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“Yes, yes, Winstable.”
Danny smiles. “He would have liked that,” he says, weirdly reminiscent. “He really would have liked that. But how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”
“He’s twenty paces to the left of the hangar,” he says, rushed. “Fifteen paces back.”
“He’s lying,” James says quietly.
“What? No!” Sandy yells, outraged.
“It was twenty paces to the left of the hanger, seventeen paces back, actually.”
I stare at James, surprised.
“You dug up my pops?” Danny asks.
He shrugs. “I wanted to be sure.”
Danny smiles down at Sandy and the Russian prick relaxes, smiling nervously back. “Now, that’s a friend,” he says, happy, before he slams the tape back over Sandy’s mouth and picks up the scalpel. Sandy goes wild, as I chuckle and James shakes his head. “I don’t think I can bring myself to touch it.” Danny sneers at Sandy’s flaccid cock.
“Let me help you out.” James picks up some pliers and tosses them over, and Danny catches them.
“Thank you, James.” Danny returns his attention to a truly terrified Sandy. “While The Enigma works most effectively alone, The Brit works most effectively with an assistant.” He puts the pliers around the very tip and pulls Sandy’s limp cock up toward the ceiling, forcing him off the metal bed. “Sliced or diced?” he asks seriously.
“Definitely sliced,” James says flatly.
He smiles and goes in, and the others watch in horror as Danny slices through Sandy’s dick an inch at a time . . . waiting for their turn, as Sandy bucks and screams, the sound muffled, but oh so delightfully bloodcurdling.
I look down at King.
Drag the saw once through his thigh.
Delight in the sight of his eyes bulging and the sound of his stifled squeal.
“You shouldn’t have fucked with me,” I murmur. Another drag. “I eat men like you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
75
BRAD
* * *
I drop my scrubs in a pile, keeping my eyes on the four drawers full of blood and body parts. You could say we’ve gone that extra mile to ensure no one’s coming back from the dead.
“Who’s cleaning the mess up?” I ask, jumping when the door swings open and a little old man wanders in, all smiles. “Who the fuck are you?”
“What’s that, son?” he yells, his hand at his ear.
“I said?—”
“He’s deaf.” James smiles at the old boy. “Good to see you again, Arnie,” he yells as he goes to the fifth fridge, yanks it open, and pulls out two sports bags, dropping one at his feet. “And thanks.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing.” He goes to the tables and looks them over. “Any organs to be donated?”
“All,” I answer. “As long as it’s not their ticket out of Hell.”
“What’s that, son?” Arnie yells, hand at his ear again, as Danny chuckles and James smiles.
“Maybe get yourself a new hearing aid with your paycheck, Arnie.”
