Page 159 of Pucked Around and Found Out

“Start with names,” Alex orders. “CIA operatives in your network that are dirty.”

And she does. For the next three hours, Fiona talks. Between screams. Between fingers being removed. Between cuts and burns and breaks. She gives us everything. Every name. Every operation. Every piece of blackmail she collected over the years. Every dirty secret the CIA tried to hide. Alex has two of his men documenting everything, recording her confession, making sure we have proof. She gave up a lot more than Alex and I both thought, her reach was further than we knew.

By the time we're done, I've collected her lips, seven fingers, both ears, part of her scalp.

Fiona is barely conscious now despite the stimulants.

Her voice is gone, destroyed by screaming. Her body is covered in blood and surgical cuts.

But she's alive.

Breathing.

Suffering.

“She's told us everything,” Alex observes, wiping his blade clean. “Multiple times. Same information. It's verified.”

“Good,” I say, examining my collection.

“What do you want to do with her?” Alex asks.

“Keep her,” I say. “Alive. Suffering. Let her be a reminder of what happens when you come after the Denver Kings or Devlin operations. I want her to spend her days in fucking agony.”

“Agreed,” Alex says. “I'll have my guys move her to a secure location. Medical support to keep her alive… barely. Somewhere she can live out whatever's left of her life knowing exactly what she is.”

“A warning,” I say.

“A message,” Alex corrects. “She will serve as a reminder to any of our enemies and crooked feds that try to blackmail us in the future. She wanted revenge for her brother, truth is… I don’t even remember who the fuck he was, just another faceless cunt who ended up on my radar.”

He looks at his men.

“Get her stabilized,” he orders. “Then transport her to the facility. Round-the-clock medical, minimal painkillers. I want her to be conscious and aware for as long as possible.”

They move to follow orders, then Alex turns to me, extending his hand.

“Good work tonight, Devlin. You've got an artist's touch.”

I shake his hand. “Learned from the best.”

“Your father?”

“Nah, YouTube and personal experience,” I say.

Across the room, Cas is still leaning against the wall, watching his unreadable expression. “You good?” I ask, moving toward him.

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice is tight. “Just… processing.”

“Processing what?”

“That,” he says, gesturing to where Alex is standing.

I take a deep breath and for the first time I try to offer comfort. “He’s your blood. Your brother whether you like it or not. He’s your family⁠—”

“You’re my family!” he interjects.

“But he is your blood, Caspian.”

“Blood makes you related but loyalty makes you family.”