"Not sure I'm getting it right," I said, "but a broken finger is usually about a six on the pain scale."
I kept my eyes on the boy as I spoke. My other hand remained wrapped around the woman's throat, holding her firmly against the back of the chair. Her breathing came in shallow, strained pulls.
He sat silent across from us. The grenade was still clenched between his teeth. His eyes had gone wide and glassy. I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to accept what I was about to do.
This was necessary.
"You ever wonder how those scales work?" I continued. "One to ten. Always seemed a little arbitrary to me."
The boy didn't respond. Not that he could.
"So I've always been curious," I said. "If one broken finger is a six… what happens when you break several at once?"
I reached down and grabbed the woman's right hand. Her fingers were cold. The moment she realized what I was doing, her eyes widened in sudden horror.
She began to thrash. The cuffs rattled violently against the frame of the chair as she tried to pull free. It didn't matter. I tightened my hand around her throat, crushing the air from her lungs before she could scream. Then I bent her fingers backward.
All four at once.
Her entire body convulsed. Her back arched violently and the chair legs scraped across the floor as she struggled against the restraints. A strangled, silent scream shook her chest as agony shot through her arm. The bones gave with a series of dull, ugly pops. The boy began crying again. I could smell the panic flooding out of him.
"Wow," I said flatly. "That's definitely higher than a six."
The woman trembled violently now. Tears streamed down her face as her body shook uncontrollably against the chair. I loosened my grip on her throat just enough for her to breathe. Small, broken sobs escaped her lips.
The smell of fear poured off her now. Across from us, the boy shook his head frantically.
I ignored him. Instead, I reached for the woman's other hand. She tried to pull away. It was useless. Her strength was gone. I wrapped my fingers around her remaining hand. The boy began making muffled sounds around the grenade.
Begging.
I paused. Maybe she would talk now. I loosened my hold on her throat again. She sucked in air desperately, her chest heaving as the oxygen rushed back in.
"Ready to talk?" I asked.
She coughed once. Then looked up at me. Her eyes were full of pain. Full of hatred.
"Just kill me," she rasped. "You fucking bastard."
Her voice trembled but her expression never broke. "I'll never give you anything."
Unfortunate. I reestablished my grip and turned back to the boy.
"Well," I said, "let's continue."
She tried to pull her hands away again. Futile. I bent the remaining fingers. Her body convulsed harder this time. The chair rattled violently against the floor as she shook like a live wire. Her mouth opened as her body tried to escape the pain. I glanced back at the boy. He had turned his head away.
I reached across and knocked him on the head. "Watch."
He slowly turned back. His eyes shook as he watched the woman convulse in the chair.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "That's definitely a ten."
His head dropped. I could smell the surrender beginning to creep in. But it wasn't enough yet. Not quite.
"It's a shame," I said after some time. I looked down at the woman. Her breathing had become ragged and uneven. Sweat covered her face and her eyes struggled to stay focused.
"I was curious how much misery you could take," I told her. Then I glanced at the boy again. "But we're short on time."
I stepped closer and tapped his cheek lightly.
"Focus," I said. "You don't want to miss this part."
I squeezed harder. The muscles in my forearm flexed as the pressure increased. Her eyes widened instantly. Legs kicked weakly against the floor, panic overtaking her nervous system. Pupils dilated as her brain registered the sudden loss of oxygen.
Air hunger set in. Her body dumped adrenaline into her bloodstream, her heart racing wildly as every survival instinct fought to escape. The movements grew slower. Weaker.
Then they stopped.
Limbs went limp. I didn't release the pressure. Not yet. Her body still twitched faintly as the last electrical signals fired through her nerves.
I looked back at the boy. He had gone completely still. No crying. No movement. Just raw terror. I could smell it from across the room. Eventually the last signs of life faded from the woman's body. Only then did I free my hand. Her head slumped sideways.
For a moment, nausea rose in my stomach. I pushed it down. This wasn't the time. I wiped my hand on my vest and looked at the boy.
"Your friend," I said, "just died because she was stubborn and uncooperative."
I leaned in close. "For your sake, I hope you aren't as foolish."
My hand trembled.
I curled it into a fist until the shaking stopped. I couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now. Across the room, the boy was staring at me like he had just watched something crawl out of a nightmare.
This wasn't the first life I'd taken. I'd stabbed people. Shot them. Taken heads off shoulders when the situation demanded it. The job came with blood. Everyone who wore the badge understood that from the beginning. For Marshals, it was simple. Kill or be killed. Hell, you couldn't even graduate from the academy without taking a life. They called them execution excursions. Groups of trainees escorted to high-security prisons where death row inmates were waiting for their sentence to be carried out. Instead of the chair or a lethal injection, the responsibility was handed to us.
It was a test.
You stood there with a weapon in your hand while someone who knew they were going to die looked you in the eye. Then you did it. If you couldn't, you didn't graduate. It was meant to teach us something important. Justice wasn't gentle. And sometimes protecting the living meant ending the lives of those who threatened them. I'd never struggled with it. Not really.
In the past, officers who killed someone on the job were dragged through months of investigations. Endless questioning about whether the force had been justified. That wasn't how things worked anymore.
It wasn't that marshals could kill whoever they wanted. But the world had become dangerous enough that hesitation was a greater crime than violence. Mercy was a luxury in this profession. I understood that better than most. Never was one for sentiment.
But this… This was different.
I flexed my fingers slowly. I could still feel the sensation of her throat in my hand. The moment her body stopped fighting. The slow fading of life beneath my grip. Too intimate. That was what unsettled me. How close I had been. And what disturbed me even more was what followed. After the disgust faded, something else had crept in. A quiet curiosity. A dark voice in the back of my mind asking questions I didn't want answers to. I crushed it immediately.
I wasn't that kind of person. I wasn't broken.
The boy continued staring. I straightened slightly, forcing the tension out of my posture. Whatever was going on inside my head, he couldn't see it. I pulled the grenade from his mouth. His jaw trembled as he slowly worked it open, rubbing his lips where the metal had pressed against them. I let him have a few seconds.
"What is your name?"
He didn't reply, avoiding my gaze.
"As you may have noticed, I do not like to repeat myself."
His head snapped up immediately.
"Turk Roberts," he blurted. "Sir."
His voice cracked halfway.
"Alright, Mr. Roberts." My eyes stayed locked on him. "I'm going to ask you some questions. You will answer them quickly, and you will answer them honestly."
He nodded rapidly.
"Believe me when I say this," I continued. "I will know if you lie. And if you do lie… it's going to hurt me."
He looked confused for half a second. Then I finished the sentence.
"But not as much as it's going to hurt you."
His throat bobbed.
"Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who are you people?"
He hesitated only a moment. "The Order of the Wheel."
The name hung in the air between us. I frowned slightly. Never heard of them. That was concerning. Groups capable of this kind of operation weren't supposed to exist under the radar.
"How many of you are still in this building?" I asked.
"Six total earlier," he said. "But… but she's dead now." His eyes flicked briefly toward the body beside him before snapping back to me. "So five."
"Where?"
"Two guarding the safe room on the second underground level," he said quickly. "Three more on the third level."
I watched him carefully while he spoke. The scent of deceit never appeared.
"So," I said slowly, "what exactly is the Order of the Wheel?"
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "We're… a movement."
A cult. That was unexpected. And weird. What kind of cult was this?
"A movement, you say? A movement for what?"
"Progress."
I interlocked my fingers. "Now what exactly do you mean by that?"
"That's what I was told when I joined." He said, his voice becoming smaller. "They told us humanity had stopped moving forward. Said the restrictions were wrong. That we cripple innovation because of a supposed tragedy that happened before any of us were even born. The order is fighting to change that."
The implications settled slowly into place. These people weren't just criminals. They were ideological extremists. Cultists. And violators of the most serious universal accords all at once. How had something like this gone unnoticed?
"You believe all that?" I asked.
He closed his eyes.
"For a while," he admitted. Then he shook his head weakly. "But I didn't know they were like this."
His voice cracked again. "I didn't know they were crazy."
Still no deception. For the first time since this interrogation started, I found myself considering something unexpected. Maybe I didn't have to kill him.
"Earlier," I said, leaning back slightly in the chair, "I overheard part of your conversation. What exactly is 'Rox'?"
He sighed weakly.
"I'm… not totally sure," he admitted. "I think it's some kind of drug."
His eyes flicked nervously toward his jacket.
"I actually have one," he said quickly. "In my pocket."
Even before I reached for it, I could smell something faint coming from his clothing.
A chemical trace.
I slid my hand into his pocket and pulled out a small black case. The container was smooth and featureless, about the size of a matchbox. It snapped open with a quiet click. Inside sat a single red pill. Small. Completely unremarkable.
At least at first glance. The moment I leaned closer, my nose wrinkled. The scent wasn't strong. But it was wrong. There was a strange volatility to it that made my instincts recoil immediately. It was dangerous. Not the kind of thing anyone sane should willingly put in their body. I closed the case halfway and glanced at Turk.
"They gave these to everyone?" I asked.
He nodded. "Yeah. Before the mission."
"For what?"
"They said it boosts performance during fights," he said. "Strength, reaction time, stuff like that. It has a time limit though. Twenty minutes, I think."
Performance boost. That was one way to describe what Evan displayed.
The man had moved like someone whose body had been pushed far beyond its natural limits. He had me convinced he was an enhanced. Which meant this little red pill wasn't just a stimulant. Whatever Rox actually was, it was doing something far more extreme.
Turk clearly had no idea. That was fine. I could always beat out the real answer from someone higher up the chain. I snapped the case shut and clipped it onto my belt.
"Why did you attack this facility?" I asked.
"I don't know."
The answer was fast. My palm was faster.
The slap tore across his face. I didn't hit him hard enough to knock him over. Just enough to remind him where he was. He gasped in pain.
"You killed more than twenty people in this building," I said. "Take a moment. Think carefully before you answer again."
"I didn't!" he blurted.
Then his voice dropped immediately when he saw my expression.
"I mean— I didn't kill anyone," he said quickly. "I swear."
His breathing grew shaky. "I didn't even know they were going to kill people. You have to believe me."
Tears welled up in his eyes again. His scent told me everything I needed. Fear. Shame. But no lies.
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed the bridge of my nose. That complicated things. Turk Roberts wasn't a terrorist. Just an idiot who had joined the wrong crowd. I let the silence hang for a few seconds while he tried to steady himself.
"Alright," I said. "Then tell me what you do know."
He sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
"I'm new," he said quietly. "Really new."
"How new?"
"This was supposed to be my initiation mission."
I frowned.
"That doesn't make sense," I said. "This kind of operation requires a very high level of planning, coordination, and inside knowledge. Why would they bring a recruit along?"
He shifted in his chair.
"It wasn't supposed to go like this," he said.
"What does that mean?"
"The branch head had everything planned out," Turk explained. "You guys weren't supposed to be here."
My eyes narrowed slightly. "Go on."
"When you showed up on the second floor," he continued, "he almost lost it."
"Everything started falling apart after that." He began counting on his fingers. "The lockdown. Evan getting killed. The power going out. None of that was part of the plan."
One phrase in particular stood out.
"Branch head," I repeated.
Turk nodded.
"How big is this 'movement' of yours?" I asked.
He shrugged weakly. "I don't really know. But I heard there are branches in other cities."
I sat back slowly. Another problem. A big one.
If he was telling the truth, and every instinct I had said he was, then the Order of the Wheel wasn't just a local group. It was organized. Structured. Spread across multiple cities. Which meant somehow an intercity anti-Compact cult had grown large enough to run operations like this without attracting attention. Kate had warned me this situation felt wrong. She was right. This was far above my pay grade.
But something else Turk said was bothering me. I tapped my fingers lightly against the arm of the chair.
"You mentioned the branch head had everything planned," I said slowly.
He nodded.
"How could he be so confident?" I asked.
He arched slightly, wincing as the movement pulled against his restraints.
"Well… I heard some people talking earlier," he said carefully.
"And?"
"They said we had help."
"Help from who?"
"Someone inside the building," he said. "A member of the Order."
My mind immediately started running through possibilities. It had to be someone with operational knowledge. Someone who understood the security systems. Someone who could sabotage them. Someone like the head of—
"Oh!" Turk suddenly straightened. "I remember now!"
"Well?" I asked.
"It was the receptionist."