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There’s another locked door at the bottom, and she waits for me with her arms wrapped around herself. It’s cold in this subterranean antechamber, but that’s not why she’s shaking. When I open the door for her, she visibly relaxes.

The basement’s main room looks innocuous enough. A couple of couches. A card table with some chairs. A row of lockers leading back to the showers and bathroom. The painted cinder block walls give the space a claustrophobic feel, but that will be the least of Brioni’s concerns.

I sweep her coat from her shoulders and hang it up in my locker, tossing my own coat across a couch. I pull out a chair for her at the card table. Then I wait. She sits down tentatively, her eyes constantly flicking to the oversized mirror she’s facing.

“I told you I’m a killer,” I remind her coldly.

I turn away from her wide eyes and quivering lower lip. I stride to the light switch beside the mirror, then flick it on to reveal what’s inside.

She gasps.

Through the one-way mirror, she has a full view of the interrogation room. In it, the bare lightbulb hangs over a single chair. And tied to that chair, a young man in sweats hunches forward, a blackout hood over his head.

“Liam…” she whispers.

I ignore her. Grabbing one of the other chairs, I stride away without responding. Then I let myself into the interrogation room, and the heavy door slams shut behind me.

In his chair, the man tries to sit up tall. It’s difficult, given that his arms are tied behind his back, his feet bound to the wooden legs. I clack down my chair, then whip the hood from his head.

Rabbit takes a deep breath, shaking his golden curls loose. When he registers me, he balks.

“Am I in trouble?” He sounds worried, but not panicked. Yet.

“You tell me.” I position my chair so I’m facing him, giving Brioni a full view of us both. She needs to see the real me.

I pull the EpiPen from my pocket and hold it up. I make sure Rabbit can tell what it is before I set it on the concrete floor between us. He inhales an unsteady breath, but the rest of him shows no fear.

Taking my time, I settle back in my chair. Then I pull two more slim objects from my pockets. An amber vial, and a syringe. That’s when the kid’s eyes go wide.

I hold up the vial so he can read its label. Apitoxin. A word that meant nothing to me until Finn explained it. Bee venom.

A word that means painful death to an allergic boy like Rabbit.

He glances to the EpiPen on the floor, then back up to me.

“I’m proud to be an O’Sullivan man, sir,” he says. “If this is part of my initiation, I accept it gladly.”

Shit. This kid will make a fine soldier.

But he’s the fucking leak, says the louder voice in my mind.

I take my time prepping the syringe. Uncapping the vial, drawing up the colorless liquid, recapping the vial and slipping it back into my pocket. For effect, I flick the syringe twice, causing a soft ping ping in the concrete room.

“This isn’t part of any initiation,” I tell the kid.

He blinks rapidly, and I watch the satisfying pulse of fear beneath his jaw.

“Tell me where you go at night,” I command.

“I go out with Connor. Sometimes we smoke pot.” He says it like a confession.

It’s a good tactic, I’ll give him that.

“But it’s my weed,” he rushes to add. “Connor shouldn’t get in trouble for it.”

Goddamnit. A loyal friend to boot.

I wait, but the kid says nothing more.