Page 10 of Cry Madness
I release his jaw with an impatient shove. A smirk tugs at my lips, hidden behind the black balaclava. March wears a similar mask, although Nick knows who we are. The concealment of our faces adds a layer of threat, heightening the tension that hangs thick around us.
The glow from the single overhead bulb adds a sense of claustrophobia to the backroom of Stan’s Butcher Shop. Cliché, sure, as is the lingering stench of animal carcasses that adds to the ominous atmosphere. Admiring our handiwork, I appreciate the contrast of crimson blood against Nick’s ashen complexion, glad we didn’t have to drag this asshole halfway across Grim County to conduct our business. The beauty of Stan Krakowski and Roman being friends is that we’ve got this cozy spot to do our work. Personally, I find it hilarious that this place is right on Main Street. It’s the perfect example of how hiding in plain sight keeps it invisible.
But Roman always had a talent for concealment. From the true purpose behind his Horizons to his ruthless nature, the man is a master at showing the world only what he wants it to see. His cool smile, which never quite reaches his eyes, hides his cruelty, and despite the gruesome work we do for him, there’s a certain camaraderie among us, his so-called wards. He carefully chose each of us, forming an army of lost boys, of killers, to do the dirty work so he never has to bloody up his own hands.
He may have taken us in, provided a home for us, and raised us to thrive in a world that would have chewed us up and shit us out, but he’ll kill any of us in a heartbeat if we show even a hint of disloyalty toward him. Not even I’m immune to his wrath, and I’m the one he gives the most leeway to because I’m nuttier than a squirrel’s turd. That makes me his favorite weapon.
Oh, sure, Roman was excellent atactinglike he cared about us…until he realized we didn’t need his affection. What we…whatI…needed was a home, not a family. He gave me shelter and food when everyone else turned their backs on me, and for that, I allow him to be the finger on my trigger.
Which brings me to Nick…
I gotta give Nick his due. He’s been a hell of a fighter throughout this entire ordeal, right up until March and I wrapped the duct tape around his wrists and ankles. That’s when the last of his fight drained out of him. He took his beating, shed a ton of blood, and now, we’ve got him bound to a chair that’s bolted to the cement floor. We spread a plastic sheet under him and behind him, you know, to catch the mess we intend to make. He hasn’t confessedyet. But he will.
They always do.
Everyone breaks, eventually.
“Since you enjoy gambling so fucking much, let’s make a wager.” I stroll in a wide circle around the chair, fishing in my pocket to pull out whatever loose change is there. Flicking a coin at Nick, I taunt him by saying, “I bet one shiny nickel that you’re wishing you could rethink your shitty life choices right about now.”
Nick flinches as the coin bounces off his stupid face and rolls under his chair. “Maddox, I swear you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Bull. Shit.” March and I were already at the suite when Roman signaled us with a decisive nod that it was time to…remove…Nick from the game. And by remove, I mean we physically dragged him out, stopping his protest with a solid jab to his face that stunned the hell out of him. We hauled him through corridors and out to the car, locking him in the trunk of March’s Barracuda for the short drive to Stan’s.
“No, but seriously, Nick.” I give his cheek another light, teasing tap. “What made you think you could sit at Roman’s table with a pocketful of his money?”
Under ordinary circumstances, Nicholas Lowell would never be granted access to the game. He lacks the traits Roman values most: wealth, power, and prestige.
Tonight, though, those rules were suspended to allow Roman to regain some of his money before setting us free on Nick to ensure that he won’t ever be able to steal from Roman McQueen again.
The dumb prick took the bait and is now ensnared in a web of his own making.
I pull free the sleek black custom 9 mm from the shoulder holster wrapped around my chest, my right hand steady as fuck. Weapon leveled, I make damn sure Nick gets a good, long look down the barrel. “You had to know Roman would eventually find out you were stealing from him.”
“I didn’t?—”
“Don’t you lie to me!” My roar ricochets off the concrete walls as I jab the gun at him to punctuate my outburst. “Don’t youdarefucking lie to me, you miserable little maggot.” I press the muzzle to his forehead. “I’ll put a goddamn bullet right between your?—”
“Maddox.”
I pause, drawing in a deep, steadying breath through my nose to let the cool air fill my lungs. Then I release it slowly through my mouth. I repeat this practiced ritual a few times to help me regain my composure before giving March a subtle nodof gratitude to silently acknowledge that his steadfast support anchored me when my mental spring started to uncoil.
See, the truth is, sometimes I go a little bonkers, but with a single word, March calls me back to myself, which is ironic considering how quickly and easilyheflies off the handle.
For good measure, though, I land a solid left-handed smack to Nick’s mouth, temporarily satisfied at the fresh river of blood that flows from the new split that opens on his bottom lip.
“Ready to try again?” I ask the terrified man.
Nick’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He licks the blood from his ruined lips before sobbing out a broken, “Maddox, please, believe me. I swear to God?—”
Another sound slap leaves my handprint on his right cheek. I’m not even a lefty, and yet I do a fair amount of additional damage to his already ruined face. “You think there’s a god in here with us?” I give him a slick grin and glance around the small, dank room. “Tell you what, Nick.” This time, when I press the muzzle of the gun to his forehead, I’m fully in control of my temper. “You pray, and if your god shows up within the next sixty seconds, I won’t pull the trigger.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Nick breathes, his eyes wide, tear-filled, and full of horror.
With a shrug, I twirl my index finger near my temple. “Never claimed to be sane.”
“Please don’t kill me.” Nick squeezes his eyes closed. “I have a wife and a kid.”
“Don’t care.” Okay, that’s not true. I do care, but only a smidge. Unlike Roman, I’m not entirely heartless, but I didn’t put Nick in this chair. Physically, I did, sure, but it was his own poor judgment and bad choices that got him into this fatal predicament. “Should have thought about your family beforeyou made the monumentally idiotic decision to steal a hundred grand from Roman McQueen.” I huff out a gruff laugh. “Did you think he’d slap you on the ass and send you on your merry way with a warning? Hell no. This is you facing the consequences of your actions.”