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“Nope. They’re gonna make it fun, but I got you a present.” He waggles his brows at me, his beefy arm stretched out behind my back.
“I do like presents,” I murmur, careening down a slope toward our treed retreat.
The crispness in the air and the subtle warmth flourishing on the breeze snakes around me with an invigoration. I’m getting some goddamn answers.
We open the grass-covered door and tramp down the steps into the three-room cellar. It can serve as a safe room should we ever need it. Although it’s not our first pick with the stench of piss and death emanating from the cinder-block walls. We have a couple of plusher accommodations concealed within the confines of our house. But you can never have too many hiding places.
Our honored guests are chained against the damp wall beneath a flickering fluorescent bulb, wrists manacled above their heads and bodies stripped down to their skivvies—no need to stare at shriveled dicks unless we’re chopping them off. Maybe later. Gage must have woken them right before retrieving me because both have fresh blood trickling. One from his swollen left eye, the other from a severed nipple.
I saunter toward the supply cabinet without a proper greeting, rummaging through our tools to collect what I need. Starting my introductions off with a zing tends to break the ice. Gage strolls my way, surprising me with his gift. It even has a fucking bow.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
“You bought me a new cattle prod, Big Guy?” I flash a megawatt grin at him. I told him my girl inspired our methods today, and even though he tends to conduct his debriefings with sanguinary techniques, he was excited and supportive. More than I realized. This is a nice one. “Love this rubber-grip handle and the oversize trigger. I’m touched.”
“Wouldn’t want your fingers to be cramped when you return to your lady,” he quips, collapsing into a chair with razzing jazz hands.
“Jackass.” I chuckle, finally bestowing my attentiveness on the scum I came to see. It’s then that I notice each is bruised in the same areas as Celeste, ribs and hips. Gage is always scrupulous and incisive with his retribution. “Fitting,” I commend him, poking my new toy into the first guy’s ribs. “Let’s see if Mischka dances.”
The aspect I like in a cattle prod is that a five-second zap can render the muscles incapacitated for up to fifteen minutes, but there’s no risk of losing consciousness. I’m starting light with a three-second discharge. We’re still in the getting-acquainted stage, preparation for the impending plunge.
Gage howls with a clap of his hands. “He’s got moves. What about Grischka?”
I smile back at him with respect for his receipt of my Octopussy movie reference. Can’t go wrong with a James Bond citation. Plus, I couldn’t be troubled to bother with these assholes’ names. There’s a slew of fuck off mutterings from our guests, but I ignore them.
“Think I can make him piss?”
“He’s been thoroughly dehydrated, so it’ll be tough,” Gage offers.
“Ahh.” I zap Grischka’s battered abdomen, admiring his Pinocchio-like rollick that ensues. “Dehydration sucks, guys. I’ll be sure to take care of that, but let’s get some answers first. Shall we?”
“You ain’t getting shit,” Mischka grumbles, but it’s devoid of the bite he’s going for. Lack of sleep, light, food, and water will do that. Not to mention the beating, lashing, and electrocution.
“Okay, boys, here’s how this is going to go,” I say, noting their labored breathing. “You’ve had days to prove how tough you are. Bravo, by the way. But as you heard Gage mention, I have a girl to return to—the woman you were stupid enough to fuck with. No one messes with what’s mine and gets away with it. So, we’re going to play a game to see which one of you cracks first. Waterboarding versus appendage severing. Preferences?”
“Fuck me,” hisses Grischka. That’s our squealer. “We’re transporters. We don’t know shit.”
Mischka grunts in irritation at his friend, so I zap him again with a three-second warning.
“Should’ve been the one to start sharing, motherfucker.”
Turning back to Grischka, I soften. “I think you know more than you realize. Let’s work together to figure it out. What do you transport?”
He hesitates, but the blood and sweat dripping down his pallid skin suggests he’ll think of something. “Sometimes guns. Mostly people.”
“People?” I ask, tapping the cattle prod on the concrete floor with a chink. Chink. Chink. “Sex trade?”
“No,” he protests. Even douchebags don’t want to be associated with human trafficking, but then he adds with a shifty furrow of his brow, “Not that we know.”
“Right. You’re just the transporters. Only responsible for delivery.” I empathize with his twisted fucking logic. Chink. Chink. Chink. “But you must know something about Scott Filmore—who he was working with, who you were delivering to, or the reason my girl was the target.”
His eyes dart around the room between his partner, the cattle prod, Gage, the supply cabinet, and back to me.
What’s it gonna be, asshole?
“Our job is to not know.”
I wag a disappointed finger at him as I mosey forward, digging in my pocket to retrieve the key to unlock his shackles. He releases an unwarranted sigh of relief once he’s free, so I set him straight.
