Retaliation

up on his side. He looked middle-aged, gray speckled through his dark hair. He must have been dressed formally in a suit when they captured him, but the jacket was bundled up under his head now, and his white shirt was splattered with blood. He had a black eye, and his strained pose gave away his injuries, probably cracked ribs. This is bad, she thought, swallowing down her tears.
She wiped away the last of them and scanned the cells on the opposite side.
The one across from her was occupied by a shirtless black boy, who hadn’t even stirred at all the commotion and was sleeping with his back to her. The cell in the corner was the darkest, and all she could see was a glowing, Cheshire Cat smile—Marco.
Pain grinned at him and rolled her shoulders, getting up.
“And the Oscar goes to…” he whispered, not moving from his spot on the floor.
She smiled and smoothed down the intricate braid that made her hair look three times shorter than it really was. Her face must have been smeared nice and black with mascara and eyeliner that she had applied generously earlier. The most important bit—the fake nose—hadn’t been damaged in the beating, to her relief.
“That thing’s even uglier in the dark,” Marco said.
“Shut up.” She grinned. “It’s not like I can sprout hair from my face, like some people.”
Marco reached up and pulled at the month’s worth of beard proudly. He’d had to let his hair grow, too, to cover the tattoo and swallow up the mohawk so he could take more undercover jobs, and he’d bitched and moaned about it for weeks. She, on the contrary, had always been proud of her disguises, the collection of fake noses, contact lenses, and makeup, and her sister’s hairdressing skills.
She grabbed the bars overhead to do a couple of pull-ups. Even though her leather pants and jacket had kept her warm, she didn’t care for the stiffness that came with sitting still for hours. They had to wait until late night for everyone aside from the guards to leave the place, and it was more than enough time for her bruises to heal.
A loud gasp startled her, and her eyes darted to the man in the suit. He must have moved in his sleep and disturbed some of his injuries, and now was rocking back and forth, hugging his knees to his chest.
The sight pained her, but she couldn’t tell him he would be out soon. He had spent three days here, and no one could predict his reaction to the news. It wasn’t worth endangering the operation.
They couldn’t hear a thing when everyone left the warehouse and locked the doors, but they knew about it because a guard came in with a small portable TV. It was a different man, tall and athletic. A handgun protruded from his belt, probably to intimidate them and prevent any attempts at getting out. The TV filled the room with chatter, and the guard sprawled in an old armchair in a corner.
Nice, she thought, now he won’t get up for hours.
She gave Marco a signal to switch to plan B, or the guard could just spend the whole night in the chair.
Marco nodded, the motion barely visible in the dark, and got up to his feet. As he moved to the front of his cell, she took a hairpin out of her braid and stepped closer to the door.
Marco started coughing, first quietly, the sound muffled against his hand; then more loudly, until it sounded like he was suffocating, breathing in short, rasping gasps. His hands closed on the iron bars and rattled them with a dying man’s desperation.
The guard jumped to his feet with a curse and hurried across the room. “Shut up! I can’t hear a thing!” he yelled, halting a few steps from Marco’s cell.
Marco doubled over in another fit, then straightened up and pointed at his neck, leaning forward with big eyes.
The guard grimaced but finally took those last two steps closer.
Marco’s hand shot out, grabbing the man’s collar. The guard’s head slammed into the bars, once, twice, just as Pain won the battle with the padlock and got out of her cell. The man tore free from Marco’s grasp, and Pain’s foot slammed into his head, knocking him out at last.
“Can’t do anything without my help,” she said with a wry smile.
Marco gave her the finger, and waved her off when she offered him the guard’s keys.
She paused, listening. The warehouse was quiet, and no one was running to check what was going on. But behind her, someone was gasping for air, as if trying to say something.
“H-help…”
She spun, her eyes locking in on the man.
They had scared him, and now he was trying to call for help, eyes wide with fear. Only, his dry throat wouldn’t let him speak, and all she heard was pained hissing.
Marco was out of his cell, but she held up a hand, telling him to wait while she approached the man carefully with her hands raised in front of her.
“Mr. O’Conner, we’re here to take you home. Please, keep quiet. We’re not ready to go yet,” she whispered. “We’re not going to hurt you. In about ten minutes we’ll take you to your wife.” She fumbled with the keys, trying one after another, until she found the right one.
The boy who had been sleeping in the cell next to Marco’s was watching them silently with big eyes. She tossed the keys to Marco and turned back to O’Conner, opening the door to his cell.
“What’s her name?” he rasped, making her pause.
“Who?”
“My wife, what’s her name?”
A test, Pain realized. “Rebecca. She hired us to help you. But you have to stay here for a few more minutes and be quiet, all right? We’ll