That was exactly the answer I expected. All fluff in an attempt to pull on my heartstrings. But Dion didn’t take into consideration one very important fact.
I stepped closer, until I was only a few feet from him and I crouched down to nearly eye level. “Dion, I have another question for you.” I waited until he lifted his gaze to mine. The fear in his eyes was telling, and I would bet that he knew exactly what I was going to ask him. “Who is Red Death?”
Sweat poured from his forehead, dripping into his eyes. His breathing increased to a frantic pattern. “Drew. I don’t know who that is.”
“Lie.” I straightened and shot his other knee cap. I hadn’t planned to question him this hard today, but I hated seeing someone tortured for the wrong reasons. And after watching Dion’s reaction to Fletcher’s words, that’s exactly what was happening here. Dion was showing his despicable colors at the right time. “Who is Red Death?”
“I…” he gasped. “I can’t tell you. I’m as good as dead anyway.”
“Hmm. So that means they’re a client of yours?” I asked, studying him for any hint of an answer through his body language.
Then his left eye twitched. “No.”
“That’s all I needed to know.” I got back to my feet, and aimed right between his eyes. Bright red blood splattered the plastic, and without so much as a grunt, he slumped over to the side. The gun shot was louder than I liked, and glancing at my watch, I’d been here for five minutes. I had about five more minutes to find his servers and pack them out to my car, and figure out what to do with Fletcher.
Lovely, I always enjoyed working under pressure.
8
Fletcher
The woman had come through the door like an avenging angel, knocking Dion and his ego on his ass in a spray of blood and agony. I hurt fucking everywhere from his beating as it was, and I swore my knees throbbed at the image of the shredded flesh, muscle, tendon, and bone visible where he lay.
The name she'd asked him about didn't mean shit to me. And frankly, I really hoped it didn't refer to anyone on my client list because that mother fucker had done something to piss her off. Dion was collateral damage. My ears were still ringing from the gunshots, and my heart raced and sweat made my shirt stick to me.
I hated guns. The sound of them. The smell of the oil. The smoke. The camphor. The way they could release a bullet and how that bullet could shred a body. Images flashed across my mind.
I swore I was gonna puke for a second, but I swallowed back the bile even as the taste of blood filled my mouth. I kept my gaze on her. Whoever the fuck she was. She'd just saved my life.
I hoped.
Still, she stared down at the body for a long moment. The linen suit she wore was flattering but the cut was off. Yeah, not going to worry about her clothing choices while she held a gun. I did want to admire the fact she'd managed to do all of that without getting...
"Hey," I said, around the swelling in my jaw. I was pretty sure at least two of my teeth were loose and considering how much my parents invested in my dental work as a kid, I was a little pissed on their behalf. Not that they couldn’t afford it. Still, I ran the ball piercing my tongue against the roof of my mouth, in a self-soothing gesture. I used to say it helped me think. "Do I get any points for telling the truth?"
That wasn't exactly what I meant to ask. She spared a look at me. "You're alive."
"Good point." A state I'd like to continue, if we were being honest.
Instead of freeing me, however, she checked her gun and then took a step back.
"Watch the blood," I warned.
"I noticed." With that, she left me there with the body as she moved through the house. The plastic draping had been my first warning when the pair of ten-foot-tall goons had dumped me in here with Dion. I should have paid better attention to my surroundings, but I just did better in front of the computer, or alone, than I did in crowds.
Also, since when did mafia or gang types kidnap you from a fucking corner grocery store? I went to get milk for my cereal and ended up here, shackled to a chair, getting beat to shit by a guy who liked to hear himself talk.
I debated spitting on him, but there was already too much of my DNA around here. Fuck, I could get a cleaner in here but it would cost. I tugged on the cuffs but all that did was dig the metal into my wrists. They were already cut and sliced from how tight the damn things were.
If she was moving around the house, I couldn't hear her. Course, Dion had noise dampeners everywhere. Probably meant it would be a while before anyone would notice the mess or me. While I clearly hadn't shot him—thank you for having my ass handed to me—I really didn't want to explain this to the police.
I didn't want to even be here in the first place, much less be left as a potential witness.
Fuck.
I looked toward the dangling strips of plastic she'd vanished through. I was a witness. I'd absolutely seen her torture, interrogate, and kill Dion. Well—to be fair—the dick deserved it. But Dion worked with a lot of...dangerous was a mild term. The clients of his I'd taken on, hadn't come to me because he was too busy.
No, they'd shown up because they didn't trust him. He knew too much. Too many questions around his activities.