Page 33 of Blackwood

Inside there’s a man tied to a chair under a single overhead light. He is bleeding. Streaks of blood turning his blonde hair a little strawberry. Hands zip-tied behind his back. One of his eyes is already swollen shut.

He doesn’t look scared, he looks pissed.

Zeke walks in slowly, pulling off his gloves with deliberate calm. Mr. Acronym’s near the back wall, tapping something into his tablet like he’s logging inventory. Tex stands in the corner, arms folded, one foot pressed against the wall like he’s waiting for a green light.

I hang back in the shadows.

The man in the chair lifts his head, spits blood at Zeke’s feet. Zeke stops. Looks down. Then slow, almost lazy, he draws his gun from his waistband. The guy opens his mouth to speak. Something in German comes out.

BANG.

Zeke shoots him in the knee. The sound is thunder in the silence. The man screams, his whole body jerking against the chair.

Zeke tilts his head. “Wrong language.”

The man curses, screaming in German. I catchMädchen.Girl, I think? Probably need to brush up on my German.

BANG.

Zeke fires again. The second knee. Gross. The scream turns into something raw, something feral.

He crouches in front of him. “You moved them through Newark. I already know that.”

He leans in just slightly, eyes like knives. “What I don’t know is where they’re going next, and where they’re being held. And you’re gonna tell me, because this time?”

His voice drops to a razor’s edge. “I’m not fucking playing.”

The man is sobbing now, choking on his own spit. Zeke grabs his chin, forcing eye contact.

“Where are the girls?”

Silence.

Blood is pooling beneath the chair, slick and fast. His legs are ruined, useless slabs of meat, and the pain’s finally carved through whatever bravado he’s got left.

Zeke points his gun at the man’s crotch. “One more time. Where are the girls?”

The man’s entire body shakes. “Q-Queens,” he stammers. “Warehouse 27-B off Hunters Point. Please, oh God. I-I swear please, I told you everything.”

“How many?”

“E-e-eight I think.”

“Ages?”

“I don’t know man, it was a mixed bag,” he says like these girls are just a bag of potato chips.

“Think harder.” Zeke says shoving the gun closer to the man.

“Ok, ok, ok, please. The oldest is probably seventeen, youngest maybe seven.”

“When’s the sale?”

“Two days from now. Nine o’clock.”

Zeke straightens. Dusts imaginary lint off his jeans.

“Now see?” he says lightly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”