Not relief.
Not satisfaction.
Something closer to anticipation.
This is something I can use.
“Get him,” Christian says.
We move.
His weight is dead as we haul him up, his head rolling slightly as we drag him out, his body unresponsive in a way that doesn’t matter.
By the time we reach the warehouse, the pressure has settled into something clear.
Focused.
We drag him inside and force him into the chair, binding him tight enough that there’s no movement left in him when he wakes.
Jackson lingers near the edge of the room.
“You sure you want to stay,” I say, not looking at him.
“I’m not leaving,” he replies. “Not until I get answers.”
I nod once.
That’s enough.
Christian hands me the salts.
I crack them under Luis’s nose.
His body jerks hard, his head snapping forward as he drags in a breath, his eyes opening wide and unfocused before locking onto us.
“Fuck,” he chokes, pulling against the restraints. “I’ll kill you...”
I hit him.
The impact snaps his head to the side, the sound of it sharp in the space.
“Where is my wife.”
He laughs, blood already starting to gather at his mouth. “Fuck you!”
I step in closer and hit him again, harder this time, my knuckles connecting with bone in a way that travels up my arm.
“I said,” I repeat, “where is my wife.”
He keeps talking.
Keeps pushing.
Keeps holding onto something that doesn’t exist here.
So I stop asking.
The knife is in my hand before I think about it.
