Page 42 of Fractured Allegiance
The bar Drazen uses for his “select gatherings” is tucked beneath an abandoned freight terminal. No sign, no windows, no questions. The kind of place that swallows noise and makes sure it never echoes back.
The place smells like aged leather, sweat, and something too sweet to be just liquor. Drazen’s seated in a booth near the back, eyes move to my direction, and he gestures once. I close the gap and sit across from him.
He doesn’t speak right away, just lifts a tumbler of bourbon and watches me over the rim. The ice clinks like a dare.
“Tell me, Silas,” he says, “how would you collect from someone who owes you but likes to forget it?”
I lean back. “Depends on what he values.”
Drazen’s smile is slow and bloodless. “Good answer.”
He slides a folded slip of paper toward me.
A name. An address. I don’t ask questions.
This is yet another test. Not just a target.
This is about me.
I nod once and stand.
The guy lives in a mid-rise east of the river. Clean building, new paint. He’s trying to look like someone who never met Drazen.
He opens the door and I’m already inside.
He pleads. Stammers. Swears he’ll pay next week.
I don’t speak. I slam his face into the wall and press my forearm into the base of his skull until his knees give. He gasps when I let go. I don’t hit him again. I want him to feel the restraint.
“You’ll pay him,” I say. “On time. With interest.”
He nods like his life depends on it.
He’s right.
I’m back at the bar in no time, Drazen barely reacts when I return. The bourbon’s still sweating in his glass.
He glances at his watch. “Efficient.”
“I always am.”
He nods, pleased, then takes a slow sip. "You know what I appreciate about efficiency? It's rare. Most people need motivation. Fear. Incentive." He sets the glass down. "But some people—the right people—they just understand the job."
I wait. This isn't small talk.
"I had someone handle a different collection one time," he continues. "Delicate situation. Client with connections, ego the size of this city. Could've gone sideways a dozen different ways." He pauses, studying me. "Didn't. She walked in, saidthree sentences, and walked out with a signed contract and his gratitude."
The air tightens.
I ask, "Who?"
His smirk sharpens. "Lydia."
He says her name like he's testing how I react to the sound of it.
I don't blink.
"She cuts cleaner than most men I've worked with. Knows how to make a lie feel like your own idea." He pauses, swirling what's left in his glass. "You've noticed that, haven't you?"
