Page 132 of Oddly Fine

“Oh—lucky guy—” Beckett remarked with a twisted smile.

“That’s four now—in a seven-chamber gun—odds aren’t looking too good now, are they?” Beckett cocked the hammer and once again pressed it to his own temple.

“Might want to shut your eyes—brain matter splatters like a bitch,” he warned, but before the Serbian had a chance to react, he pulled the trigger.

Hayes hitched a breath when nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened. The gun was empty, Hayes reminded himself. But every time Beckett pressed that gun to his own head—God, the terror that flooded Hayes’ body was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Feeling sick and shaky, he could only stand there, mesmerized by Beckett’s insane methods of interrogation. Was this crazy shit sketched out somewhere in the C.U.N.T.’s manual?

“Guess that means you’re 50/50 now, buddy,” Beckett smiled, cocking the hammer and pressing the barrel against Bozo’s forehead for the next round of roulette.

“So, my friend, here’s an easy question. No one ever needs to know you’re the one who talked. Just tell me—what are you moving for the Rosarios?”

Bozo shook his head, but his ragged breathing and profuse sweating was proof that he was about to crack.

“One,” Beckett threatened.

Bozo stuttered something, shaking in his chair.

“Two—”

There were tears forming in his eyes.

“Thr—”

“Doors! Windows, doors, hinges!” he screamed. “I swear! I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what’s in the boxes! And then, sometimes, coffins! Two, or three of them. Just—real weird shit! Sometimes he has, like—chains and shit, but usually, it’s doors, windows, and coffins. Old ones too—like in movies!” Jovan’s choked out confession was a messy jumble of words that Hayes struggled to make sense of.

“What’s in the coffins?” Beckett asked.

“Don’t know!” he cried, panicked and shaking. “We don’t look. We never look! They look—real, you know? Not empty. Like they were buried underground for a long time!” his Slavic accent thickened, panic and desperation making his words increasingly difficult to decipher.

Beckett hummed, crossing his arms over his chest as he pondered what he’d just learned.

“No drugs? No—live cargo?”

“Live cargo?” Bozo asked, confused.

“People,” Hayes said.

“No!” Bozo assured them, shaking his head.

“Nothing else?” Beckett asked, waving the pistol about with little care for where he was pointing it.

“No! No!” Bozo assured them again. “Please put the gun down—please!” he begged tearfully, having seen true madness in Beckett’s eyes.

Beckett snorted and shook his head. He opened his other hand, showing the concealed bullet.

“Chill, Bozo. Gun’s empty,” he said, dumping the bullet in the pile with the other six.

“No,” Bozo said, shaking his head like he disagreed.

Beckett ignored him, “Seriously, chill, see?” Then he pulled the trigger on the revolver—except this time, the chamber exploded—the sound unmistakeable. The resulting howl of pain as the bullet hit Bozo’s foot was solid proof of Beckett’s mistake.

“Huh?” he said, looking at the gun as if it was magical. “Ah! Looky here, Daisy—it’s an eight chamber! Isn’t that wicked? Rarer than a pope’s fart, too!” he exclaimed, while their kidnapped Serbian howled in pain from his gunshot wound.

Beckett dropped the gun back on the table, and backed up a few feet to stand next to Hayes. He turned his back on Jovan, knowing Hayes was guarding his six.

That level of trust meant a great deal to Hayes and he felt an odd twinge next to his heart.