“If we wanted a different recruiter, Mr. Carter, they’d be the one sitting in that chair right now.”
How many lives have been ended by your actions, Rick? How many innocents, even if they were involved with the wrong people? Did that make them guilty, too? Did the woman Ian strangled deserve to die just because she was sleeping with Leon’s rival? How many others like her? Don’t kid yourself about who you are or what you do, just because the bodies in your wake don’t get buried with badges.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been offered a job like this, notwithstanding the enormous fee. Do what I do long enough, and eventually the bad guys want you to find people to take out the good guys. Each time, I’d turned down the offer without burning a bridge. Each time, I’d gone home and scrolled through the memories of who I used to be, deluding myself into thinking a part of that man still remained. That I hadn’t buried him along with all those other bodies.
So why does this time feel different?
“It’s not gonna happen,” I said, derailing my train of thought before it led me somewhere I didn’t want to go.
“That’s too bad,” Trish said. Her eyes flicked over my shoulder and before I could react the male agent’s arm wrapped tightly around my neck, compressing my trachea at the Adam’s apple. His gun pressed into the side of my head. My hands shot up like pistons to loosen his grip, with little effect. Panic hit hard and fast, erasing any lingering questions about who held the power in this negotiation.
“If you kill me,” I choked out, pulling at his arm to gain an extra breath, “then you’ll just have to find someone else anyway.”
“Killing you is certainly on the table, Mr. Carter,” Trish said patiently, “but there are several steps to go before we get there. We’ve only begun trying to talk you into it, after all.”
“Please,” I said. The tremble in my voice was bad, but I couldn’t help it. “I won’t say anything to anybody. You know that about me.”
“Oh, we’re not concerned about you going to the authorities, Rick. Your reputation in that regard is spotless. But we didn’t fly you all the way out here and pay you a hundred thousand dollars just to buy your silence.”
“You can take the money back. I don’t want it.”
“That has become abundantly clear, but we still need you to do what you do best. The good thing is, I’m fairly certain you can do your job even without the tip of your finger.”
“NO!” I screamed, or at least intended to. What came out was little more than a squeak. The agent’s arm constricted even tighter, cutting off all but the faintest trickle of air. I tried to resist when Ponytail grabbed my left wrist and pulled it onto the table, but the gun dug deeper into my temple and the world started to go gray as my oxygen supply dwindled. With one quick motion, she pulled a knife from her pocket—a Smith & Wesson foldout, the same model my driver used to remove the zip tie from my wrists in Brussels—and used it to remove the tip of my left pinkie finger from the rest of the digit. Just below the top knuckle. The grip on my throat eased enough for me to scream, which was likely the intent.
Trish wanted to hear it, and I didn’t disappoint.
When the spots cleared from my vision, I saw my hand resting in a pool of blood. Someone had wrapped the severed tip of my finger in a cloth napkin, balled it up, and set it on the corner of the table.
If they get that on ice fast enough, someone might be able to reattach it, I thought naïvely.
“Rick?” Trish said, almost cooing my name. “Do I have your attention?”
I nodded and tried to answer but all that came out was a hacking series of coughs. The male agent’s arm, though loosened, still had a snug embrace on my neck and was ready to reengage on her command. He’d put away his gun, but it was overkill by that point anyway.
“Good, because I’m going to extend our offer again. You may have lost a tiny bit of yourself, but you haven’t lost any money. Turn us down a second time, however, and you will lose an eye.”
My head snapped up as the agent’s arm went back to work once more. Ponytail took the tip of her blade, now flecked red, and pressed it ever so slightly into the corner of my left eye. A bead of blood formed on my lower eyelid and dripped down my cheek. Through that thin layer of skin, I felt a tiny ball of pressure. Not enough to do any damage; just enough to let me know it was there. Almost like a stye.
I concentrated on two things: sucking in what little air my bruised windpipe would allow, and not shitting or pissing my pants. I was succeeding at both, but just barely.
“Okay,” I said, managing no more than a whisper. I would have nodded as well, but all I could picture was the knife plunging into my eye as a result, a warm trail of bloody goop sliding down my cheek.
Trish motioned to the male agent, who removed his arm from my throat, and to Ponytail, who pulled her knife away. I gulped at the air, but it was like trying to chug water through a straw. Every fresh breath brought a new seizure of coughs. After a few minutes, I got myself under control and pulled my aching, mutilated hand to my chest. I didn’t even have a tissue to stem the bleeding, so I made a fist and squeezed it tight, hoping that would at least slow it down until it clotted. Blood dripped down my arm in warm rivulets, staining my sleeve and the front of my shirt.
“I’m glad you came around,” Trish said, smiling. “Things go so much smoother when we’re all on the same page.”
I stared at her and said nothing. My throat and finger screamed in rhythm with my pulse.
“How long before we can expect to see our first candidates?”
“Two weeks,” I croaked. Then I cleared my throat, which felt like gargling with broken glass, and repeated myself, stronger this time.
“We’ll give you half that,” Trish replied.
“You don’t understand. This is a multipronged job requiring three candidates, minimum, and a high level of precision planning. I want to make sure the vetting process is done the right way.”
“I can appreciate that, but we are under somewhat of a time crunch. Your candidate pool is legendary, Mr. Carter. We’re confident that you’ll be able to source quality people within a week’s time.”
I didn’t protest. Any control I had over these proceedings was now balled up in a bloodstained napkin on the corner of the table. Instead, I just nodded.
“Good, it’s settled then. I believe you require half your fee up front and half when you deliver the candidates, yes?”
I nodded again.
“The money will be in your account tomorrow morning. Same one we used for the first hundred, unless you wanted it spread out amongst the other banks you use?”
I shook my head. “The one will be fine.” It was a Swiss bank, and $450,000 would barely register as water-cooler talk around their offices. “When I have candidates ready to present, how do you want it done?”
“We’ll send a link to our secure chat. Let us know when you have a sufficient list put together and we’ll arrange a meeting.”
“Do you need me to give you my cell number?”
“Oh darling,” Trish said, amused, “we already have it.”
Of course they did.
I nodded again and squeezed my fist tighter, wincing at the pain.
