“Hello” she said.
The man, still drowsy, was realizing several things: his weapons were gone, he was tied to a chair, and, more importantly, the young woman he had been sent to snatch was sitting in front of him, in complete control of the situation.
“Hello” he answered tensely back.
“Look...”
“Arbën”
The force of the slap took him completely by surprise, and by the glint in her eye, the perfectly fluid, precise movements, that didn’t waste a single ounce of energy, he knew she wasn’t what he had been told, a travelling lawyer. The impassive mask on her face, that didn’t show any emotion, fear or reaction to his presence, or that of his men. No, she was dangerous. Fuck, why had he taken this job again? He should have gone with his gut. The one that had told him that no lawyer who was important enough for an international team would be renting a place in a run-down building in Harlem. That there was something off when he grasped the door handle. That the apartment felt wrong. No pictures, no personal effects. He should have turned it down. Gone home, instead of getting on a plane to JFK. Backed out and taken the economic hit, not forged forwards. And now, faced with this woman, he prayed that he would be able to leave. To go home and hug his little Petra, be there when she opened that stuffed unicorn he had gotten her. To see her smile, to join his brother’s security business and never take another hit again. Please God, he thought, let it happen.
“Don’t interrupt me. Alright, Arbën, this is how this is going to work. I’m going to ask you some questions. You will answer them. Truthfully. Do that, and I’ll let you go free. You will not lie to me. If you do, I will make you suffer. Death will seem like a welcome thing once I’m through with you. Do you understand?”
Arbën nodded his head slowly.
“Who sent you?”
The very first question made him freeze. He wasn’t good at this, at thinking his way out of things. He was muscle, hired for a hit, not the tactician behind it, and he was not very good at coming up with lies on the spot. Lana had always teased him about it, saying she could tell when he was up to something, like when he had tried to plan a surprise birthday party. She’d figured it out a week before.
“I…I don’t know”
Who would buy that? Seriously, what did he think this was? A story in a book?
She picked up the coffee pot, that was still scalding, and started to pour it, slowly, onto his crotch.
He let out an agonized scream.
“Please! Stop! I can’t tell you!”
She stopped after a few more seconds. It had been worth a try, but violence generally didn’t work on men like him, they were just too used to it. Plus, she couldn’t risk her neighbors hearing him. Time for a different tactic. The man was moronic enough to keep his wedding band on.
“Do you have a family, Arbën?”
Oh, God, no.
“Why?”
“I see the ring. You’re in your thirties. Married. From the bags under your eyes, I’d say you have a young child, who still wakes you up at night.”
His eyes widened a fraction. She was right.
“Do you know what will happen if you don’t talk? Save it. I’ll tell you”
She was smiling sweetly.
“I’ll find them. It doesn’t matter how hidden they are. I have a net cast so far and wide they’ll never escape it. I’ll go to your house, in the night, with you in the trunk. Break in, put you in a corner. Then I’ll get your wife and child. Put them in the opposite one. Take out a tank of gasoline, pool it so they’re sitting in it, but not you. I’ll stop short of you”
She had moved behind him, her hands running through his hair, almost tenderly, her soft voice in his ear.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I’ll look you in eyes as I light the match. I’ll drop it. You’ll watch the flames dance around who you love. You’ll hear their screams and pleas. You’ll want to die, and you will, but only once you’ve watched them burn to death.
”
He craned his neck back to face her, eyes wide with panic. He could see it. See their blonde hair lighting up, Petra’s small cries to save her, Lana trying to protect their daughter, holding her up, burning herself.
Her lips were a breath away from his.
“Just talk. And that will all go away”
“Bellarose. Francis Bellarose. Please, stop. Don’t.”
The last word was a sob. She could see it in his eyes. He was broken. The thrill of power went through her. She couldn’t help it, it was addictive, obliterating men with just her words.
So she stopped. She knew the name. He was the brother, and business partner, of Adrienne Bellerose. The two had been Parisian drug barons until she had killed Adrienne. That death had netted her two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Their business had collapsed under Francis’s grief and financial incompetence, but evidently not enough. Francis had had enough money and resources to find her, and send a hit squad. Revenge. Such a pointless thing. And it made you make stupid slip-ups. Like give your name to the team.
“Did he send you to kill me?”
The man, now fully cooperating, said “No. We had to grab you, and take you to…”
He stopped, realizing how drastic his situation really was, that he had said too much. That Francis might do what she had promised anyway. That one day he would walk home and find them in a pool of blood, instead of in flames. She simply gave him a pointed look, raising her brow. It was enough.
“507 E 119th St. He said he would meet us there. That he had to ask you some questions.”
His voice was a whisper now.
“I’m sure he does” she thought.
She glided over to her computer, tapping in the address into Google Maps. Why take her there? She might as well ask her new source.
“That’s near the Costco Warehouse. Why would he tell you to go there?”
“He just said to arrive there at 11 pm. Keep you in a van for some hours and then take you for a stroll.” She could hear the panic in his voice, his words speeding up, slurring into one another. The desperateness to save all he loved. “It closes at 8.30. And there are not very many people at that time in that area”
“Thank you very much, Arbën, for your collaboration”
And then raised her weapon off the table. She had replaced her previous pistol, the one used in the park, a silenced Smith and Wesson M&P22 single action with a Beretta FS 98, military standard, whilst tying up the men. First rule of the business: never leave a trail. The S&W would have to be destroyed, as some stupid do-gooder would find the body and alert the police, who would then run the rifling. They would find nothing, as the weapon had been created and bought illegally, and had never been used before, but still. No mistakes. It was already in a burn bag.
“Wait! You said I could go free!”
“No, I said that if you talked, your family wouldn’t burn. I only said you would go free if you didn’t lie. And you did.”
In his last moments, he saw his daughter opening her present, seeing the unicorn. He hoped she would be happy.
His death was quick, one in the head, two in the heart. A fine execution.
She dialed a number.
“Hello?”