Chapter 3

3

Voss

Apathy is a man’s most destructive weapon.

Drawn, agonizing moans echo through the dark room, which is lit only by the naked bulb dangling overhead. It’s been hours since I’ve last taken a piss, and at the moment, that’s the only thing consuming my thoughts. Not the middle-aged man whose life is slowly seeping out of the wounds I poked into his body, or the fact that I’m about to add another soul to my morbid collection. No, I’m thinking about the thirty-two-ounce coffee I downed before dragging this poor sap’s ass into the interrogation room about six hours ago, which has gone it’s rounds through my body and is just as ready as I am to make an exit.

“Who made the deal?” The calm in my voice comes as a comfort to some, unless they’re laid out like Tony here, staring up at me as if he’s reached the end of his wick.

“I …” His answer is cut short by a gurgling cough, and a glob of blood smacks his cheek, small bits of his insides springing forth and sliding down his skin. “Told you.”

‘Fuck sakes, man. I’m about to piss all over this stubborn prick.

Wouldn’t be so bad if a perfect record of extraction wasn’t on the line. I never fail my clients, and if Tony has to be ground into hamburger before he realizes that, then I guess I’ll ignore the urges begging me to add a golden shower to his list of tortures. Hands braced on the edge of the table, I shake my head and expel an exasperated huff.

I’m tired. He’s undoubtedly tired. This has to be the most tenacious subject I’ve had in years. Bordering on ridiculous at this point. The guy’s already lost an ear, six of his ten fingers, a kneecap, and about four liters of blood from the looks of it. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s holding him together, besides some ungodly will to remain silent.

I turn to the tray of tools beside me and lift a scalpel, twisting it in front of him. “Do you know how many muscles hold the eyeball in place, Tony?”

His bottom lip curves with his quiet, tearless sobbing. Bastard must be weak as hell, if he can’t even muster a convincing cry.

“Six. Six muscles and an optic nerve. Enucleation is the detachment of those muscles and that nerve from the eyeball, and I’m not going to lie to you, Tony. Cutting an eyeball out isn’t like cutting off your ear. You may experience some discomfort in this, as I have to tug at the eyeball itself, once it’s popped, in order to keep those muscles nice and taut for the blade.” I rub a gloved thumb across his brow, and he flinches at my touch, his whimper the only sound he’s made consistently through this dog and pony show. “But these orbital bones make it tolerable to lose an eye. Not like … say, I removed your kidney.” I set the blade to the side, staring down at the shit brown irises I may have to stab out of his skull before I get to take that piss. “Or we can say to hell with all that, and you can just tell me, honestly this time, who made the deal.”

Snot mixed with blood bubbles from his nose, as his face pinches into another sob, and he rolls his head on the table. “I don’t—”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know. I’ll rip your goddamn eyeballs out with my fingers, if you tell me you don’t know. I don’t even care about precision at this point.”

My phone buzzes beside me, and Milo’s name pops up on the screen. I don’t typically answer calls during a session, but this guy has tested my patience, and I can’t exactly ignore a call from the boss. Most guys in the agency have never heard the top dog’s voice, let alone have him on speed dial. With my wrist, I awkwardly slide my arm across the screen.

Doesn’t answer the call.

Groaning, I remove my glove, dropping it on Tony’s face and answer the call on speakerphone.

“Yeah.”

“You’re in a session?”

“I am.” I slide the glove from his face and offer Tony a smile and a wink, as he continues to whimper and roll his head. The pallor of his skin tells me the guy isn’t going to last much longer, so Milo better get on with his interruption, or I’ll be reporting back my first failed extraction.

Something I refuse to do.

“Voss … we got the wrong guy.”

His words send a zap of electricity down my spine.

“I’m sorry, there’s a … shitty echo in this basement. Sounded like you said we have the wrong guy, or something. Hang on.” I swipe up the phone from the tray, gritting my teeth to keep from inadvertently stabbing another hole in Tony.

“Jackson pulled the wrong profile. The guy you have should’ve gone to Carter.”

Carter is another agent of The Gallows who covers the Meatpacking District. And Jackson is the halfwit internist, almost like a paralegal for the morally suspicious, who has officially landed my shit-list now.

Christ, no wonder Tony kept throwing out names for the DeLuca family. Here, I thought he was just being a patronizing dick. Bastard probably had no idea who, or what, I’ve been talking about the last six hours.

A whoosh of breath crackles down the line as Milo huffs. “My apologies. This is a goddamn fiasco.”

“A fiasco? No. A fiasco is when you order a fucking caramel latte, and the asshole barista gives you a caramel macchiato instead. A fiasco is when the surgeon removes the wrong kidney, and you end up a millionaire with a free kidney transplant.”

“Voss. We’ll make this right. I promise you. I’ll, uh … report back to …” He clears his throat and coughs. “Richard with an update.”

Eyes clamped shut, I mentally count back from ten, like a therapist once told me to do before I slammed her against the wall and fucked her brains out, instead. Didn’t work for me then, and it sure as hell isn’t working for me now.

“Rajna can finish the job. He’s on his way there now.”

I glance back at the job, lying sprawled out on the table, dead as the doornails I drove into his shins. “Tell him not to bother,” I say, clicking off the call and tossing the phone onto the tray that jingles the tools there. Not so much as a flinch from Tony. Tucking two fingers against his neck, I feel for the pulse I know isn’t there. Deadened eyes and gaping blue lips already provided the visual confirmation of that. “Fuck.”

It’s not so much the mistake itself that bothers me. Not like we’re killing saints in this line of work. It’s the lack of professionalism that pisses me off. The absolute disregard for it since Kelch, my mentor, kicked the bucket, leaving his shithead nephew, Richard, in charge of operations. Not even Milo can say the kid’s name without clearing his throat and emphasizing it every damn time. Must be hard for a retired Special Forces soldier, with as many combat tours as he’s done, to take orders from some spineless twit who just happens to have the connections to keep the business going. Nearly fifty agents work for The Gallows, spanning across the globe—all of us former military, or some line of work that’s allowed us to become highly effective at killing without conscience.

All of us under the direction of a man who prefers to be called Dick.

Blood drips over the edge of the table as I gather up my tools and stuff them into the autoclave bag. A cleaner for The Gallows will ensure there isn’t a speck of evidence remaining, though I’m often tempted to hide some shit, just to make Milo’s asshole pucker.

A damn shame. I shake my head, sealing the autoclave bag, and stare down at the dead guy as I remove my gloves . Killing for purpose is one thing. Killing the wrong guy for purpose just pisses me off. Which means Jackson’s in deep shit the next time I see him.

* * *

Aworn brick building looks like any other off Church street, with its sealed brown doors set below the fire escape. Having already scanned my surroundings, I type the code on the keypad that’s hidden beneath what looks like a line of mailboxes, and slip my key in the lock to enter.

The guts of the place are nothing like the outside. All state-of-the art technology that encapsulates the modern décor. Any passerby would mistake the joint for an abandoned shithole, but if they tried to break in, they’d find themselves trapped in something of an escape room, rigged with a number of fun little games I can control from my phone. Cost me a bit of money, but as a bachelor in New York who nets more in a single job than most people earn as an annual salary, it’s the fun things that make it all worthwhile.

After tossing my cufflinks and watch onto the granite countertop, I make my way to the fridge and nab a bottle of beer. Bourbon is my drink of choice, but I need something cold to douse the rage burning through me since I left the job.

When The Gallows was first established about ten years back, we were given a file with a name, and it was our job to track, target and capture. These days, there are assistants, like fucking paralegals, assassins in training, who gather the intel on a subject, so all we have to do is show up with a smile. Lazy ass lions in a cage getting fed steaks on a platter.

No chase. No purpose. Nothing but a witless kill.

Kicking back a drink, I feel my phone buzz inside my pocket, and pull it out to see Milo’s number flashing across the screen.

“What’s going on, Milo?” I answer.

“About today … don’t let one mistake—”

“Look, I’m going to level with you. You’ve been a great mentor and friend, but this shit’s getting old. And I’m not just talking about Jackson’s fuck-up. There’s nothing in it for me, anymore. Thrill is gone, man.”

“Voss. You’re our best agent. I know this place has turned into a goddamn media franchise since Kelch, but don’t go fucking existential on me. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”

A bright future in what, exactly? Poking holes into various organs? Perhaps I’ll strive to become a professional kneecap buster?

“Take a break for a couple months. Check out a tropical island, order some fruity drinks and fuck some exotic ass. Whatever you gotta do to reset your brain. Guaranteed, you’ll be ready to get back to the grind afterward.”

Rubbing my hand across my face, I shake my head, because I already know a tropical island and some exotic ass isn’t going make this shit any more appealing. “We’ll see, Milo.”

“I’ll call you in a few weeks.”

Clicking off the phone, I tip back the bottle and head toward my bedroom. “Lights on,” I command, and a soft ambient glow fills the room like the sun rising up. “Heat shower.”

Seconds later, the soft patter of the shower echoes from the adjacent bathroom, and I peel my white shirt from my shoulders. It’s then I remember the blade I had to disarm when I first encountered Tony—even that felt like an inconvenience, the way things run these days. He managed to slice across a skull tattoo on my bicep, another scar to add to my growing collection.

The worst one stretches temple to cheek, outside of my eye, and serves as a reminder that no one, not even Milo, for whom I might be willing to take a bullet, can be entirely trusted.

I finish undressing and shower quickly, letting the unforgiving heat of the water wash away the day’s frustrations. Towel wrapped at my bottom half, I exit the bathroom, running my hand through damp short-cropped hair, as I come to a stop in front of a wall. “Panic room open.”

“Password” the robotic voice asks.

“Fuck me.”

The wall clicks and slides to the right, revealing a dark staircase that self-lights as I step down onto the concrete in bare feet. The wall slides closed behind me and clicks locked while I descend, more lights ahead flicking on with every step.

Down there, a cocktail bar stands across from a king-sized bed, and beside it, a Saint Andrews cross is flush against the wall. A shelf stocked with food, and bottles of premium water and liquor means I could essentially survive inside this chamber for months, if I desired.

Some days, I think I could. Particularly as this place was designed for my favorite pastime.

A cage against one wall holds a woman, naked and pale, curled into a ball. Her arms are bound by leather cuffs, loose enough she can slide them off, if she wants, but she won’t. Just like she won’t remove the blindfold over her eyes, or the stilettos strapped to delicate feet.

She won’t because she knows it’ll exacerbate my frustration if she does, and there’s nothing she wants more in this world than to please me. Because pleasing me means pleasure for her, the kind that transcends the mind into subspace.

Unfortunately, her reward will have to wait another night.

I unlock the cage, allowing her to crawl out on all fours.

“Please, let me go,” she bleats, and scuttles to get away from me.

Gripping one of her ankles, I drag her back toward me, which sets off a last ditch effort to get loose. Heels peck against my arm, as she kicks and claws at the floor, the sight of her struggle working its magic on my cock.

“Yeah, that’s it.” I grit through clenched teeth, yanking her backward, and grab her by the mid-section.

She wriggles against my body, knocking the towel away, and I slam her against the top of the cage, my chest to her back, as I draw her hair out of my face. “Please. I want to go home.”

Even in three-inch heels, she doesn’t quite meet my height, but it’s enough that, when bent forward over red velvet padding that cushions her breasts, her ass sits propped high enough to meet my cock.

“This is your home for as long as I say.”

She’s clean and sterile—two things I specifically requested when I placed the order for her a couple weeks back.

Squirming, she fights me, as I gather her arms and hold her down.

“No! Stop! Stop!”

And I would, but that’s not her safe word. It’s one of the acceptable forms of resistance that we both agreed on, mostly because it gets me excited.

Except tonight, I feel like I’m merely going through motions, and the fact that this is all staged isn’t doing much to help that.

I’d hoped for a quick fuck before bed, but my dick is getting increasingly flaccid by the second. Staring down at her ass, I spread her apart, confirming she hasn’t removed the plug I inserted within hours of her arrival. Below it, her pussy glistens, telling me she’s already wet and ready.

Steak for the lions.

She doesn’t talk, or mutter a word, unless in struggle, because she isn’t supposed to. I don’t care to know anything about her, or what she likes. In exchange, she’ll walk out of here with enough money to support whatever endeavors she chooses. Most of the girls I’ve ordered are in college, looking to finance a career, but that’s information volunteered by the organization that provides them, not because I bothered to ask.

I line myself at her entrance and rub my hand across my jaw, already bored with this. Sex has become as dull as killing. As menial a task as brushing my teeth and checking my messages later.

I try to follow a rule that if I’m not feeling it, there’s no sense beating a dead horse, but I know a quick fuck would set me right again. If I could get hard and come.

I feel nothing.

She’s mine for one more week, but from the looks of it, I don’t think I’ll be keeping her for one more day.

It’s not her fault, but mine.

With a shake of my head, I don’t even bother to enter her, and instead, step back. I notice the slickness dripping down the back of her thighs and nab my towel to wipe away the evidence of her excitement, which at this point is nothing more than a slap in the face. Fastened with a loose knot, the blindfold slides easily over her head. “Gather your things. I’ll be returning you first thing in the morning.”

She pushes off the cage and stares down at me, brows winged as if she might cry.

“You did nothing wrong. I’ll provide full payment for your services.”

“Master Voss, I—”

“You don’t have to call me Master. You’re welcome to sleep in the bed tonight. Or, if you’d like, I can call an Uber to pick you up once you’re packed.”

“Are you sure I didn’t do anything wrong? I didn’t use the safe word once this time.”

“Positive.” I nod my head toward the door at the opposite side of the room. “Through that door is an exit to Reade Street. The code to get out is HELP. Make sure you have all your things, as you can’t get back in once you leave.”

“And if I don’t want to leave?” she asks meekly, lowering her gaze from mine. “I mean, if I decide to stay the night?”

“Then, make sure you have all your things in the morning when you leave. There’s a phone and credit card in the nightstand should you wish to call a ride. Please don’t steal the phone. It’s a pain the ass to replace, and the credit card is nothing more than a prepaid, so you won’t get much from it.”

“So, I guess this is goodbye.” At my silent stare, she lowers her gaze toward her hands. “Thank you for an … intense week. Probably the scariest and most exciting I’ve had in a long time.”

I wish I could say the same. In fact, I wish I could’ve blown one last load before setting her free, but life is too short to waste on someone so eager and willing to please. I don’t want a silver platter. I want the chase. The target and capture, and to get hard from the mere thought of conquer. I want fight and resistance, and all the things for which I’ve deprived myself the last decade.

“I’ll forward payment immediately. Goodnight,” I say, turning away from her.

Up the staircase and through the door that locks behind me, I make my way back to the kitchen, where I down a shot of bourbon, then head to my office.

On the desk sits an old wooden metronome, with a pendulum that I release as I pass by. The incessant click, click, click beats against the tension in my muscles, and I slump into the leather, office chair in front of the window facing Church Street, letting the sound calm me. Staring off takes me back to the days when my mother played piano, those brief and blissful moments encapsulated in seventy beats per minute, before my grandfather came home and tainted the mood with his overbearing temper. As a child, I suffered from terrible headaches, the kind that left me clutching my skull on the floor with tears in my eyes, and in her effort to soothe the pain, she would often play something soft and quiet. I loved watching her play, while those ticks matched the natural rhythm of my heart.

Only seconds later, I feel the warmth of the bourbon and the ease of my muscles slipping into a more relaxed state.

My phone blinks with a new message. I open it to an email from my CryptMail account. It’s an encrypted email, evident in the string of numbers of my address that keeps it anonymous. I created the account back when I lived in Chicago and advertised on Tor as a hitman for hire. Haven’t been active on the site in nearly a decade, and I can’t begin to imagine how someone might’ve stumbled upon it after all these years.

The message reads: Want to play a game?

“These motherfuckers,” I mutter, shaking my head. With a huff, I click reply and type: Sure. Solitaire? Go fuck yourself.

No sooner do I set my phone down than the damn thing chimes with another message. Asshole must be at his computer waiting for my response.

For kicks, I open it.

I need you to fix a problem for me.

I don’t fix other people’s problems anymore, I type back.

The mailbox blinks a new message. Twitchy must have his fingers hovering over the keyboard, for chrissakes.

Are you familiar with the The Sandman of Chicago?

What is that, like a musical? Nope, I reply.

Perhaps the name Carl Jenson rings a bell?

Blood cold as ice, I stare down at the name. Of course it rings a bell. A loud, blaring obnoxious bell that I silenced nearly two decades ago, to the date, when I pushed him off the old bridge behind my grandfather’s estate—the most unsatisfying death I ever witnessed.

Who is this?

Our conversation becomes more of a chat, as he continues to respond within seconds. He’s found a new toy. Pretty thing with pretty brown eyes.

Becoming a hitman wasn’t entirely by chance, and neither was my innate proclivity for sadism. I learned from the best, the twisted thrill of watching things die running through my veins since I was a boy. Carl Jenson was, by far, the most sadistic psychopath I ever met, which is saying a lot coming from a man who works for an agency that tortures high profile criminals. He was also the uncle I got stuck with after my mother died.

Where?

Your old stomping grounds, of course.

As tempting as all of this may be, I’m not interested in returning to the shithole neighborhood where I grew up. Carl Jenson is dead.

Perhaps. But if you’re wrong, then brown eyes will make a stunning addition to my collection. I’m prepared to wire twenty thousand in Bitcoins to the address indicated on your website.

For what?

To find me. A fun little game of cat and mouse.

I don’t play games. And neither should you.

You used to enjoy the games we played. Don’t you remember?

Pain throbs in my skull as I grind my teeth, my thoughts carrying me back to twenty years ago, when I was at the mercy of my sadistic bastard of an uncle, who enjoyed tormenting me for fun.

I killed him myself. Watched his body carried off by the river’s rapid current. To hell with this asshole. For a split second, I wonder if it’s Jackson, messing with me, but no way he’d risk my retaliation after what happened this afternoon.

Fuck your games. Carl is dead. Let it go.

I click out, just as a new message comes in. This one with an attachment. Must be the bourbon that makes me click it open. The attached news article is a story about a serial killer in the Chicago area, known locally as The Sandman. As I read on, one particular detail sends a cold chill up my spine: he cuts his victims eyeballs out and fills the sockets with sand made of bone meal.

My thoughts drift back to my childhood, to the many carcasses of animals my uncle captured and tortured, and left scattered around my grandfather’s property. In all cases, their eyes had been removed and filled with sand made of bone meal.

Who is this? I type back, the possibility becoming more real.

You have three weeks. Her name is Nola Tensley.

Why would he tell me her name? That makes no sense.

Who is she to you?

I wait for his response, but nothing more arrives. Tipping back another sip of bourbon, I stare down at the thread of messages spanning the length of my phone screen.

Impossible. I watched him hit the water. I watched his body crumple with the impact and sink below the surface with the racing current. I had no doubts at the time that he was dead, and after nearly two decades of peace and quiet, I’d be hard pressed to believe otherwise.

If, by some small measure of chance, he is alive, though, the trip would be well worth it. As much as I’d like to believe my intentions are saving some unsuspecting victim from becoming his next sand-bagged corpse, the good guy shit was never really my thing.

No, the worm on the hook for me is Carl, whose face I see in every bastard that lands beneath my blade, and every time someone touches my face, I’m reminded of that night.

I’ve dreamed of the day I could repay the favor of destroying his life, slow and meticulously, just as he did mine. The excitement stirring in my blood tells me that walking away from this isn’t going to be an option for me. The timing is a little uncanny, freakish even, but I can’t deny that fate sure as hell picked the right moment to drop this little crap-cannon into my lap. And my mind’s already ahead of me. Already planning.

Hotels and motels will be too easy for him to track me down, even with cash, and I don’t need some nosy maid rifling through my shit, so I’ll need to find a place to lay low.

A place I can keep a close watch on this Nola Tensley.