razor-sharp point prick the skin and a small bead of blood teardropped down the guy’s cheek.
“Please, no,” the bastard pleaded.
The blade wanted to go deeper and Santiago considered letting it. No one fucked with his people. No one.
The lone overhead light snapped and fizzled as its filament started to fail, creating grotesque shadows on the curved cement walls. Soon they’d be enveloped in total darkness, which would make shadow-moving much easier. Footsteps pounded in the tunnel behind him as one of his men approached.
“What’s wrong?” Kip Castile glanced at the two of them, confused. Guardians didn’t show mercy when it came to their enemies. Justice was swift and unforgiving. “Why didn’t you charcoal him? Wait. You’re saving him for me, aren’t you?” With a cold smile, the young Guardian-in-training withdrew his stiletto and advanced on the prisoner.
What a sadistic son of a bitch. I knew I liked the kid.
The Darkblood cringed, tried to take a step sideways, but Santiago held him tight. “No,” he told Kip. “He is not to be injured.”
At least, not right now and not any more than he had been already. Let the guy be relieved for a while, get him to drop his guard, then they’d threaten him again, but with more force. This untrained Darkblood lackey would soon be singing like a canary.
Kip dropped his hand and tapped the flat part of the knife impatiently against his black cargo pants. The kid was like a runner in the starting blocks, itching to move, to do something. Luckily, he wouldn’t have to wait for long.
A quick pat down revealed the Darkblood’s black trench coat was filled with a shitload of syringes and vials. Santiago yanked it off and tossed it aside. “Planning on a little door-to-door selling, huh? ‘Ding dong, Darkblood calling.’”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The guy sneered, making Santiago reconsider his decision to keep him alive. He should be pleading for his life, not acting cocky.
Maybe he should let Kip waste him. Or better yet, he’d do it himself and show the kid how it was done. Misery suddenly felt a little lighter in his hand, as if urging him to continue on with this way of thinking.
“Jet’s gonna be okay,” Kip said, looking at his mobile device. “Says it’s a surface injury. The blade didn’t go deep.”
Damn. That’s right. He couldn’t charcoal the guy. Santiago needed him alive to figure out what he knew about the operation that could’ve killed one of his men.
“Didn’t your mama ever teach you to tell the truth?” He shoved the DB face-first against the wall again, spread-eagling his legs using the oh-so-gentle toe of his boot. With a hand on his back, he searched him for weapons.
Kip piped up. “Shouldn’t you—”
Santiago shot him a cold look that said “Shut your piehole.”
Sure, regulation stipulated he put on a pair of latex gloves to protect him from the effects of any silver he may find, but his way was faster.
That was the problem with having a new guy shadow him. They knew all the rules and were puppydog-eager to demonstrate their knowledge. Like they were being tested. Which, of course, they were, but fieldwork was more flexible than that. You did things by instinct, by what felt right. Not by some rulebook you memorized in a classroom setting for a test you were about to take on a computer. Santiago had never let himself get caught up in bullshit created by the so-called experts, and his wariness had served him well over the years. Street smarts won out over book smarts when lives were at stake.
Kip mumbled something under his breath that Santiago didn’t quite catch and didn’t care to either.
He started to turn his attention back to the DB, when the guy jolted sideways away from the wall and made a move for the weapon at his feet. Before he could pick it up, Santiago stomped on his fingers and kicked the knife away. It spun against the cement floor, hitting the wall with a metallic ting that echoed down the corridor. The guy howled, tried to pull free, but trapped beneath Santiago’s foot, he wasn’t getting anywhere. His efforts got noticeably weaker as he squirmed on the pavement.
“See the metal strip on the toe of my boot there?” Santiago twisted it as if he was grinding out a cigarette butt. The man groaned. “Answer me.”
“Y-yes.”
“It’s on the heel, too. But it’s not steel. It’s silver.”
“What…what do you want from me?”
“The boots get ‘em every time,” Santiago said over his shoulder to Kip. With hands on his hips, he turned his attention back to the DB loser. “So you lost the attitude, have you? Ready to talk now?”
“Yes,” the guy groaned. “Just get off my hand.”
Santiago pretended not to hear and kept his foot firmly planted. “Tell me how you knew we would be at the landing.”
“I told you, I don’t know. We were just there.” His gaze darted furtively to the left a few times as he bit the inside of his cheek.
You didn’t need to be a shrink to figure out that this guy knew something and was trying to cover it up. “Well, you’d better pray you remember something. Next time, I’m not going to be as forgiving as I am right now.” He quickly cuffed the asshole with silver-lined cuffs, hauled him to his feet and shoved him at Kip. “Take him to one of the holding cells.” Maybe after a little persuasion, the guy’s memory would improve.
“Me? You want me to take him?”
A flash of anger heated Santiago’s veins. “Are you questioning me, boy?”
A muscle in Kip’s jaw ticked and his nostrils flared slightly. For a split second, he thought the kid was going to argue with him. Tell him it wasn’t his job. That it was for the capture team to bring in a prisoner, not a Guardian. Jesus Christ. Did youngsters these days have no respect for their elders? Not that Santiago was all that old, but he might have to show the kid a thing or two about respect.
An old friend’s words rang in his head. Respect is earned, Santiago, not demanded.
Ha. You respected what you feared.
Then, just like that, Kip’s brain started functioning again. He turned away and grabbed the DB’s arm. “No, sir.”
Smart kid. Santiago wasn’t known to react kindly to those who didn’t do exactly what he ordered. He expected people to do what he told them to do without asking any questions. And to do it with a damn smile on their faces. He didn’t lead by committee or a show of hands. In these parts, his orders were as good as the laws written in the old edicts. You did what you were told or you were out. It didn’t get any simpler than that.
As Kip led the loser away, Santiago stooped to pick up the DB’s weapon, careful not to touch the business end. He was about to tuck it into his weapons belt then check his phone to see who’d been trying to get ahold of him, when something about the blade drew his attention. From the uneven marks, it appeared to be hand-forged, not machine made, and the hilt was obviously carved by a talented artisan.
How strange.
