Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,31

here, with the oceanic roar of the 110 Freeway a stone’s throw away, to work on a human body without worrying about being overheard.

The space was mostly empty.

A toolkit.

A sufficiently heavy chair.

And the man zip-tied to it.

To avoid getting blood on his slim-tailored suit jacket, Declan Gentner had removed it before entering and had left it with his sister outside as she preened in her little red Corvette. Queenie could stomach a good deal of violence, but she lacked stamina for the slowly escalating infliction of pain.

While the man in the chair whimpered, Declan removed his platinum cuff links and rolled up the sleeves of his nonwrinkle royal oxford shirt. Growing up broke-ass in east Philly, he and his sister had risen through the ranks of Irish organized crime as wetwork contractors before they outgrew the operations employing them—and the city itself. They both had nicknames, as was a prerequisite for working with any self-respecting East Coast outfit. Given Declan’s sartorial proficiency and the resonance of his surname, he earned the title of “The Gentleman.” And due to Queenie’s talent for bloodletting and her penchant for the color red, they called her “The Queen of Hearts.”

Just another pair of unwanted siblings from Kensington with outsize monikers and well-honed skills. Their mercilessness drove their asking price ever skyward until they were renowned on both coasts. Now they didn’t get out their implements for a job that paid less than seven figures. This narrowed their client base to venture capitalists inclined toward creative accounting, sociopathic scions with inadequate prenups, moguls tangled in inconvenient partnerships. It had been a long climb from the gutter, but they’d arrived, shouldering up to the trough, elbow to elbow with the elite. Local kids done good.

Declan stroked the thin, meticulous lines of beard that edged his jaw. Zip-tied in the chair, Johnny “Mac” Macmanus shuddered. He wore his thinning hair scraped back tightly over his scalp, secured with a man-bun at the nape. It had the unfortunate effect of making it look as though he were wearing a hairnet. “I wish I had anything to tell you, man. Anything. And believe me I would. I don’t give a shit about him. Do I look like someone with honor?”

“He worked with you for seventeen months. He let you borrow his car.” Declan made a conscious effort, as always, to deepen his voice. He had all the musculature of a welterweight boxer, with the voice of Mike Tyson. He wet his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing the fine strip of mustache riding the bottom edge of his upper lip. “I don’t let anyone borrow my car.”

“Talk to his wife, man.” Johnny was sobbing now, drooling freely onto his matted T-shirt. “She’d know.”

“His wife despises him. They’re rarely in touch. She knows nothing.”

“And neither do I. I swear. I don’t know any more than her. Why isn’t she here instead of me?”

“I trust in the predictability of angry women,” Declan said.

He crouched and laid the fine leather toolkit open. Johnny made a moan deep in his chest, like a cow lowing.

Declan ran his fingers across the tools. Surgical steel, smoother than every last thing found in nature.

And sharper.

“There are two hundred and six bones in the adult human body,” he said. “More at birth, but of course they fuse over time.” He removed a tenpenny box nail, ideal for installing clapboard siding, and held it up to the streetlight glow creeping around the edges of the rolling door. “The smallest bone is the stapes, the third of the three ossicles in the middle ear.” Next he lifted a hammer from the toolkit. “It’s tough to get to. But we’ll manage.”

Johnny Mac dipped his head, shadow curtaining his eyes. “Oh, God.”

“The largest bone is the femur,” Declan said. “But I only got to it once. And that was with the aid of an anesthesiologist.”

He stood, hammer in one hand, nail in the other. The more sophisticated equipment he’d save for later. After all, there were 205 more bones that might need tending to. He made sure to square his posture, to pull his shoulders back. He wasn’t as tall as he’d like to have been, so he compensated consciously with ramrod posture, earning every centimeter.

Johnny’s face came apart a little then, wild around the eyes, the lips downpulled and wavering, the mouth of a tragedy theater mask.

There was always this moment when they realize you’re going to submerge them in the world of pain and that there’s not a