6-Behind The Hands That Kill by J.A. Redmerski

Author:J.A. Redmerski [Redmerski, J.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: J.A. Redmerski
Published: 2016-05-06T04:00:00+00:00

Niklas

Two weeks later…

My brother’s seat at the head of the table has been empty since he came back from Venezuela. He and I still aren’t on the best of terms, but I can’t leave our organization without some kind of structure in his absence—it falls, I fall too, that sort of thing. So here I am. Standing where my brother usually sits, looking out at a few familiar faces, and a couple new ones, too, all sitting around the meeting table. Nora, on my right, taps her nails against the tabletop, from pinky to index, again, and again, and again. Fredrik sits to my left, across the table from Nora; he’s as quiet as ever, staring off at the wall; probably got that serial killer he’s been hunting with the government, on his mind—hell, he hardly talks about anything else. James Woodard sits to Fredrik’s left, looking healthier these days; got himself on a Vegan diet, or some such shit; lost a few pounds, and is feeling like a new man.

Izzy’s seat is empty.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Pinky to index. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

The contents of the table shake when I slam the side of my fisted hand down on it. “Do you mind?”

Nora snarls at me in response, but her fingers go still; she leans back against her chair, crosses her legs, and leaves her arm stretched out on the table.

I still sleep with her every now and then; it’s a mutual understanding we have: there’s nothing special between us other than work, and that we like to fuck—we’re not even friends. And if something ever happened to her, I couldn’t be bothered to give a shit, really. Might even give me some relief, to be honest. Nora isn’t exactly on my List of People I Trust, and she never will be.

“So where is this guy, anyway?” Nora asks, glancing at the double-doors that lead into the meeting room. “Twenty minutes late—not a good first impression.”

“I doubt he’s coming to impress us,” I point out.

“You know,” Fredrik speaks up, “I don’t recall being briefed on what exactly he is coming here for.”

“And without Victor,” Nora adds with a wary, sideward glance.

“Victor is who arranged it,” I say, and then look over at Fredrik. “And all I know is that you’re supposed to give him the same respect you’d give my brother.” That’s how I know that what we think of our visitor, no matter how unimpressed we might be, won’t make a damn bit of difference to Victor.

“You mean that we’re supposed to give him,” Nora corrects me. “You too—not just us. And I don’t like where this feels like it’s going.”

“Neither do I,” James Woodard seconds. Then he lowers his eyes. “I-I mean, not that it matters what I like or don’t like.”

“Grow a pair, will you?” Nora says, shaking her head.

The other two operatives—new to the Table, and probably temporary—just sit and listen. The woman, uptight and suit-clad, has this annoying habit of chewing on the inside of her mouth, with her mouth

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