Page 50 of Hearts Held
Stepping back from the leather bag, I wait, watching as Marcus unzips the bag, then its contents—a bloodied spy—fall out onto the floor.
He is wheezing as he clutches the side of his rib cage. His nostrils are flaring, and tints of black and blue circle his eye sockets.
He had been following Bobby and Marcus’s trail.
A trap we had set, hoping this idiot would inevitably fall for the bait.
A few guns and shipments of alcohol had gone missing, but the idiot left behind a beautiful pattern to his thievery. He would steal within two miles of a specific trade route pickup. We set up a stakeout easily enough and caught him, fucking wanker. He tried to play off that he was a drunken fool who’d lost his way, but onceKenneth got a hold of him, he sang like a canary. We couldn’t get every piece of information before he first passed out due to pain or fear. Either way, he pissed through his trousers and onto Kenneth’s oxfords. If it wasn’t for Marcus, the bastard would be dead.
His tiny whimpers irritate the hell out of me, so I take my oxfords and politely kick him onto his side.
“AH!” He yells.
“Jesus, you’re fucking loud,” I mutter, crouching down near his head. His wide-eyed expression and panting mouth are steered in my direction.
Marcus comes closer and crouches near the man’s torso beside me. “All right, champ, you’ve been blessed today, to be in the presence of our good leader, Everett,” Marcus states with a sardonic smile. “So, we can do this the easy way, which is death. Or we can do this the hard way and slowly bury you alive in a pit of adders.” He cocks an eyebrow as he takes a cigarette from his pocket.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You said that incorrectly, dumbass.”
“What?” he asks,befuddled.
I look over at Marcus while the man continues softly whimpering and clutching his stomach on the floor of the gym.
Staring at him with the utmost patience I can muster, I pretend he is a foal that had fallen on its head multiple times and slowly explain, “It’s we can do this the easy way and you tell us what’s going on, or we can do it the hard way. Which is torture, so you got that part right.” Moving my hand through my hair, I return my gaze to the writhing body.
“But death is easier, boss. Why wouldn’t you pick death?” Marcus asks innocently.
The body speaks through sputtered breaths: “Why…would…I want….to die!? You fuck…fucking…idiot.” His last word struggles to leave his lips as one bloodshot eye peers up at Marcus.
Marcus flicks the man’s nose like a puppy’s. “Oi! That’s not nice, I didn’t do this to ya! You did this to yourself! I also didn’t lay a finger on ya! I just put you in the heavy bag.”
Refraining from chuckling, I maintain my icy demeanor and stand, towering over the body.
Before I can begin my interrogation, a loud bang erupts from the boxing gym doors. Freddy enters, stumbling in.
Great. He is fucking steaming drunk.
Marcus stands and proceeds to approach Freddy.
“Hey, mate, we gotta deal with this guy and—” Before Marcus can finish his sentence, Freddy shoves him to the floor and drunkenly marches toward me, his footsteps dramatically echoing off the gym walls.
“I’m a fucking Adder! I’m a fucking Adder! I should be here fucking shit up too!” he screams like a toddler who’s had a bottle snatched from them.
As I calmly raise my hands to soothe my brother, Freddy pulls out a .38 pistol and quickly fires three shots. Two miss the man, but one successfully hits him. Blood runs down his expressionless face as the body stills.
The haunting bullet hole in his forehead glares at me.
“Well, you really fucked shit up, Freddy. You entitled prick.” I keep my composure though angry fire rages within my chest. The urge to punch my brother in the fucking face isoverwhelming.
Placing my hands in my trouser pockets I exhale, shaking my head. I hear Marcus’s footsteps drawing near as Freddy raises the pistol to my temple.
“I could fucking do it, ya know.Hic-cup.” He pushes the barrel of the gun harder into my temple. “I could kill you now and be on top. Call the fucking shots. I wouldn’t hafta listen to ya.” He’s stammering his words in a drunken drawl, punctuated by small intermittent hiccups.
“Freddy, I don’t give you any orders because you’ve never fucking listened. You’re entitled, a self-righteous arsehole, and you only give a fuck about yourself.” I turn to face him, the barrel of the gun sliding across my temple to meet the middle of my forehead. He furrows his brow, glaring at me.
We’ve tried giving Freddy the benefit of the doubt. We’ve given him all the patience in the world and tried reasoning out why he is the way he is. But there is no reason. He hasn’t been hurt. He hasn’t suffered any significant trauma. He’s just a narcissistic prick.
And lastly, how can I respect a man who avoided the war while his younger brothers volunteered to put theirlives on the line? There’s just no way in hell to forgive that level of selfishness.
