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“Two,” I tell him, and the sick bastard grins before yanking the man's hand onto the table.
“This might sting a bit,” he tells him as he brings a knife down and starts cutting off two fingers. Stuart's scream rises to a feverish pitch, and I turn away, heading back to my office. Not that the gore bothers me, but I have a fucking headache and that scream is making it worse.
As the sound fades, I’m more aware of the pounding in my head and as soon as I get to my desk, I grab a bottle of pills from the drawer and swallow a mouthful before dropping into my seat with my head in my hands.
“‘Nother hangover, boss?” Phil’s voice says from the doorway. I grunt without looking up, and a moment later, some papers are tossed onto my desk.
“Updated figures,” he tells me, taking a seat opposite of me.
I mumble as I rifle through the pages, but nothing stands out so I push it to the side.
Phil doesn’t move, and I lift my head and open one eye to peer at him. He’s not normally a chatty guy so I have no clue why he’s still here.
“What?” I demand.
“You look like shit, boss,” he tells me simply, sitting back in his chair. “And you’ve been hung-over all fucking week. You never get that drunk. Is this about those classy fuckers and that broad from the other night?”
My eyes narrow on him, and I seriously consider telling him to fuck off, but with my head pounding, I don’t really care enough. My shoulders drop, and I sigh.
“Fucking Iron Elite. Dunno what the hell I’m gonna do about ‘em.”
Phil sits forward in his seat.
“What are the choices?”
I’ve always appreciated his directness. Smart, simple, and loyal are some of the traits to describe him, and though talking has never been my strong suit, having a man like him around, who can be as blunt and direct as I can, is appreciated in such times.
Plus, he’s one of the very few people I trust to any degree.
“Join them, or not.”
He raises a brow. “Seems simple then, no?”
“We do alright for ourselves. More fingers stirring this shit doesn’t sound very appealing.”
At that, Phil shrugs.
“Depends how organized those fingers are. Might find it takes a lot off your plate if you do. Get back to the shit you love about this world.”
I frown and wave my hand to ask him to elaborate.
“Well,” he continues, “dealing with people like Stuart, for example. Even a sorry sod like me has heard of the Iron Elite. People still fuck with us, we don’t demand respect everywhere, but they do.”
“And there’s a reason they’re heard of,” I remind him, and the fucker actually laughs at that.
“Come on, Atlas. You’re as ruthless as most of them. The only reason you aren’t heard of is the scale, not the quality.”
“So, what, you think I should take their offer?” My frown deepens, even as my mind spins.
Once again, he shrugs.
“Have someone backing us, funding us, helping us stay organized. You know I’ll always be your man, boss, whether someone is above you or not. Maybe a bit of help isn’t such a bad thing.”
I look into the face of one of my few friends, and for the first time, I notice the bags under his eyes, the worn expression. We’ve been doing this together for almost a decade now, and I know it's what he lives for. His family was killed a few years before we met, and his only drive and reason has been this place. It never occurred to me he might be tired of it.
“I’ll think about it,” is all I say in return, and he nods before stepping out, closing the door behind him.
My head vaguely pounds, but the pills and distraction of thought brings it down to a dull roar. There’s a ping on my phone and I look down, and open the picture to see two severed fingers and a thumbs-up from Caleb. I shake my head and close the message, crossing that debt off my mental list for the time being.
