Page 3 of Silent Schemes
“That’s for being in the room,” I say.
He thrashes, the chains clinking above, feet scrabbling at nothing.
I grab the next finger, middle. “This is for thinking you’re clever,” I tell him, and snap. A howl this time, raw and animal.
I keep going.
Ring finger, then pinky, then the thumb.
The rhythm of the breaking is a lullaby, each bone a note.
By the time I switch hands, his face is wet and gleaming, streaked with tears, spit, and whatever else is leaking from him.
Piss, judging by the smell.
Sweat trickles down all over his face.
He begs now, a steady mantra:Please, please, please.
“Save your pleas,” I snarl at him. “Don’t waste them on me.”
By the time both hands are finished, he’s passed out.
I leave him dangling, because I like the way he looks—deflated, empty.
Like a lesson written in blood and meat.
I wipe my hands with a rag, toss it on the floor, and turn away just as the metal door at the far end slams open.
Will walks in, my mentor and number one confidante.
He’s in black, as always, but today he’s left the tie at home, unusual for him.
He sees the mess and barely registers it, eyes already on me.
“King,” he says.
Will is the only man on earth who calls me that without irony.
It’s not respect—it’s just what I am.
“What,” I reply, voice flat.
He looks back at the traitor, the mess of broken fingers.
His nose wrinkles.
Not at the violence, but at the amateur hour.
He hates this side of the business—prefers neat kills, chemical silences.
This is too messy, toofunfor him.
“We’ve got movement,” he says.
“Cross?” I ask. I don’t have to specify which one.
He nods. “They’re making a play tonight. Not the old man. The girl.”
