Beckett slumped, barely conscious.
Blood dripped.
Silence followed.
Then Damien turned to Ashcroft’s man, the bone saw still in his grip.
“Continue.”
Ashcroft stepped forward now, slow and deliberate. His voice was low, deliberate.
Ashcroft stepped forward, the flick of his lighter echoing like a gunshot in the silence.
The flame flared to life, dancing between bloodstained fingers as he lit his cigarette—calm as death itself.
“I want one piece of him taken every single day,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “Something he has two of. An eye. An ear. A hand. A kidney. A leg. Doesn’t matter.”
He took a slow drag, exhaled smoke through his nose.
“Oh.. and start with his tongue,” Ashcroft muttered, flicking ash to the floor. “He talks too damn much.”
He paced a step, watching Beckett
