Page 108 of Claim

I knew the room. The angles. Cormac would be armed. He always was, some neat, forgettable piece tucked where I couldn’t see, but I knew the signs of it. And Tyler would be outside, listening, waiting for the smallest sign so he could come crashing in, the way I’d had to before. If I lunged now, Doyle wouldn’t even have to try. Those pliers would swing and Tristan would go down before I got halfway across the room.

So I waited. Bided my time.

But there was no doubt about it.

He would pay for touching what’s mine.

I held Doyle’s gaze, let the promise sit there between us. “You’ll regret that.”

Cormac stepped closer to me, hands clasped behind his back, strolling as if inspecting crops. “This is all very unfortunate, Razor. None of this had to happen. If you’d only walked in with that bag properly, eh? If you’d taken the time. It would’ve given you space to think. To understand the mistake you were making.” He stopped a few feet from me, looked me up and down. “For what? What makes a lad turn on the family that raised him, eh? Gave him everything? Did we not give you enough?”

“I didn’t turn on you.” I tried to keep this civil. “If I had you’d be in box. Ain’t that enough for you?”

Cormac slid his gaze to Tristan. Stayed there. Leered at him. “Not when I discovered you’d developed expensive tastes.”

Then he spat.

Right at Tristan’s feet.

And I went very, very still.

“Take that off him.” Cormac waved at Tristan.

Doyle seized two handfuls of Tristan’s gown from behind and ripped. Fabric tore free from his shoulders and Tristan jolted in the chair, breath punched out of him, as the cloth gave way and left him exposed in his suit. And beneath it, dark blotches bloomed along his shirt, fingerprints of violence where they’d worked him over in the van.

My heart lurched.

I’d known it walking in. I was out of my depth. Trapped.

Cormac had always been good at that.

“Better.” Cormac wandered over to Tristan on the chair then grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, forcing his face up. “You don’t deserve to wear that, do you?” He tutted. “Naughty boy.”

Tristan grunted.

I clenched my hands so tight my nails burnt crescents into my skin.

Cormac looked at me, holding Tristan’s head back so all I saw was throat. “This one didn’t follow orders. And you know what we do to people who don’t follow orders.”

“He ain’t yours to order.”

“Is he not?” Cormac cocked his head.

“No.” I gritted my teeth.

“You sure about that, son?” Cormac shoved Tristan’s head forwards then smiled at me, all yellow teeth and ugly menace. “But you are, though.”

Doyle lifted a length of metal from the toolbox behind Tristan, a solid pole, testing its weight in his hands.

“What was your weapon of choice, Razor?” Cormac studied me. “When I asked you to deliver these messages.” He took the metal pole from Doyle and held it up. “This?”

I clenched my jaw. Kept my eyes forwards. Wouldn’t look at Tristan. Wouldn’t give them that. Let them drag me back into a version of myself I was trying to bury. Tristan wasn’t meant to know that man.

Cormac didn’t wait for an answer.

He brought the pole down hard on Tristan’s leg.

The sound cracked through the warehouse. Tristan screamed, jerking forward as far as the ropes would allow, chair skidding across the concrete. The noise tore straight through me, and I surged forward, but Doyle was there, lifting a rusted cleaver, hovering it inches from Tristan’s throat.