Page 2 of Silent Schemes

He nods.

The motion sends a splatter of sweat to the ground.

“So, you know what’s expected.”

“Please,” he manages, tongue thick with blood and snot. “It wasn’t?—”

I put my finger to his lips.

He shuts up so fast his teeth click.

A good dog, even at the end.

“No lies, not yet,” I tell him. “Save them for later. First, the truth: Why did you meet with Cross?”

His jaw works.

The lie is building in there, but it’s not ready.

I wait.

Silence is a vacuum, and most men fill it with whatever will keep their bones intact for another minute.

He finally says, “He said it was just a job, man. He said—” He bites it off, realizes what he’s admitted.

“Who?”

“Theo. The old man himself.”

I nod, pleased.

Not that he confessed, just that he did it this easily.

No sport in it, but I’ve never been one for games of chance.

Usually my interrogations go for much longer, but this one seems to think he will find his way into my grace if he just spills.

As if.

“And what did you tell him?”

He swallows, throat bobbing in an ugly way. “Nothing! I—he asked about shipments. I made up some bullshit, gave him the schedule from two months ago. I swear, man. That’s all.”

I believe him, but it doesn’t matter.

Betrayal is betrayal.

“Thank you,” I say.

He starts to sob.

I grip his index finger and snap it at the joint.

The crack is dry, almost surgical.

The first knuckle only.

He screams, but not for long—he’s smart enough to know the worst is coming.