With my right hand in a fist, I tap the underside of my wedding ring on the raised metal.
The metallic clink marks my approach as I take the final step into the shitty house’s basement.
It’s unfinished. Just a bare concrete floor with empty shelves along one side of the room. And just like the neighborhood, it’s perfect for our needs.
My pace is slow as I near the man from the shower.
I stop two feet in front of him. “Who sent you?”
The man arches his head back like he might try to spit on me, but the arm around his neck tightens.
Hard to spit when you can’t breathe.
Instead of dealing with ropes and tape and shit like that, we just use manpower.
One of my guys stands behind the captive, his arm around the man’s neck and his other hand on the back of the man’s head. Quickest way to subdue the captive as needed. Then I have two more men, one on either side of the captive. Their arms are hooked around the man’s elbows, immobilizing his arms, and their feet are on either side of his, keeping the man standing exactly where we put him.
I turn my head to look at the man from the living room, three more of my men holding him in the same way.
Rob is behind me, and two more guys flank the bottom of the stairs. No one is getting out of this basement unless I want them to.
I run my tongue over my teeth, debating if I should start with the living room guy instead, but I decide to stick with the shower guy.
Neither of them looks like much. But killers for hire rarely do. Just some normal-looking white dudes with brown hair. No discernible ethnicity. Nondescript clothes.
And thankfully, one of the guys grabbed a pair of shorts from somewhere, making shower man put them on so we don’t have to stare at his dick during the entire interrogation.
I roll my shoulders out once. “You’re going to tell us who hired you. And then you’re going to die. The only unknown is how much it’s gonna hurt. And that depends entirely on you.”
The arm around his neck loosens enough for him to talk.
The man gasps a few times, catching his breath. And I allow him this.
For a moment.
“Who sent you? What’s the mission?”
He tries to smile, but the slices across his cheek make it hard. “You’re the mission, tough guy.”
I incline my head. “Well, here I am. Though I don’t think this is a real mission accomplished moment for you.”
He shrugs. “Maybe not. But we took a few of you with us, though. Didn’t we?”
My gun is back in my holster, so I use my empty left hand to slap him across the face.
A slap is both painful and degrading. And satisfying as fuck for me.
“You’ve got a lot to pay for. And we’ll get to that. But I want to know who sent you.” My voice is even, almost friendly. But it’s a lie. Because even if he didn’t pull the trigger, he’s involved. And he’ll die for that.
He glares at me, pissed at being caught and trying his best not to be scared about dying.
“Why are you here? You a hire?” I know he is. I just want him to tell me.
He tries to shrug. “If I tell you I was paid to do this, you gonna let me go?”
I shake my head. “Just want to know how much information you have inside that skull of yours. And hires typically don’t have all that much to spill.”
“Yeah, well, I do what I have to do. Not all of us can just marry some fat bitch and become part of The Alliance.”
Some fat bitch.
My fingers tighten around my brass knuckles as visions of my beautiful Valentine fill my mind.
And this man… This man is here, on a mission to kill people close to me, and he just brought up my wife.
My Angel.
Red seeps across my vision.
“Let him go,” I command.
And they do.
All at once, my three men drop their hold on the man and step back.
I wait. Half a heartbeat, I wait.
Then the man lunges at me. But I meet him halfway.
My left arm deflects his wild swing as I twist my hips, throwing my weight into my right fist as it connects with his side.
His ribs flex under the hit.
The man is fit, but I’m stronger, and I weigh more. So when we go down, I’m on top.
His back smashes into the hard floor, stunning him.
I lift myself onto all fours, like I’m crawling over him. My left hand is planted on the concrete next to his head, bracing my weight, and my knees are on either side of his hips, with my right hand pulled back.
He has enough time to widen his eyes and start to lift his hands in defense before my metal-covered fist slams into his chest, hitting where the ribs and sternum meet, right above his heart.
The man without a name grunts and tries to hit me.
But I hit him again, my fist thudding against his chest.
And I hit him again.
The shock of the collision reverberates up my arm. But all I can feel is anger.
Rage.
I punch him again.
Fury.
He’s trying to push me away. But I slam my fist right back down, right into that same spot.
A tendril of panic crawls up my spine. Because this man knows about my wife. He knows about my Valentine.
And no one will ever touch her.
I arch my shoulder back and bring my fist down with all my might, feeling the first crack.
Untamed violence consumes me. And I strike him.
Again and again, I slam my knuckles over his heart, relishing in the crunches that reach my ears.
His knees hit my back. He thrashes. He tries to stop me.
But he can’t. Won’t. Because he’s two hits away from his last breath.
I let the fear of failure fuel my next hit, and his ribs finally snap away from his sternum.
I don’t look anywhere else. I just stare at the man below me.
Then I lift my fist for the final time. And I think of my sweet Angel, think of my need to keep her safe, as I hit him once more—as hard as I can.
The give is instant.
With the ribs no longer connected to the center of his chest, they bend with the hit. The jagged edge where they broke away from his sternum causes the skin stretched across to rip open. But I keep pushing. I keep shoving my fist into his chest. Not stopping until the sharp edges of his ribs pierce into the pumping organ below.
Breathing heavily, I pull my fist away and lean back until I’m kneeling upright over his corpse.
I always wondered if I could do that.
I tip my head to the side and watch as deep red arterial blood pools in the crevice over his heart and the organ squeezes one final time.
The sound of someone vomiting cuts through the silence.
Some of the men make sounds of disapproval as they drag the second man back a step, away from his regurgitated dinner splattered on the floor.
I sigh, and placing my hand below the blood-filled wound, I push myself up and away from the corpse.
I open and close my fist around the soiled brass knuckles, loosening my fingers, as I step up to Living Room Guy. “Guess you’re the one that will do the talking.”
