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Nick drivesthrough the snow-covered city streets with ease, shifting his SUV into four-by-four mode and not slowing down at all. He’s amped-up this morning. Talking a mile a minute. It’s not like him. Nick is an opinionated fucker, but he’s generally more intentional. This feels like talking for the sake of filling the quiet vehicle and the silent streets. “You need to make an example of him, Sammy. Don’t let him beg for mercy. Don’t listen to him. Fuck this cocksucker. He needs to die.” He turns the corner and speeds up again. “I worked for your father for thirty years. He deserved better than this.”
Nick loves this.
Vengeance.
He has no mercy.
He kills without remorse.
Nick is able to do what all good killers do.
He kills without allowing humanity to get in his way.
If it makes The Family stronger... If it needs to be done... He does it.
He always has.
When we pull up to the old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, I think back to the first time my uncle brought me here. The first time I was told to kill a man. My mother’s killer. There was no hesitation that day.
We’re met outside by one of Dean’s men, who tells us Dean is inside, dealing with the trash.
“It’s cold as a fucking witch’s tit out here, Sammy. Let’s make this fast and get on with it,” Nick vibrates as he rubs his hands together, blowing out his cold breath.
I was hoping this one time my gut was wrong.
When Mike told me to look at the people who knew my schedule.
The people who had access to my car.
Fuck. I wanted to be wrong.
We walk through the maze of the old steel factory, back to where I know they’ve stashed Louis Tremblay, and I’m not disappointed.
There he is.
The fat fuck.
His hands are tied above his head, hanging from a hook on the ceiling so just the tips of his toes scrape the ground. A rag is shoved in his mouth, keeping him quiet. He’s beaten and bruised, his eyes nearly swollen shut.
Without thought, I pull the gun from its holster and turn to Dean, “Didn’t I say no one touches him but me?”
“That’s from when we grabbed him at the motel, Sammy.” His hands go up in front of himself in defense. “No one’s touched him since. I swear it on my life.”
Dean steps forward and pulls the gag from Louis’s mouth, tossing it aside.
Before the rag hits the floor, a spray of red blood coats Dean’s face.
The echo of the gunshot bounces deafeningly off the old steel walls.
Nick doesn’t believe in silencers. Never has.
His gun is held out in front of him.
No longer pointing at Louis Tremblay, who’s dangling lifelessly from the ceiling.
Now it’s pointed at me.
I wanted to be wrong.
