal table. Sweat coats his face even though it’s cold in here. “Thirty-three, sir. And I’m from South Carolina. Should never a’ left. I’m real sorry, sir. Real sorry.”

His desperation scratches on my nerves. Nasty shit like this is part of my old life, not the new one I’ve worked so hard to carve out. My theory that this guy is a religious nutjob who hates me fades fast. The deferential politeness just doesn’t fit.

“We’re all businessmen here, Barry. Don’t sweat it. But mate, you need to tell me what happened, okay? These guys here? They’re serious. Why’d you do it?”

He looks down at his hands, picking at a spot. The backs of his hands are covered in them. “Friend of a friend messaged me lastnight, said someone wanted a job done real urgent. Offered me $10K.”

Ten thousand dollars for a last-minute hit on a fairly high-profile and dangerous target? For that kind of bargain basement rate, what level of professionalism was whoever hired him expecting? The timing slots into place. Right when my keynote presentation was announced.

“And this friend of a friend, where did he hear about the job?”

Barry shrugs. “The dark web, I’m guessin’. I don’t get into none of that shit. But he does, and he gives me jobs sometimes.”

Probably taking a substantial cut himself. The middlemen aren’t of any interest, though I’ll instruct the Gilda to drag them in anyway. I doubt they’ll know much more than this bottom-feeder.

There’s a picture forming in my mind of the man behind the hit who has made himself my enemy. He’s highly computer literate. Enough to organize a sophisticated flaming of me online and access the dark web. But he lacks true underground connections. No one who had them would use someone like Barry for a hit, even at the last minute.

He has access to funds, but the cheap price offered for the hit tells me they’re not bottomless. Maybe he knew this was a long shot and didn’t want to commit too much of his resource pool to it. Or maybe he never expected it to succeed and just wanted to rattle me.

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