Page 169 of The Thief
"Let's start with the fingers," I say. "One joint at a time."
The pliers close around Trace's pinky finger. The sound of breaking bone is sharp, distinct. His scream echoes off the warehouse walls, raw and desperate.
"That's for Jer," I say.
The next finger. Another break, another scream.
"That's for Henry."
By the time we reach his thumb, Trace is sobbing. Blood and snot stream down his face as he begs for mercy that will never come.
"Please, I'll tell you anything you want to know?—"
"We don't need to know anything else. This isn't about information anymore."
Maverick moves to his other hand. The pattern repeats; bone breaking, screams echoing, justice being served one piece at a time.
Trace's screams turn to whimpers, then to something that might be praying. But there's no God here, no salvation for monsters.
"Stop," he gasps. "Please, just kill me. End it."
"End it?" I lean close enough to smell his fear. "This is just the beginning."
The wire cutters find his toes next. Ten little piggies that will never go to market again. Each cut is precise, calculated to cause maximum agony.
Trace passes out twice. Maverick slaps him awake each time, makes sure he feels every moment of what we're doing to him.
"How does it feel?" I ask during one of his lucid moments. "To know you're dying piece by piece? To know that no one's coming to save you?"
"Fuck... you..."
"Wrong answer."
The knife finds his kneecap this time. Not deep enough to sever anything vital, just deep enough to grind against bone and cartilage. His shriek is inhuman.
"This is for Tríona," I say. "For every nightmare you gave her. For every moment of fear you put in her life."
We work systematically, professionally. Breaking what can be broken, cutting what can be cut, ensuring that every nerve in his body screams in agony.
By the end, Trace is barely recognizable as human. A broken, bloody thing that whimpers and pleads in languages that might not even be English anymore.
"Any last words?" I ask, pressing my gun against his temple.
He tries to speak, but only blood comes out. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, lost in a hell of our making.
"Didn't think so."
I pull the trigger. The shot echoes through the warehouse, final and absolute.
Trace Harrington slumps forward, held up only by the restraints. Dead at last, payment extracted for every life he took, every heart he broke.
"Feel better?" Maverick asks.
"No. But it's finished."
We leave him there for others to clean up. Let them see what happens to men who declare war on family, who think they can terrorize innocent people without consequence.
The drive back to Henry's house is quiet. Both of us processing what we've done, what it means, what comes next.
