Page 130 of Oddly Fine

“You love that dog,” Hayes accused him.

“I don’t,” he disagreed with an indignant snort. “But since I don’t want to get eaten in the middle of the night by a fluff ball devil dog, I prefer to carefully respect him and make sure his basic needs are met.”

On that note, Hayes watched Beckett get out of the car. No doubt he wanted to immediately begin an inspection of every nook and cranny of the place. Instead, he turned on his flashlight and began searching for the out-of-the-way office that Matthew had said they should use to question the Serbian. It would be best to conduct their business in a small space with a single point of entry that offered a reasonably defensible position.

Beckett located the office situated in the top left corner of the building. It was highly probable that it was the only part of the entire structure that had remained intact. Hayes nudged Beckett who’d returned from his search to stand next to him and gestured towards the office.

“Think he’ll walk? That’s a longgggg-assed way to drag him.”

“Most men will do anything when held at the end of a gun barrel,” Hayes shrugged.

Beckett shot him a pleased smile right before his handsome features disappeared beneath the black fabric of his ski mask. Hayes missed that face—and his finely-tuned ability to read him like a book—almost immediately. Still, he pulled on his own mask—feeling more than a little ridiculous and wondering why he’d let himself get suckered into this.

Beckett popped open the trunk of the car and looked down at their blindfolded captive like a puppy looks at a trapped mouse. Cocking his head from right to left, he contemplated how to handle this.

“Just pull him out,” Hayes said, rolling his eyes.

“Ya’ll sissies did this often?” Beckett asked, preferring not to be rushed. Sissies was one of his favorite nicknames for SEALs. It just rolled right off his tongue and he liked the sound of it, or so he’d told Hayes one day.

Hayes refused to answer as he pushed past Beckett and pulled at the zip tie on his wrists, urging him to sit up. Their captive muttered something unintelligible through his gag. Hayes didn’t bother loosening the gag.

Hayes manhandled him out of the trunk and marched him into the office, which was easily accomplished since the business end of Beckett’s Glock was pressed firmly to the back of his neck for inspiration. Usually, you wanted to keep at least several feet between you and the captive with a gun in your hand, or you’d run the risk of the captive being able disarm you. But two against one were great odds, and the distance to the office was a matter of about 25 feet. A Glock was also a universally accepted way of effectively communicating their threat. The feel of a nice, cold gun barrel against your skin was unmistakeable.

As soon as they got him into the office, Beckett shoved him into a chair and removed the blindfold. Hayes went to stand next to the door. The only light in the office came from Hayes’ flashlight, lending an eerie atmosphere to the space that was oddly fitting. Their captive whimpered as he looked around, squirming uncomfortably while taking in his surroundings.

Jovan Đorđević was a 3rd generation Serbian immigrant. He’d risen through the ranks of the Mafia quickly following the death of his older brother a few years ago. Now that he was second in command to the big boss’ right hand man, he was one of the top dogs running all of Montreal’s main docks. Although he wasn’t high enough on the food chain that his disappearance would be noticed right away, he needed to be questioned and released sooner rather than later. His death, on the other hand, would surely cause a raucous, hence Matthew’s stern warning not to kill him. Jovan wore the look of the job remarkably well. Covered in tattoos from head to toe, including several teardrops on his face, proving he’d pulled time in prison, he looked like the kind of guy who made you cross the street the second you spotted him. When he smiled, his three gold teeth were exposed, not that he was showing them off now. Perhaps the only unusual thing about his appearance was a patch of three tufts of bright red hair sticking out from his head. Like many other aging men, he was struggling to accept going bald. To avoid the inevitable, he’d elected to keep what he had as long as possible, resulting in three distinct little clusters that was all he had left. Beckett had remarked on how they were similar to those found on a cheap clown wig—and of course, now, Hayes couldn’t unsee it.

Once Beckett had finished securing their captive’s hands to the chair, he removed the gag and stepped back to admire his handywork.

“Welcome to the party!” Beckett greeted him, stretching his arms out as if he was hosting a grand event.

“Jеби се!” Jovan spat at them.

“Hmmm—don’t know about you, but I don’t think that was meant to be nice,” Beckett said with a comical frown as he looked over at Hayes. “There’s no need for foul language,” Beckett said, like a chastising nun. “We just have a couple of questions for you. Answer them, and we’ll let you go—no harm done,” he vowed as he placed his right hand over his heart.

Jovan didn’t take that well and spat at Beckett’s feet.

“Ah—look! It’s like a llama!” Beckett joked. He stepped towards Jovan, who tried to intimidate Beckett by sneering at him and thrusting his chin out aggressively. Beckett merely chuckled and petted the topmost tuft of hair. “Even has the same hair texture as one,” he observed with a thoughtful hum, repeated pressing down on the hair and releasing it, only to have it bounce back into place again.

“Don’t bother with the whole Pitbull act,” Beckett said, and reached for the pistol tucked inside his waistband. He pulled out the gun they’d taken from Jovan earlier, and shook it in front of him. “This baby is the only threatening thing about you—and I’ve got it safe and sound right here,” Beckett said before carefully placing the weapon on the table several feet away.

Jovan’s weapon of choice had surprised them. Usually, Mafia guys carried efficient weapons like Glocks and Berettas, which can be reloaded quickly. But Jovan had a Smith & Wesson Model 63 .22 LR, complete with gold filigree on the barrel, and a dark red mahogany grip. It was clearly a custom piece. One that would have cost a pretty penny. Hayes had no particular affiliation for guns, besides his attachment to his own sniper rifle, but even he could admit it was an exceptionally well-crafted gun—if not the most practical.

Annoyed, but with no way of making them suffer, Jovan spat at them again.

Beckett avoided the projectile, and made a show of whistling as though impressed.

“What do you think? Should we go with Larry the Llama? Or Bozo the Clown?” Beckett asked, smiling at Hayes.

Hayes considered those choices for a few seconds and the fact that Jovan had sneered when Beckett spoke the second name.

“Bozo,” he announced, smiling confidently.

Beckett snickered as he turned to face Jovan.

“Alright then,” he said. “Here’s the thing, Bozo—you don’t mind if I call you Bozo, do you?” he asked with painstaking politeness. He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “It’s pretty fucking simple. You tell us what your boss is moving for the Rosarios, or you can become the secret ingredient in my Nonna’s special Sunday sauce, if you catch my drift.”

“Fuck you,” Jovan barked angrily.