"I'm going to ask you questions," I say. "You're going to answer them. If you don't, I'm going to start removing pieces of you. Small pieces at first. Then bigger ones. And I'm going to take my time."
"You're bluffing."
"Am I?"
I wheel to his side. Position myself at an angle where I can reach him easily.
The blade catches the light.
"Who hired you?"
Silence.
"Who hired you?"
"Fuck you."
I press the blade against his ribs. Just below his armpit. Where the skin is thin and sensitive.
"Last chance."
He doesn't answer.
I cut.
Not deep. Just enough to part the skin. To create a flap.
Then I grip the edge with my fingers.
And pull.
The scream that tears out of him echoes through the warehouse. Raw. Animal. The kind of sound that comes from somewhere primal.
I don't stop.
The skin separates from muscle with a wet, tearing sound. Blood runs down his side. Drips onto the concrete.
"WHO HIRED YOU?"
"I don't—I can't?—"
I pull harder.
Another scream. Higher this time. Breaking.
"Please! Please, stop!"
"Give me a name."
"I don't know his name! I swear to God, I don't know!"
I pause. The flap of skin hangs loose. Red and glistening.
"Then tell me what you do know."
He's crying now. Tears mixing with sweat and blood. His whole body shaking.
"A man," he gasps. "He approached us three weeks ago. Offered fifty thousand to hit your shipment. Said it was personal. Something about sending a message."