Page 158 of Fractured Future
“Besides the fact that I’m sure Tom is freaking the fuck out, Ember’s being an uncooperative bitch, and Hyland’s talking like she’s off the team? You’re her friend!”
His lips sealing shut, Warner nods. “You’re right.”
“Leave Madden to me. Hudson’s still in with Miguel.”
“We need him capable of forming words, Ax. Don’t cut his fucking lips off.”
“Dude, that was one time!” I protest.
His tired eyes rolling, Warner pats my hand on top of his shoulder then shrugs himself free to limp away. Once he’s gone, I refocus on his abandoned task.
Madden will talk.
I’m not going to ask nicely.
Picking up the rolled, black fabric case I retrieved from my office safe, I saunter into his interrogation room. Madden’s gaze locks on me the moment I shut the thick metal door then engage the lock.
“Warner sending his latest pet project in to take a crack?”
“Something like that.” I smile widely at him. “I’m his favourite pet project.”
“So I hear.” Madden shifts against his shackles, still appearing relaxed. “Axel Slaughter. Thirty-one years old. Orphaned at thirteen. Eight years in MI-5 and now… Sabre’s bitch.”
“Congratulations. You can profile.”
Setting my fabric case down on the table, I work on untying the silky knots to release the flaps. It rolls open easily, revealing an array of neatly secured scalpels, blades and instruments of torture.
“Someone else profiles for me,” Madden corrects, sparing my toys a disinterested glance. “I can read words on a page.”
“Aren’t you a clever boy?”
“Not as clever as you. Tell me, Axel Slaughter. Does anyone know the truth?”
His words cause my movements to still for a moment before I quickly shake the uncertainty off. He’ll stop chatting shit as soon as I slide my stainless-steel needles beneath his nail beds.
“Oh, Axel,” Madden drawls in that stupidly formal accent. “The truth was buried so well, wasn’t it? Maybe you even convinced yourself it was real.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I bet not even your team leader knows what really happened to your family, does he?”
Selecting a wickedly sharp, carbon steel scalpel—one of my favourite pieces—I turn to face Madden’s knowing grin.
“I’ve been instructed not to cut bits off you. However, I think you can still talk without eyelids. So perhaps I’ll start there.”
“Go right ahead.” He quirks a brow. “It won’t change the fact that I know your little secret.”
“I have no secrets.”
“No?”
“No. My past is a matter of public record.”
“Quite,” he hums. “Just the way dear old mum planned it, right?”
Each word he utters threatens to undo almost twenty years of carefully placed memories. The memories I crafted, refined and planted like baby trees to grow over the reality I dare not recall.
“Enough!” I slam my fist onto the table.
