Page 97 of Honey Cut
But the fear isn’t enough to get me to leave. I have a job to do, and even if Mark is going to do it for me, I need to make sure it gets done.
Besides, the words he speaks next have me fixed to the spot:
“I think you know who the leader of Ys is.”
Drobny lifts his head, attempting to sneer. “You are a fool to speak of Ys.”
“Hmm,” Mark says. And then nothing else.
“You will die for even knowing about us,” Drobny tries again, and with a sigh, Mark walks around behind him and kneels. A black duffel bag is open at the edge of the tarp and Mark reaches inside.
“I know that can’t be true, Filip, because everyone seems to know about Ys these days. I don’t think Ys wants to be all that secret.” Mark pulls out a vacuum-locking syringe and holds it up to the light. “I think Ys wants to be feared, and you can’t be feared if you’re unknown. But then the next question is why? Why be feared? Why make sure that the CIA and MI6 has heard of you? Seems like a bad way to do business.”
Mark connects the syringe to the dangling end of the IV and locks the two together with a practiced twist. “Unless, of course, the business is expendable. But then again, why?”
He pushes the plunger on the syringe, and every vein in Drobny’s body seems to pop. The weapons dealer thrashes in his chair and screams.
Mark keeps talking like nothing is happening, like Drobny’s just taking a quick stretch and not enduring intravenous torture. “I think, and again, you’d have more insight here, that Ys is not actually that interested in running guns and supplies. I think Ys is more interested in what the guns and suppliesdo. Foment rebellions. Destabilize governments. Build opportunities for oligarchs and billionaires. But alas, we are back to the question ofwhy. To what end?”
He finishes emptying the syringe into Drobny’s IV and then stands up with a put-upon sigh.
Drobny is still rigid in his chair, and he’s not even fighting his restraints so much as he looks like he’s trying to climb out of his own skin to get away from the pain. Mark comes around to stand in front of him and then squats down to look up into Drobny’s face.
“Here’s what I think. I think you know that you’re expendable,” Mark says softly. “I think you know that Ys will eliminate you when you’re no longer useful. And I think you had a plan of your own to keep that from happening.”
“You—don’t—know—anything—” Sweat drips off Drobny’s hatchet-shaped face. His voice is hoarse from shouting.
“I don’t know enough, on that we can agree,” Mark affirms. “For example, why did you pay my wedding planner to feed you information about me? She wasn’t going to tell you anything you couldn’t read about in the paper. It’s puzzling.”
Drobny sneers again, even though every muscle in his arms and back is still pinched and sharp. “You are wrong about everything. Typical CIA.”
“Former CIA. I’m retired now. They gave me a plaque.”
“You think everything must be a riddle, when it’s only a simple question: Who do you trust, Mr. Trevena? Who shares your life and your days beside you?”
Cold realization slides down my neck. He can’t mean me.
Drobny can’t know—how would he know? But he must know, he must know that I’m a saint, and if he tells Mark…
But Mark doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he almost seems amused by Drobny’s words—or as close as he can get to it while still eerily inhuman. “I earned that plaque fair and square, Filip. Do you think that the people I’ve interrogated over the years haven’t tried this same thing? Sow division—seed doubt—make me look askance at my partner or handler or whomever. It would be effective if it weren’t so ubiquitous. And it doesn’t answer either of my two questions. Why my wedding planner? And who is the head of Ys?”
Drobny just growls a curse in response.
“I have theories,” adds Mark helpfully. “I think they’re good ones. But I’d like independent confirmation.”
“Fuck you,” Drobny says, uncreatively.
Mark stands up. “I thought that might be the case. Sadly for your longevity, I don’treallyneed confirmation. It’s just nice to have sometimes.”
“Then why not just kill me?” Drobny demands. “Why question me?”
“Oh, the questioning was just for extra credit,” Mark says. “No, I’m killing you slowly so that you can know exactly why you’re dying.”
“Because of your fucking club?” Drobny asks. I think he means it to come out contemptuous, but he’s too weak for it to sound anything other than pitiful. “Because I tried to kill you?”
“I’m still unhappy about it,” Mark agrees. “You upset my bodyguard. And we had to throw away several of my favorite chairs.”
“I wish you’d died that night,” Drobny says.
