He refused to look at Jerry’s face, haunted by the fear that if he saw the terror in the betraying bastard’s eyes, he wouldn’t go through with anything more. So he went on, gently trying to separate the skin from flesh, as if it was just that—flesh, not a living man’s arm. Boar had taught Clover how to skin a chicken after they’d gotten one from a farmer’s market, yet it didn’t feel the same.
Clover now regretted eating two sandwiches, because food was rising in his throat. He didn’t feel a drop of compassion for Jerry, though. Even if the physicality of blood from cut skin resonated with Clover, Jerry’s peril didn’t. He was in this chair, suffering for what he’d done, and what he’d been ready to do again.
As Clover cut the skin under Drake’s instruction, it didn’t give him pleasure like the punch had, but a degree of satisfaction was there. He’d break Jerry and get what they wanted.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Drake looking up, not shaken in the slightest, as if this was a job like any other. “We can now cut the skin off completely and start on the next patch, or you can keep it and talk to us.”
Jerry’s knees shook, and when he clutched the armrest with his fingers, Clover saw his bare flesh move. The food he’d eaten earlier once again pushed at his throat, but he kept it down and studied the tear-stained face. The whites of Jerry’s eyes were so very pink, and his skin ashen, as if someone had dialed up the sharpness on him in Photoshop. Not attractive but extremely real. More real than reality.
Drake loosened the strap holding the ball gag in place and took it out of Jerry’s mouth.
“Ready to talk, or should we continue?”
“I will talk, okay?” Jerry said in a shaky voice.
Clover was surprised to realize that a part of him was disappointed at how fast Jerry broke. The man was an opportunist, not a hardened soldier keeping national secrets. He had most likely already calculated leaving the state or even the country if the people he worked with were vicious enough to go after him. He didn’t want pain.
Clover stood, filled with contained violence. “Who do you pass people to? Who is looking for me?” His own voice sounded alien to him.
Jerry’s throat worked as fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “I don’t know much, all right? I’m supposed to meet him tonight, just past midnight in this new zoo near Vegas. It’s called Raw Ranch.”
Drake exhaled and moved behind Jerry, resting his hands on his shoulders, face serene. “Who are we looking for?”
Jerry sobbed and had trouble talking for a couple of seconds, but he eventually looked at his bleeding arm and spoke. “I’ve only met him three times. This tall older guy with a beard. Looks like a nice old-timey sea captain. H-he… he goes by Apollo, but I’m sure it’s not his real name. I don’t know anything else. He didn’t tell me why he wants Clover.”
Drake’s fingers tightened on Jerry’s shoulders until the man cried out, and Clover was surprised to see Drake’s expression change. His face flushed, and a vein bulged on his forehead. “Who else did you sell him?” Drake demanded in a voice that could rival the Arctic wind in terms of temperature.
It was as if the entire room had been covered with frost, and Clover could sense a huge icicle growing longer, its sharp tip uncomfortably near his nape. Jerry shuddered. He could feel it too. The cold steps of Death, who was already catching up to him.
“I… I didn’t.”
Drake snapped and grabbed Jerry’s head, twisting it back at an unnatural angle. His face was the mask of a demon so vicious Clover sensed his heartbeat in his throat.
“Drake. That’s enough,” Tank growled, stepping closer.
“It’s not fucking enough!” Drake held out his hand in a silent demand for the knife. Clover didn’t hesitate and handed it over. Drake circled Jerry, grabbed the flap of skin that had been separated from muscle, and cut it off in one harsh move, sending rivulets of blood down Jerry’s arm as the man howled in pain. “How about now? How. Many.”
Jerry howled, with saliva dripping down his chin. “I don’t know, ten?”
Clover stood still, his heart beating furiously when he met Drake’s eyes above Jerry. This worm was not worthy of mercy, and they both knew it.
“Come here, Clover,” Drake said, stepping away to make space behind Jerry.
A gun clicked and Clover looked up at Tank, as if pulled out of a dream.
“No!” Drake yelled, with deep grooves forming on his forehead. “Let him have it.”
Tank lowered his gun with a shake of his head. “Clover?”
Clover had to take a deep breath, but he was sure. “He deserves it.”