Page 120 of Silas

Gross.

I crouch and wait. I hear him huff silently, and then grunt. Again.

God, gag me with a cactus. Not what I want to witness, but it sure is convenient.

He lets out a relieved sigh, and leans back in the chair, panting slightly.

That’s when I press the barrel of my HK to the back of his head.

His hands lift; he has a wadded-up paper towel in one hand, which he tosses onto the table.

“Not a sound,” I hiss. “Hands behind the chair.”

“Can I pull up my pants?” he whispers back.

“No. Hands behind the chair.”

He brings his hands around behind the chair, and I zip-tie them to the chair. I pull his leg to the opposite chair leg and zip-tie his ankle and repeat on the other side, his legs are crossed awkwardly, giving him no leverage. His pants are around his hairy thighs, his limp dick still sticky and stringy. Fucking nasty, man. His phone has auto-played another video, a tiny white blonde girl deep-throating a giant Black man. I decide to leave it playing, but I strip the magazine from his rifle and eject the cartridge before replacing his phone where it was, so he can see it. Like the previous guard, I wait until it’s his turn to report in, and then I gag him with his hat.

“You’re lucky I didn’t gag you with your cum-rag, you lazy dipshit.” I whack him across the back of his head. “Malik is going to cut your dick off, you know.”

He makes a muffled sound of extreme fear, but I’m already tiptoeing out of the kitchen to the back stairs.

The stairs are fucking creaky as shit, and it nearly ruins the whole show. The guard posted at the top of the stairs hears and comes to investigate; I kneel on the stairs near the top, angling my HK where his head will appear.

“Nick, you watchin’ fuckin’ porn again, you sorry sack of shit?” The guard’s voice grows nearer as he speaks, and then his face appears, eyes going wide as he sees me.

His hand goes for his mic, but I gesture with my HK. “Don’t,” I snap, voice pitched low. “Do fucking not.”

He lifts his hands. “He was watchin’ porn again, wasn’t he?”

I nod. “Sure was. Still is.” I ascend the steps, keeping my firearm trained on him. “Hands where I can see them, asshole.”

I miscalculated: when the first guard said four posted inside, I believed him.

There are five.

Another guard appears from the other end of the hallway, posted by the front stairs. He has his firearm lifted, trained on me one-handed, the other about to key his mic.

I click off a silenced shot, plugging a hole through his hand before he can key his mic; the round thunks into the ceiling, showering splinters and dust.

“Down,” I order. “Now.”

He groans in pain, but drops to his belly. I kick the first guard toward the one I shot, and he lays on his belly beside his comrade.

“Sixty-nine,” I snap. “Now.”

They look at me, puzzled, and I gesture with my HK. “Head to feet, dumbfucks.”

Slowly, awkwardly, they comply; while they’re doing so, I kick their weapons away. Once they’re laying head to feet, I zip-tie each man’s legs closed around the other’s neck, tightly, so they have no room or leverage for movement, and then tie their wrists behind their backs.

Malik’s private quarters occupy the entire third story, at the top of a tall, narrow, steep staircase, as much ladder as stairs. I crawl up it, sweating now. One more guard, if the first guy wasn’t lying or wrong…again.

He’s not. The guard at the top is leaning back against the door, eyes drooping, weapon hanging slack from the strap clipped to his vest.

He sees me an instant too late; his weapon comes up, but I’ve already drilled a round through his left thigh, dropping him to his ass on the stairs with soft series of thumps. He groans, and I silence him by shoving my barrel in his mouth.

“Rip a wad off your shirt,” I instruct in a low whisper.