“Do you want a necklace of your own, Ivan?”
A muffled “No” slips past the silent sobbing.
“I think he wants one.”
Connor hands me the pliers when I turn his way. He never goes anywhere without torture tools in his pockets.
That cockroach keeps fighting and begging, but he brought this upon himself.
Dean stuffs a piece of Romanoff’s shirt into his mouth to muffle him, and without further ado, I pull off the nail of his thumb slowly, inflicting maximum pain. His eyes bulge, and his face turns as red as a baboon’s ass, strained screams tearing out of him.
Aaand . . . the fucker passes out.
“Seriously?” Connor voices our shared disappointment.
“Pull another one. That should wake him up,” Dean says.
“Or a tooth,” Connor suggests enthusiastically.
“We can’t inflict permanent damage. Not yet. We’ll be working with him. A nail or two is okay. Get him up.”
Dean yanks Ivan upright, and I bitch-slap him hard enough to wake him.
“Wakey-wakey! We’re not done with you yet.”
“Please—” he starts, but Dean bashes his head against the desk again.
“Here’s the deal, Ivan.” Carter hands me the folder. “There’s enough dirt on you here to bury you. Years of prison time for financial crimes. And that’s not even the worst. Maybe if we take your teeth now, we’ll make your prison time moreinteresting. You’ll be quite popular amongst your cellmates. But you don’t want that, do you?”
He shakes his head frantically.
“Here’s the deal. You take our very reasonable terms, get yourself a few shiny gold necklaces instead of one fashioned from your teeth and ears, and everybody walks away happy. The dirt stays buried, including, but not limited to, pictures of you and your many mistresses. Considering who your wife is, you might not even make it to prison if she sees this folder.”
I lean closer.
“So what do you say, Ivan?”
He stays silent. It seems we trained him too well.
“Now you can speak.”
“Yes! P-please! We have a deal.”
“But we’re not done here. You owe Dean an apology.”
“I apologize! I’m so,sosorry!” Ivan keeps sobbing, and there’s already a pool of bodily fluids under his face.
“Sorry for what?” Dean roars.
“F-for telling you to g-get me coffee.”
“I don’t accept this apology.”
Dean grabs the pliers from my hand, stuffs the piece of cloth back into Ivan’s mouth, and pulls out the remaining nails on his left hand, ignoring the muffled screams.
“Thisis an apology I might consider,” he adds, but the fucker has already passed out again.
“Okay, this isn’t even funny anymore,” Connor mutters. “Grandma had a higher pain tolerance than him.”
