Page 2 of Monstrosity

Some of it not.

The kill floor stretches out before us, old hooks dangling from chains like metal fingers.

Someone—Tor, probably—has set up a single work light, casting harsh shadows that dance and writhe with each sway of the overhead chains.

And there, center stage under the light, sits Miguel Santos.

He's smaller than I expected.

Mid-forties, soft around the middle, the kind of man who orders violence but doesn't get his hands dirty.

Zip-tied to a metal chair, duct tape over his mouth, eyes wide with the kind of terror that comes from knowingexactlywho you're dealing with.

Smart man.

Fear means he'll talk faster.

"Gentlemen," I say conversationally, pulling on leather gloves. "Meet Miguel Santos. Mid-level lieutenant in the Culebra organization. Responsible for moving product through three elementary school zones, including the ones the club kids go to."

Santos makes a muffled sound behind the tape.

"Where my daughters go," I continue, circling him slowly. "Funny how the world works, isn't it, Miguel? You poison children, and fate delivers you to a man whose children you threatened."

I nod to Tor, who rips the tape from Santos' mouth in one swift motion.

The man gasps, tears streaming down his face.

"Please," he wheezes. "I got kids too, man. I got?—"

"Valentina, age twelve. Juan, age nine." I stop in front of him, letting him see death in my eyes. "I know, Miguel. I knoweverythingabout you. Where they go to school. What time your wife picks up groceries. Which playground Valentina likes to visit after school on Wednesdays."

His face goes white. "How do you?—"

"Because knowledge is power, and power is survival." I crouch down to his eye level. "And right now, your survival depends on how useful you can be."

I stand, walking to the small table Tor's set up with my tools.

Nothing fancy—pliers, a knife, a small blowtorch, some other implements that have served me well over the years.

"Let's start simple," I say, selecting the knife. "I want to know about the existing Culebra distribution routes in Jacksonville and Miami. Names, locations, schedules."

"I can't—they'll kill me?—"

"Miguel." My voice drops to barely above a whisper, the tone that's made grown men piss themselves. "They're not here.Iam. And I promise you, what I'll do to you will make anything Bembe threatens seem like a fucking massage."

For the next hour, Miguel Santos becomes very cooperative.

He spills everything—drug routes, safe house locations, upcoming shipments, personnel movements.

I work methodically, starting with small cuts when he hesitates, escalating to more creative persuasion when needed.

Nothing lethal, nothing that would end our conversation prematurely.

Bodul watches from the shadows, silent but attentive.

He’s learning, and Tor keeps watch, occasionally checking his phone for updates.

This is business, and while Tor would normally take the lead, I have unresolved issues with the Culebra cartel.