⊰l⊹ฺ⊰⊹ฺ⊰⊹ฺ⊰⊹ฺ⊰⊹ฺ⊰⊹ฺ⊰⊹ฺl⊰⊹ฺ
"Here, boss."
Horace glanced at the phone, then smiled like a blade. "I see your friend is calling to ask where you are. Shame — they won't be seeing you again. You're courting death, and death always collects what's owed." He crushed the phone in his palm and flung it through the window; glass exploded on the gravel outside.
"Tie him up. Send him somewhere he can rest." Horace stretched the last word — NICE — into something that tasted like a threat, then turned and walked away.
"Yes, boss."
Samuel unhooked a length of rope from his trousers and stepped forward. Bernard tried to wedge a hiss of a protest through clenched teeth.
"Horace, you— you'll— you'll pay for this!" he cried, the sound hollowing out the room. Samuel's fist answered for him. Bernard went down like something broken.
