Chapter 41 Uncooperative.

Chapter 41: 41 Uncooperative.

I slipped back into my car just as the call connected.

"Hey, hey! How’s the boss man doing?" Psyren’s voice chirped through the phone.

"I’m fine. Listen," I said. "Can you meet me at Patty’s? Your brother knows how to get there. I could use some help."

"Of course, bossman! You know I’m always happy to help."

"Thanks," I said. "Seriously. I appreciate it."

I ended the call and slipped my phone into my pocket before starting the engine and pulling away from the sidewalk. As I merged back into traffic, I noticed my finger drumming against the wheel and deliberately made it stop.

Don’t panic.

Rule number five of villainy, for anyone still keeping track. Seriously. The second a villain gives in to panic is usually the second everything goes completely to shit. It’s a pattern you see everywhere.

And not only in this world. Mob bosses who lost control of their emotions and started making stupid, irrational decisions were usually one bad move away from catching a bullet in the head.

Something starts slipping from his grasp, and he begins to lose his composure.

Then he starts making progressively worse choices as the entire situation spirals deeper and deeper into fubar.

He throws a tantrum, executes his most trusted minions, walks straight into a trap, and then his second-in-command throws an octogenarian into a bottomless pit.

Every damn time.

I forced my breathing to slow. That’s right. Keep calm. There was no reason to panic. I had a plan. Things would work themselves out, and I’d move on afterward. That was the plan.

At least, that was what I told myself. Because as I drove into the old industrial district, the rusting metal surrounding me scraping at my nerves like ash against bare skin, I noticed my fingers tapping against the wheel again.

The factory where Patty had established her little shop appeared ahead, and I pulled to a stop before climbing out and dragging the jug along with me.

"You’re probably thinking you’ll never have to say a word," I remarked casually as I made my way toward the factory’s main entrance.

I felt something swirl inside the jug.

"Yeah. Giving me the silent treatment. But I know you’re listening. And I know you think you’re above all this. Too clever to ever open your mouth. The smartest person in the room. But look at yourself now. You’re the genie in the bottle. And I’m getting my fucking wish, even if I have to melt you into slag."

"Men better than you have already attempted that," came the muffled hiss.

"Maybe they have," I said. "But I’m not some better man. I’m the worst man around. And now you’re going to find out exactly what that means."

Patty was waiting for me on the other side. She looked bizarrely out of place amid the factory’s ruined interior. Like somebody had dropped a smartphone into a pile of scrap metal. Her face brightened when she spotted me, and she bounced eagerly on her heels as I approached.

"Hey, Miles! Ooh, what’d you bring me?" she asked, staring at the jug and the black substance swirling inside it.

I lifted the jug slightly. "A captive. Is the machine ready?"

"Sure is, boss!" she chirped, practically glowing with curiosity as she motioned for me to come along.

I followed her, pulling the jug deeper into the factory.

Most of the machinery sat beneath thick coats of dust and neglect, looking like artifacts from an industrial age that had died decades ago. Patty had restored some of it, though. Not much, obviously.

She wasn’t stupid enough to expose her secret hideout to every random schmuck who wandered through the doors, but she’d repaired enough machinery to make it useful. One such machine was the pneumatic paint mixer.

I examined it with approval. It looked like an enormous mechanical claw bolted onto an engine.

One of those brutal industrial machines that represented the true backbone of modern manufacturing, built to take endless abuse and keep operating long after anyone had decided the damn thing wasn’t worth maintaining.

Well, today it was going to justify its existence.

I seized the handle on top and cranked the claw open as far as it would go. Then I shoved the jug into the gap and tightened the mechanism with another turn.

"Final offer," I said.

"Go ahead. Do your worst," William answered, his face swirling across the glass as he glared at me.

"Gladly," I said, and switched the machine on.

The mixer lurched into action, its mechanical whine vibrating through the floor. The tremors traveled from the engine through the claw and into the jug, shaking the container violently.

The black contents churned and splashed inside, the confined space making William’s essence slosh violently against the glass.

"Looks like that hurts!" I yelled over the grinding machine and the violent swishing of the jug.

"Th-th-this i-i-is n-n-noth-th-th-ing!"

"Tell me what I need to know and I’ll shut it down!" I shouted, twisting the crank to slow the mixer. "Where’s Glacia? What happened to her? And what exactly did you mean when you called her Our Lady?"

"You’ll n-n-never f-f-find out!"

"Don’t count on that!" I snapped, cranking the machine back up.

The mixer roared, its vibrations rolling through the factory like an earthquake. The entire structure shook as William was violently churned around inside the jug.

"I-I-I-I w-w-w-will n-n-n-n-not t-t-t-talk!"

"Stubborn bastard, isn’t he?" Patty said, leaning closer to inspect the white fragments of William’s face splattered across the inside of the glass.

"Hey," she added, flashing me a grin that had probably been the last thing plenty of lab mice ever saw. "Why don’t we bring out some of my toys? I’m sure a few electrodes could make him cough up something useful!"

"That’s certainly an option," I said, raising my voice over the mixer. "But I’ve got another idea."

Patty cocked her woolly head to the side. "Really?"

"Yeah," I said, glancing toward the factory entrance as the familiar, thoroughly abused metal of a certain van came to a stop outside. "And there she is."

A few seconds later, Psyren sauntered through the open doors with the swagger of a born bitch who owned the whole damn town.

The chains and buckles around her outfit clattered with every step, her neon-pink hair forming a wild mane around her head. Her grin was pure Cheshire Cat, practically dripping with the confidence of someone suffering from a terminal superiority complex.

Steve lumbered along beside her, his slumped posture and lazy gait making him look like an old tomcat wandering through the streets.

I eased the mixer down as they approached, letting it settle into a low rumble while keeping William thoroughly agitated.

"Glad you managed to find the place," I said.

"My brother’s been here before," Psyren said, jabbing Steve with her elbow. He laughed and lightly swatted her shoulder.

"So what’s the job, bossman?" Psyren asked eagerly, stepping straight into my personal space. She wrapped her arms around my neck and leaned her face close to mine. "Need your favourite psychic to handle somebody? Want me to hurt someone for you? Maybe make somebody scream?"

"Pretty much," I said, nodding toward the jug.

Psyren followed my gaze, and her eyes immediately gleamed with delighted malice. "Ooh, and who’s that?"

"Your target. Sorry to drag you into this, but he’s got information I need, and he’s proving rather... uncooperative."