Chapter Text
Lying
Shane Hollander was a good fucking liar when he had to be. And more and more often in his life he felt the necessity to be. He picked his moments with care, you see.
Shane knew that the best way not to get caught in your lies is to let yourself get caught. Let people catch you in small, inconsequential ones, give them fake tells. Let them like you can't lie to save your life so that when you do have to lie to save your life, you can. Shane did a lot of that sort of lying.
He'd first learned how to fire a gun at 14. He'd seen his mother use one and learnt how not to flinch. He'd shot cans off a log till his grip was as steady as it was holding a hockey stick. He still did that sometimes. It was almost a tradition. Each summer since his cottage had been built, he'd been there and had taken at least an hour a day to fire at ginger ale cans.
He liked ginger ale cans because they had a nice sound to them, somehow the Canada dry ones sounded different to the harsh clang of the coke and beer ones. And the taste wasn't too bad.
Torture
Shane was fucking pissed. He didn't let himself get pissed often but no one except Damian could see him now and that pissed off part of him would be useful for what he had to do now.
He'd never much enjoyed the torturing part of the job, always went along and did it when asked to, but never let himself take any relish in it. He knew his mother enjoyed it. At least the power in it. The fear.
They reached the building through an alleyway and exited the car. It stretched tall and looming against the night sky with an air of ruined grandeur. Once they'd entered the dingy place, Damian passed him the folder. Shane didn't check the first name, never did, only the last, then scanned the face and the crimes. Not literal crimes of course. There were plenty committed against the law but those weren't noted here. No. Crimes against the family. Nicholson. 26 years old, the guy had stolen $500,000 worth of cocaine. Objective: find out where he put it.
Shane sighs and hands the folder back, making no effort to hide his annoyance. This would've been easy to track, laughably so. The torture was only to save resources and time.
Damian directed him to the room where the guy was being kept. Shane took a breath and entered, clicking the door shut behind him. Nicholson was tied to a chair in the centre of the room, gagged and blindfolded. He flinched at the sound of the door, jerking his head from side to side in an effort to dislodge the blindfold.
Shane paced to him leisurely, pulling off the gag and tossing it aside. He pulled his gun out and pressed the muzzle to Nicholson's forehead, digging it in so hard that the chair pushed back slightly, screeching against the tile. Tile only because it could easily be hosed down if necessary, which it often was. Nicholson whimpered, no words leaving his lips and he stretched back, cowering from the pistol. Shane leaned in, pressing the gun hard enough to leave an indent, "The location." He breathed in his ear, voice flat and devoid of any emotion.
Nicholson swallowed, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His voice was shaky when he spoke, "I-I can't. Please, I n-need the money, I can't hand it over-" He shut his mouth quickly as Shane scoffed.
"Tell me, my voice is familiar, right? Do you know from where? We've met." Nicholson shook his head frantically but a hand pressed to his throat held him still, "Oh, no, we did. A handoff six months ago. Your boss didn't tell you I'd check the merchandise." Shane squeezed roughly at his neck, gun slack against his head, "You fucking shot me."
A shuddering gasp left Nicholson's throat followed by a broken sound not unlike a scream. He tried to writhe away but Shane shook him lightly by the throat. Nicholson cried out, voice breaking "Fuck! Fuck, no! Not you! Y-you're the Yakuza's son."
Shane let go, trying not to enjoy the panic in his voice. He didn't relish this kind of stuff, would never let himself like it. He put the gun back in his holster and crossed the room, selecting a knife from the small bench in the corner covered in weapons. A small penknife with a bone handle. Shane nodded absently in approval and made a mental note to take it with him when he left.
Shane walked leisurely back to the chair, back to Nicholson, letting his footsteps echo in the small space. Nicholson was still panting and shaking, writhing against his bindings as tears slide down his face, soaking the blindfold through.
Shane fisted a hand in the man's hair, mentally wincing at the grease. He jerked his head back, pressing the penknife to the soft part of his neck just beneath his ear. "The location."
Shuddering breaths left Nicholson before he choked out, "1829 Waterhouse Road. Th-that old warehouse that used to package tins. The code is 4695. It's all there, all of it, I swear!"
Shane dropped his hair, letting Nicholson's chin smack against his chest with a satisfying thud, "Not so hard, was it? Hmm?" He glanced surreptitiously at the camera in the corner, nodding discretely.
"N-no, sir."
"Good." Shane sighed, tilting Nicholson's chin up. "Do you want to be blindfolded for this part?"
Nicholson froze, "W-what? What part?"
Shane chuckled dryly and tugged the blindfold away, throwing it off to the side to join the gag, "You see, you stole from us. Stole from me, really. And we can't allow you to set that precedent. That people can do that and just get away with it. You get that right? It's understandable."
"Y-you're going to kill me anyway?" Nicholson blinked up, blinded momentarily by the harsh lights before his eyes alight on Shane, widening. "Oh f-fuck it really is you."
"Damn right. And no, I'm not." Shane gripped his jaw tighter, thumb on one side, head held roughly in one hand, face slightly smushed, "You're going to work for us still, but there's consequences to your actions. Hold still."
Nicholson threw his head back in a panic but Shane just grabbed him more firmly, pressing the tip of the penknife into his cheek till a bead of blood grew and Nicholson let out a pained yell.
Shane drew the knife swiftly across his face, from cheek to cheek, across his bridge of his nose, then stepped back, wiping the knife on his own black trousers, ignoring the man sobbing in front of him. He'd gotten blood on his hands, running down his wrists. He scowled and flicked the knife shut, tucking it into his pocket.
He leaned down, hands braced on his knees till his face was level with Nicholson's. He waited till their eyes met before subtly sliding his gun from the holster, unnoticed.
"Now, that was for the betrayal of my family." He said slowly, enunciating clearly, as if talking to a child, and nodded at the ruined face, "This however, this is for that time you fucking shot me." He raised the gun slightly, not averting his eyes from Nicholson's before firing a single shot into his upper arm, straight through. Nicholson let out a choked gasp that morphed quickly into a scream.
Shane holstered his gun, just as a voice rings through the speaker connected through the camera. "Warehouse location confirmed. The stuff's there." Shane nods, before smiling briefly at Nicholson.
"Well, see you around I guess."
He shuts the door behind him, not allowing himself a glance back, and washes his hands before allowing Damian to drop him home