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"Blackwoods," she growled, the name a jagged edge between clenched teeth. "Talk."
"Who—?" He coughed, sucking in the heavy air.
"Answers, now." Her fist shook in front of his jaw, a punctuation mark to underscore her demand.
"Never heard of 'em," he lied.
Rachel’s knuckles introduced themselves again, her body coiled with purpose. This time, they struck his writhing arm. "Try harder."
"Okay, okay!" Pablo's voice broke, fear seeping into the cracks of his resolve.
"Talk," she repeated, her eyes narrow slits of focus.
Pablo's breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving against the concrete that claimed him. The alley held its breath with Rachel as she watched, hawk-eyed, the man beneath her squirm into the grime.
"Are... are you a cop?" His voice faltered, a whisper torn from fear’s grip. Eyes darted to hers, searching, pleading. "Where'd you get that name? Blackwood?"
She leaned in, the weight of her authority pressing down on him. Rachel's face was stone, save for eyes that gleamed with an untold storm. "Not a cop," she said, spit and gravel mixing in her tone. "Now spill about the Blackwoods."
Pablo swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy at sea. She felt his pulse race under her touch, the frantic beat of a cornered animal. Her fingers tightened just enough to remind him of their potential.
"Never— I don't—"
"Talk." It was a blade's edge, her stare slicing through his defenses.
His mouth opened, then closed, words failing him. Rachel exhaled, the sound laced with impatience. The air between them crackled with tension, every second stretched taut as a wire. She sensed the lie before it formed, ready to strike it down.
"Please," he finally croaked, "I got nothing for you."
"Wrong answer." Her voice was a low growl, a predator's warning.
He winced, bracing for another blow, but Rachel held back. Instead, she searched his face, reading the lines of desperation etched there. Not yet, her instincts whispered. Soon, the floodgates would break.
"Blackwoods," she pushed. "What do you know?" And then a lie. Accusing a thief of something they hadn't stolen was a good way to get them talking. "You were part of the heist?"
A fishing expedition, but he didn't know it.
The best hunter always chose the proper bait.
Pablo's eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered within—a spark of recognition, or perhaps guilt. He sucked in a breath, and Rachel readied herself for the truth she had been chasing like a shadow.
The words slithered out of Pablo's mouth, each syllable laden with reluctance. "The Blackwoods were connected to an associate of mien." His eyes darted to the left, a futile attempt to escape Rachel's piercing gaze.
"Who?"
"Benny Carter."
"Who's that?" she tensed, betraying nothing. He didn't know she'd interrogated Benny. The less information he had, the better.
"Just a guy. He was on a job with them before I met them. He knew the Blackwoods."
"What sort of job?"
"Selling cookies. What the hell do you think? Who are you, bitch?"
She scowled at him, her eyes piercing, but she didn't take his bait. "Knew them how?" Rachel's question was sharp, a dagger poised.
"Business," he mumbled, the lie obvious in his voice's tremor. "Big job. But not me!" he said quickly. "That was before my time in the crew. I wasn't part of it—the heist."
