Page 71 of The Primary Pest
“Christ.” Chet picked at a scab on his face, drawing blood. He hissed softly. “Shit… What should we do, boss?”
“All right, then,” Peter muted the phone. “All right. Fuck. You.” He pointed at Chet. “Bring him up here.”
“No way.” Dmytro stood. “You’ve seen—”
“He knows this is it. It’s too important for fucking around.” To Chet he said, “Do I make myself clear?”
Chet nodded and scurried down the stairs.
Peter trained his handgun on Dmytro before unmuting the sound. Violet Fairchild was screeching at him to put her son on now. Peter shouted, “I hear you. Fuck off. I’m getting him.”
A long, tense minute later, Chet dragged Ajax up to the bridge. His hands were still tied, but Chet had cut the tape at his ankles. Dmytro noticed one bled freely from a fresh gash.
He met Chet’s gaze with one simple promise in his own: If we get out of here, you’re a dead man. And I’ll take my time.
Chet halted, holding Ajax between them, pistol to his head. He grinned. Peter holstered his weapon and grabbed Ajax’s hair.
“Ow, Christ, stop with the grabby hands, will you? My hair is my glory.”
“Be wise.” Dmytro suppressed a badly timed burst of gallows humor.
“What’s it matter?” Ajax scoffed. “We’re dead men.”
Dmytro lowered his gaze.
“Your mommy wants to hear your voice now.” Peter shouted the words so Violet could hear them. He gave the phone to Ajax and nodded.
Ajax hesitated. “That’s my mother?”
Peter said nothing. He must have switched off the voice-changing app.
“Now is not the time to be stubborn, Ajax.” Dmytro nodded to the phone.
Ajax didn’t move. “I’m often stubborn at the worst possible time.”
“Little mink.” Dmytro licked his lips nervously. “This is not that time.”
He jerked his head toward Peter and Chet.
Ajax nodded, but fresh tears welled in his eyes instead of bravado. Any hope they had was thin as spun sugar. Dmytro found his anguish mirrored in Ajax’s gaze. He saw betrayal too, even though he’d thought using Ajax’s special nickname would be some kind of clue—a reminder men like Peter and Dmytro played deep, deep games.
Didn’t Ajax know? Dmytro lied for a living. In a situation like this one, only the last man standing shaped the truth.
Peter took the phone off speakerphone before holding it to Ajax’s ear. He shoved a pistol into his ribs with his free hand. Chet covered them both from six feet away. Too far to make a play.
Ajax swallowed hard. “Mom?”
Dmytro couldn’t hear her words, but he could imagine them.
“No, I’m not scared, Mom. It’s just business. I… get it. I’m sorry, though. I’m so sorry.”
A longer pause. A mother pouring out her terror, her grief, her advice. Maybe her final goodbyes to her only child.
Rage—fury and powerful empathy—filled Dmytro, as though he were in the room with Violet Fairchild and his own children’s lives were at stake.
“It’s gonna be okay, Mom. Look, you know I don’t say this enough”—he winced—“no, stop crying, Mom, it’s going to be all right, I swear… Oh… Okay. Dad?”
His and Ajax’s gazes met while Peter made hurry-this-along gestures. Dmytro could keep his face neutral only by imagining the horrible tortures he’d visit on Ajax’s tormentors.
