The Great Below

The Aftermath - Part 1

Nilsson spun in his chair, mouth hanging open, and Victor sucker-punched him.

Alex said, "The contents of your safe, Mister Nilsson." He moved into the room more cautiously than Victor had, Beretta drawn, and scanned for any more signs of alarm or surveillance equipment. It looked like they were alone. He began closing all of the curtains. Victor dragged poor, fat Nilsson up from his chair and dropped him to the floor.

"What the hell?" he panted, rolling on the hardwood floor like Humpty Dumpty, demanding to be fixed.

"My associate here is a talented fighter," Alex replied. He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. His tunnel vision manifested again, the usual pre-work jitters, and he took in a long and necessary calming breath. Nilsson's study smelled of musty books and whatever had once populated the tiny mountain of food wrappers now in the corner trash can.

"I don't know," Nilsson said. "I don't know about any safe."

Alex looked to Victor. "Show him."

Nilsson was rolled onto his back, where he made a fatal mistake – though, even if he'd made no error at all, Victor still would have beaten him. A job was a job. But Nilsson made an egregious error: he smiled. It was involuntary. Some people smiled when they lied, or when they cheated at cards. And some people smiled at Victor Gallo, even when they suspected their fate.

Alex had never seen a smile die so fast.

Victor leaned back just enough to cock his fist and begin. The nauseating slap of flesh-on-flesh accompanied each strike. He had the talent of a boxer, but also the urgency of a man anxious to spend his anger, and it wasn't long before Nilsson begged him to stop.

Alex stood sweating under his coat, picturing those same hands on Octavia. The floor tilted, or seemed to tilt, like he'd forgotten he was on solid ground. He staggered to stop himself from falling and the feeling passed.

Nilsson's next handful of words came out coated in blood. Alex uncovered a small floor safe and received the combination. He knew why Nilsson had to feign ignorance; why they all did. Interrogations had two parts: the half where the target held his secret, and the half where he gave it up. Calling them halves wasn't fair either, because what Nilsson knew – what every victim knew – was that one part far outweighed the other. The length of that second half was only as long as the rest of a man's life, and, good or bad, it had to last.

Alex inventoried the contents of the safe, packing them into a leather satchel he found leaning against Nilsson's desk. Victor held his victim's collar fast, peering down into his swollen face and evaluating his work. Though he had no doubts, Alex knew the final test was upon them. He offered up his Beretta.

Victor scoffed. "I don't need that."

"We have a contract to fulfill," Alex replied.

He paused. Then, without a word, Victor's right fist wound back and popped, a coiled spring. It landed in the center of Nilsson's face with a sickening crunch. There were several more strikes, each wetter than the one before. If he hadn't been choking, Nilsson would have screamed.

Alex raised his gun at Victor, cupping his other hand under it for support. The Beretta shook anyway.

Nilsson was gone, his skull caved in.

Victor stood up straight, pressing a hand to his lower back like he'd suffered an ache from leaning over. He left a handprint of wet gore on his jacket. In fact, both hands were soaked from nail to elbow. He in no way noticed or concerned himself with the fact that his partner trained a weapon on him.

"You broke the terms," Alex said. He only said it because the gun was in his hands.

Victor shrugged. "They wanted him dead, he's dead. Do we need to go, or can I wash up?" He shook some of the mess from his hands and wandered into the next room, droplets of blood leaving a tiny trail in his wake.