Recoil

Chapter: Recoil

"Drink." Mark's voice was empty, emotionless. The trained-to-perfection tone of getting down to business unwavering. His subject looked at him bewildered.

"Drink." Mark repeated just as flatly as before.

The man before him - James 'Jim' Hague, an old friend but now a member of Colm's separatist army - trembled inside at thought of what the O'Driscoll's number one enforcer, now The Tailor had met his demise, had in mind for him on the single-lane overpass he had pulled onto after twenty minutes (or was it thirty?) of riding in the boot of his car. He had pulled Jim from sharing space with a corpse and down onto his knees on the cracked asphalt of a deserted, unlit overpass. Dragged him from one hell and straight into a brand new one. Knowing better than to question the man before him, Jim did as he was bid and took the outstretched bottle of Jameson's being held out to him and drank.

"More." Mark's deadly tone remained vigilant.

"Cully, I..."

"Drink, James," the deliberate use of his full name was something Mark had picked up on over the years to tell the man to get his shit together without saying so directly, "and don't dawdle, don't delay and don't ask questions. Just drink. Then we'll talk."

Jim obliged, resorting to taking the bottle in both hands to save from spilling the contents from his nervous shaking. When three-quarters was gone he stopped to grasp for air.

"Hurry up." His tormentor urged, indifferent to the impressive amount of whiskey the man had just downed, instead his eyes scanned both ends of the road, his thoughts wandering to what he would have to do should some unlucky eejit chance upon this unusual scene. Could he convince them his old buddy, old pal had had too much to drink on a night out and was just getting some air? Could he count on James to know what would happen if he tried signalling for help or would he have to add a third (or fourth, or fifth?) body to the two he already had planned out? His musing was interrupted by the heavy clunk of glass on tarmac.

"There. Done!"

He looked up at Mark, defiantly pleased with himself.

'Guess we'll burn that bridge when we get to it' Mark thought to himself and returned his attention to the man on his knees before him. Picking up the hefty bottle he forced a smile.

"Impressive, James!" he cracked with feigned, almost painful enthusiasm, "Now, let me know when you start to feel it kick in."

The monotonous tone of business resumed its eerily comfortable place in Mark's voice.

A good ten or fifteen minutes passed before Mark spoke again. Jim's objections and questions fell on deaf, uncaring ears until his first slurred word fell from his mouth and, as though conversation had been roaring, Mark picked up mid-stride.

"Where is he?" he asked, flat as ever.

"Colm? Mark you can't be seri..."

White filled Jim's vision as the suggestion of Mark's intent formed on his tongue. The whole left side of his head came alive with agony and he sprawled to the ground, cutting his palms on shattered glass. He cried out - in surprise more than pain - and tried to speak again as he pushed himself back onto his knees. As he turned to Mark with "Why?" in his mouth another unforgiving blow struck the same spot, this time shattering the whiskey bottle that Mark held all the way to the neck.

"I said don't delay, James!"

Mark's tone finally broke and showed emotion. Rage. Rage he was desperately trying to keep in check to keep from simply killing the traitorous rat covered in blood, whiskey and broken glass before him.

"Do not fuck me about, James, you should know that's a bad idea on a good day," he threw the bottle neck away under the car, leaned down and grabbed Jim's jacket by the collar, pulled him up so they were face-to-face, their noses almost touching, an alien sneer invaded his calm face, "and this is far from a good day!"