The Pure

Beretta.
    ‘You see, Adam? We know everything. We know about this little slick. We know about every piece of kit you have. We know how busy you’ve been.’ He pressed both weapons hard into Uzi’s temples. Drool was spilling from his mouth and down his shirt.
    ‘I could kill you right here,’ said Shilo in a low voice. ‘I could blow out your brains and leave your body to rot. I could cut off your dick and feed it to you, then stick this Beretta up your arse and shoot your guts out. I could do anything. That is the power of the Office, remember? That is the power of the Office.’
    He paced the room, wiping his forearm across his brow like an animal. Then he crossed to the door of Uzi’s cannabis room and kicked it, smashing it with his heel, until it splintered and caved in. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘We know about everything.’
    He strode in, followed by Laufer, and began smashing up Uzi’s plants, his equipment, his stash of dope, his livelihood. Before his eyes, his lamps went out, his cultivation tents collapsed on themselves, his pumps buckled and split. Rage whipped through him, but his body would not respond. He was entombed in it.
    The two men swivelled Uzi round on his chair again, forcing him to watch as they attacked the rest of his apartment. The destruction was swift and total. In a matter of minutes, nothing was intact.
    ‘Now, Adam, my brother,’ said Shilo, advancing with a table leg in his hands, ‘let’s make sure you never forget what we have taught you tonight.’ He raised the cudgel high above his head, stretching as if trying to hook down something from a shelf; then, making a noise that reminded Uzi of the wild dogs in the Negev at night, he brought it down with all his strength.
    By the time Uzi regained consciousness, the room was dark. He was on his side, still tied to the chair, his penis lying in a pale curve across his thigh. His head was a fist of pain. He groaned softly; at least he could still make a sound. Around him in the half light were broken and jagged silhouettes, all that was left of his apartment. He was cold.
    ‘Uzi. I’m sorry, Uzi. I couldn’t do anything. I don’t have any authority. I’m just a voice.’ Smooth, neutral tones. Like rich milk.
    ‘If you’re just a voice,’ muttered Uzi woozily, ‘at least tell me what to do.’
    ‘There’s only one thing to do. Now’s the time, Uzi.’
    Uzi nodded as if the Kol could see him; the voice went quiet. It took Uzi several minutes to break free of the chair, and when he did so he collapsed to the floor. His neck was stiff and aching. He ran his hand across his face and felt a web of scabs and weals. It was impossible to tell what time it was; the face of his watch was smashed and his phone had been taken. Like a statue coming to life, he uncurled his back and massaged his limbs. He struggled to his feet – he could still stand – and put his penis gingerly back in his trousers. He tried the lights. Nothing. The light bulbs were smashed. He rummaged in his pockets and lit a cigarette.
    In the flicker of the lighter, he hobbled from one room to the next, surveying the damage. Everything was smashed up, everything. The flame could bring nothing but destruction from the darkness. They had stolen his entire stash. His slick was empty. His guns were gone. He let the lighter go out and drew on his cigarette in the gloom. The ash glowed orange and the hiss of burning cigarette paper was loud as he smoked. They’d fucked him. He was still alive, but the Office had fucked him. He’d been goading them, he knew that, but this? He scanned through his memory of the attack, piecing together precisely what Shilo had said. He hadn’t mentioned Uzi’s meeting with Liberty, or his connection with Avner – still an Office employee – or Operation Regime Change. Any one of these things would have resulted in far more than a warning. So Uzi was still one step ahead. And the Office clearly hadn’t known about all of his slicks.
    Rage flowed suddenly through him. He kicked a door that was hanging haphazardly on its hinges, and kicked it again, and again. Then he crouched, head in hands, until the cigarette burned out in his fingers and a worm of ash fell, unseen, to the floor. He came to a decision. From now on there would be no holding back.
    In the bedroom he opened the curtains. By the weak light of the moon, he searched in the wreckage of his wardrobe and found the hollow metal tube on which coat hangers used to