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“He’s been as quiet as a church mouse,” the Braddock man says, inspiring a chuckle from a few of the others.
“If he’s not going to speak, we might as well cut out his tongue,” I say, grabbing the priest by his jaw and lifting his eyes to meet mine. His face is swollen and squishy. The lack of teeth in parts of his jaw only amplifies the mushy texture.
My threat seems to go in one ear and out the other. He’s been beaten too far to care what comes next. Deep inside, I feel sorry for him. He doesn’t look much older than my brothers—in his late twenties, maybe thirties. He had his whole life ahead of him and he just threw it away.
“Just talk and this will be over,” I try to appeal to him. “All you need to do is give me a little and all the suffering ends.”
I’m still in my tuxedo. It’s itchy, uncomfortable, and restrictive. Everyone else is in their wedding clothes, as well, though, most of them were smart enough to shed their blazers before entering this musty parking lot.
“What’s the point?” are the priest’s first words. “You’re just going to kill me anyway, right?”
His voice is weak, raspy, and soft. It sounds exactly as I’d expect a man in his position to sound.
“Sure. But why suffer, when it can be over sooner?” I reply. “You know you’re going to die, so why hold onto a secret that doesn’t preserve a thing?”
A half-chuckle leaves his lips and something about it sends me over the edge. Without thinking, I draw back. The head I clutched drops, chin to chest. I drive my size 10 boot into his chest and the chair goes flying backward.
The Harrison man holding the rope takes a few steps to avoid the priest’s landing on him, indirectly pulling the rope tighter. A muffled choke comes from the priest, who is now writhing on the ground.
I drop down onto a bent knee, driving it into the priest’s chest, while wrapping a hand around his throat. His eyes are wide, nearly popping out of his head, as he does all he can to get in a breath.
“You don’t know what you’ve done, but I’ll tell you now, and it’s not good,” I’m whispering.
He can hear me. I see it in his eyes and the way they peer at me. He doesn’t look tired anymore. He looks scared. “Your suffering has only just begun and what these men have done; well, that’s going to feel like a goddamned walk in the park after what I’ve got in store.”
When the priest’s eyelids start flickering open and shut at a thousand beats a second, I release him. He draws in a huge lungful of air, panting like a mutt, to steady himself. A few men draw their guns at my side. They all center the barrels on the priest. I say nothing to this.
Intimidation, I suppose, works in different forms. Having your head kicked in is one thing, but having six guns aimed square at your heart is an entirely new fear. The priest scans his surroundings, seeing the danger. A true threat of death. Each one of the men pulls the hammer back on his pistol. They stand stoic and stern, their deadly intent shining through their eyes.
“Okay, fine, I’ll talk. I’ll talk,” the priest says.
Music to my ears.
“Who sent you to kill Bruno Romani?” I ask again, pressing my fist into the priest’s chest for leverage, to get back to my feet. He winces as I squeeze the air out of his lungs.
“It was—”
The deafening echo of a gunshot rings through the parking lot. A single bullet splits the soft skin between the priest’s eyes.
“Who did that?” the question comes out softly at first. “Who the fuck did that?” I roar it the second time.
“I’m sorry, boss,” one of Harrison’s men says. Not the one holding the rope. The man who spoke’s inspecting the gun in his hand as if it’s defective. His face shares the priest’s fears now. “It’s a hair-trigger. I didn’t even touch it. It just went off.”
“You son of a bitch,” I rush towards him. A few of the others have already pulled the gun out of his hand. “He was about to talk. He was about to tell us everything. What have you done?”
I swing and it connects the Harrison’s jaw. He crumples like a sheet of paper. I don’t think and continue, delivering a kick to his belly. His hands jerk down to grab it and I deliver another boot to the head.
The man goes still on the ground. I can’t tell from a quick inspection whether he’s dead or alive. I don’t really think I care that much, either. A threat of tears forces its way into my eyes. So close, and yet we’ve never been further. The only person who knew the truth is lying dead on the floor.
We’ll be digging a hole for two, tonight, although—if this is anything to go by—I have to place my suspicion on Quincy Harrison. Why else would his dog kill the priest when the man was ready to speak?
