Don’t go there, motherfucker.
Rebel leaned into the hallway to get a better look. They were eyeing Brit like she was a filet mignon. One licked his lips, the other rearranged his junk.
“You wanna fuck?” Fat Guy asked.
Fury had Rebel biting back a growl.
“I hired you to kill my husband,” Brit hissed.
“We were talking after you left and we don’t think ten grand is enough,” Tat Guy said. “That’s only five each.”
“A fewfuckswould sweeten the payday,” Fat Guy said.
Rebel stepped out of the shadows. “You put one finger on her, I’ll slit your fuckin’ throats.”
He pointed his gun at the fat one.
Brit pulled her Glock, aimed it at the skinhead.
“Whoa, whoa, man,” said Fat Guy. “We didn’t mean anything.”
“Hands behind your head,” Brit said.
They stared at her.
“Now!” she hollered.
With their hands out of the way, Rebel patted down the fat one, pulled his gun, and shoved it into his waistband. After patting down the other one, he pulled a long knife from its sheath, slid it across the floor.
“What the fuck is going on?” Tat Guy rasped.
“They’re cops,” Fat Guy replied.
“I got questions, you got answers,” Rebel said.
“What the hell!” Tat guy blurted. “You gotquestions? Why couldn’t you ask us—I don’t know—at a bar, like everyone else.
Hatred seethed through Rebel’s pores. “Answers or blood.”
“I’m not telling you anything.” Fat Guy glared at Brit. “This cunt played us.”
“Give me your phones,” Brit demanded.
“We aren’t stupid enough to bring ‘em,” Fat Guy said. “They’re traceable.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Tat Guy said.
“Who’s Candyman?” Rebel asked.
They stared at him.
“What?” Fat Guy asked.
“Are you for real?” Tat Guy echoed.
“It’s a simple question,” Rebel said. “You tell me his name, you live. You don’t, you die.”
“We’re not telling you a goddamn thing,” Fat Guy replied.
