Botan POV
"You like that?" I ask, pushing it in deeper. "Be a good boy, and open wider."
He bellows his protest, but the barrel of my gun muffles his swallowed scream.
"Enough of this, Botan," says the leader of Yad Zmei, a harsh hiss, his voice propelled by the plea that underlines his tone like a riptide, pulling him under the weight of his desperation. "I will tell you what you wish to know."
"I knew you would."
I pull the trigger and blood bursts from his skull as brain matter splatter on the earthen wall behind him. He drops like a stone, slumping against the surface with a gaping hole that ripped open his mouth. I straighten away from him—he whose corpse joins the carnage of a dozen men strewn at my feet, littered around the chamber liked a bed of bodies. Their leader dangles in his own torture chamber with his arms splayed like Christ on the cross.
"Gianni," he confesses.
