Page 250 of Fractured Loyalties
I pull him off the table and walk him backward into the safe so hard the drywall cracks. Dust coats his hair. He coughs and tries a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. They are wide now. He finally sees me.
“Code,” I say again.
He tries to headbutt. I ride it and let him hit my shoulder. He groans. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes turn deep.
“Eight-four-three-one,” he gasps. “You won’t like what you find.”
“I never do.”
I spin the dial and hear the tumblers settle. The door pops. Inside: cash bands, two passports, a hard drive wrapped in a towel, a fountain pen that belonged to someone who knew how to write, and a velvet tray with small items that never belonged to him. A thin gold bracelet sized for a girl. A ring with a cracked stone. A black hair tie that still holds a kink from being worn. He keeps trophies. Of course he does.
He watches my face, hoping for a crack. I give him nothing.
From the hall, metal scrapes tile. They are moving the table to use as cover. Good. Let them.
“You touched the wrong woman,” I say.
“I never touched her,” he answers. “Not yet.”
“Then you do not get the mercy I give men who have.”
He starts to laugh again. It breaks in the middle when my palm meets his mouth and takes the sound away.
His teeth snap uselessly against the heel of my hand. His laugh turns into a wet grunt. I shove his head against the steel lip of the safe until the noise dies. His eyes roll, then focus again, wild now, because he feels it—his margin shrinking.
“Noise is your only weapon,” I tell him. “And I don’t let enemies keep weapons.”
He claws at my wrist. I let him. It feeds the part of him that still believes in chance. I’ve never been one for gambling.
Boots scrape closer in the hall. One voice yells something about “moving in.” Another answers with a curse. They’ll stall because fear does that. Good. Fear keeps them from charging while I finish the piece that matters.
I drag Volker upright and shove him into the chair. His body slumps, then lurches. I press the marker into his palm and wrap his fingers around it like a child learning to grip. “Sign something for me.”
He tries to sneer. I push the cap into his cheek until it leaves a line of ink. His jaw tightens. The bravado flickers. I could almost thank him for showing me the crack.
“You keep souvenirs,” I say. My free hand gestures toward the safe. “Whose bracelet? Whose ring? Whose hair?”
His face changes. Just a twitch—but I see it. He knows which one I mean. Which girl.
“That bracelet,” I press. “Name.”
“Why should I?” His lips curve. “You’ll kill me either way.”
“Yes.” I lean in, voice steady. “But names decide if I do it fast.”
He shifts, eyes darting to the hall. He thinks help will come. He thinks I’ll need to leave him breathing. He is wrong twice.
“Lena,” he whispers finally, hoarse. “Sixteen. From Hamburg. She screamed so sweet.”
My pulse doesn’t jump. It sinks, steady and colder. “Thank you.”
The marker splits under my hand as I drive it into his eye. He shrieks once. The sound is brief, clipped by my hand closing his jaw shut. He thrashes, legs kicking against the carpet, until I fold him into the desk, one knee pinning his ribs. His body jerks, then weakens. His fists flutter like paper. Then stop.
I leave the marker where it sits, jutting like a crude flag.
The voices in the hall shout again. One orders the other to push forward. I let them. They charge through the door, table screeching across the tile, barrels swinging high. Too high. Their mistake.
I already have the submachine gun braced. Two bursts. Their knees vanish under them. The table slams into the wall. Their weapons scatter. Blood pools fast, hot and loud, crawling into the grout lines. One moans. I let him. He won’t see the sunrise.
