Look, you gotta calm down.
All Mr. Jackson wants is his money. That’s all he wants. We know you have it, you made the pickup just fine, there were plenty of witnesses who saw you do it.
You’re in trouble, you know that by now. If the fact that you’re tied to a chair in a room you don’t recognize didn’t tip you off I’m sure my knife did. But this doesn’t have to end all that badly for you.
You do still have an out.
I have to get the money, I have to bring it back. Mr. Jackson doesn’t like failure, any more than he likes weasely little fucks trying to steal from him, but there’s nothing in my instructions about what I gotta do with you once I have it.
So, I’ll tell you what, you tell me where the money is…
You will STOP fucking crying this FUCKING instant! I’m talking to you. You will shut up and listen when I’m talking to you!
As I was saying, you tell me where the money is, and once I have it you get out of town. Nobody here ever hears from you again. How does that sound?
I’m not joking. Stop crying.
I won’t tell you again.
Look, I know it’s not the future you’d hoped for, on the run from somebody with Mr. Jackson’s resources, but it’s the only end to this where you get out of this room still upright, so what do you say?
Who’s phone is that? Oh, that’s me.
Sorry, I gotta take this.
Yeah, I’m talking to him now.
Don’t worry, I’ve fed him a line of bullshit about hope and survival and whatnot. If that doesn’t work, I’m gonna start with his teeth. Either way, I’ll get him to tell me where he stashed the cash, kill him, dump the body somewhere it’ll never be found, and head back.
Yeah. Absolutely. You too. I’ll see you then.
Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have let you overhear that. So: Where were we?