Page 134

"Don't lie," I snap. He chokes on whatever excuse he was about to give.

I take my time. No rush. There's never a rush with things like this. That's the whole point. Mauro leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Clark has wisely made himself scarce. We've done this often enough to know how to work it just right.

My gaze drops to Skinny. To the way his chest is rising too fast, to the fresh piss between his legs, and the damp stain spreading beneath him.

"Tell me about Manuel."

His head jerks. Too quick. Too obvious.

"I—I can't, man. I can't?—"

I sigh as if I'm disappointed in him. I don't let my anger out, not yet. But I'm getting really tired of this game. We all know Skinny is going to talk; I just wish we could fast-forward to that moment. Because frankly? I've seen enough men pissing themselves as they start to burn from the feet up. I'm not like Damiano, who gets off on watching that kind of shit. I'm more of a one bullet through the head kind of guy.

I step closer, placing a hand on the edge of the gurney. Leaning in just enough that he can see me clearly. "Listen carefully. Because I'm only going to explain this once."

His eyes lock onto mine. Wide. Desperate.

"You got a call." His eyes dart toward the Oven. I tap the metal frame once to keep his attention on me. "From Manuel."

His breath hitches. "I—I just answer phones, man, I swear, I don't know who?—"

I sigh and tsk, slapping his cheek a few times lightly, "Skinny, Skinny, Skinny. Let me explain how this works. You don't need to be smart for this. I'm sure you've already figured out that youand your host," I pad the shrouded corpse underneath him, "are going to burn here pretty quickly."

He lets out a strangled cry. I give him a moment to come to terms with that revelation. "The only question is, will I be nice and shoot you first, or let you burn alive?" Another sob. "Because once this little train leaves the station," this time I kick the metal track the gurney is sitting on, "it'll be a slow ride. First, the soles of your shoes will melt." I look down at his feet, shake my head, and tsk again. "Tennis shoes. Bad choice. Those things will melt your feet in minutes."

He sobs.

"Do you know what it feels like to have the skin on your feet melt?"

On cue, Mauro pushes the button, and the gurney glides down the track, close enough to the oven so Skinny can feel the heat through his shoes, close enough that the soles start to heat, close enough that they will begin to melt in the span of a few minutes.

Skinny starts struggling harder, then he wails, "WAIT—WAIT—MAN, PLEASE?—"

The gurney stops. I let the heat build. Let his imagination do half the work for me. It always does.

"I don't need your life story," I inform him over the noise, calm as ever.

I step closer again, just back inside his line of sight. "I only need to know one thing."

I crouch slightly, bringing us eye level. "Where do I find Manuel?"

He's crying now. Full panic. No control left. "They'll kill me?—"

I smile. Not nicely. "They won't get the chance."

A beat. The heat intensifies; the flames lick hungrily toward Skinny's feet. The first smell of burned rubber hits the air. Tickles my nose. I hate it.

"I don't know where he is!" he sobs. "I swear, I don't know, he moves, he—he calls from different phones, I just—I pass messages, I watch the girl, that's it!"

My entire body goes completely still. Something inside me turns on warning signals. The noise. The heat. The smell. All of it fades into the background.

"The girl?" I repeat quietly. Skinny freezes. "What girl?"

My voice doesn't rise. Doesn't sharpen. It drops. Which makes him panic even more.

"I—I didn't mean?—"

I straighten slowly, turning my head slightly toward Mauro. The gurney moves, and this time, when Skinny wails, it's from pain. My mind is moving through the coffee shop. There was a woman. With a kid, young. Maybe just out of the toddler stages. Three to four is my guess.