Page 17 of Cozen

This was exactly why he preferred knives to any other kind of weapon. Jett Griffin’s man barely even had time to yank his gun from the holster before Sargon was already reacting. The guy took his gaze away from Sargon for a half of a second, at most, and he signed his death warrant with the action.

Spinning away from the wall, Sargon’s Obsidian blade struck out with a simple flick of his arm. First, he nicked the guy up under his jaw, and then a second slice under his ear.

The cuts were so fast, and so incredibly clean, that the man didn’t even feel it until the blood was already starting to pour down onto the collar of his shirt. It was painful spots, though, and with a single touch of his fingers to the cuts, the fool hissed.

His eyes flashed with rage when they met Sargon’s.

Too late.

He reached for Sargon, and grabbed his forearm. Sargon let him, but only long enough to grab the man by his forearm, too, and yank him forward.

Off-balance, the man stumbled.

He was spun around, and smashed into the wall before he had even gotten a chance to say a thing, or blink, for that matter. Paintings on the wall shuddered from the impact.

Sargon rolled his eyes upward, and cursed in his head. He likely just notified the fucking idiots inside the private area that something was happening out in the hallway. That wasn’t a problem he needed, to be honest.

He didn’t need to be causing himself problems in New York. That was not a part of his deal at the moment.

“You’re going to fucking die,” the guy said.

Sargon pressed the edge of the Obsidian blade against the lower portion of the back of the guy’s neck. Right against his spine. “I was going to just finish this.”

“You cocksucker—”

“I like pussy, actually.”

The guy raged and spluttered on. Sargon simply continued to hold him against the wall with his blade driving into his skin. Already, the sharp edge had sliced paper thin lines over the man’s flesh, and if he kept struggling like he was, it would only get worse.

“What are you doing to my man?”

The new voice made Sargon look to the side. He didn’t need to be told who he was looking at. Jett Griffin, a fifty-something with his distinguished features, and salt and pepper hair, was a rather common sight in New York.

A broker for all things underground, and black market.

He was a business man.

Both legal, and illegal.

New York elite.

“He was going to kill me,” Sargon offered.

Jett’s gaze narrowed as another man in black slipped out behind him from the private area. “Clearly not, as you’re very much alive.”

“Because he is foolish, and I am not.”

That seemed to prickle the man’s amusement as his lips twitched, though he held back the smile. “Is that so?”

The man under Sargon’s hold struggled, and the blade made more paper thin cuts. “I take it you’re not interested in collecting the debt from Kale Tompkins?”

Jett’s amusement was gone in a blink. “He will never pay, as his previous collector made clear to me.”

“I could have told you that.”

“He was your boss, wasn’t he?”

Was.