Page 107 of Inflict

The rifle was grand for a lot of noise.

The Eagle was grand for making a point.

“Here’s the thing,” Connor said, “I need some information. And there isn’t one of you feckin’ cunts that are leaving this joint until I get it. If that means you need to make some calls to get me somewhere, then we’ll do that. We’re already one down, there’s only two of you idiots left. Somebody better get me information.”

The remaining two men gaped, their gazes darting between Connor, and their dead comrade.

“W-what are ye looking for, Connor?” the shorter of the two asked.

“My father, or Lachlan. I’ll take either. Don’t waste my time.”

• • •

“We need a safe place,” Connor mused. “A quiet place, where we won’t be interrupted.”

Killian nodded from the passenger seat of the truck. “There’s that whorehouse your father abandoned after it got raided a couple years back. He never approved anyone to fill the rooms again, but it’s still there, locked up tight.”

Connor considered it. “The one with all the red doors inside?”

“Customers knew which rooms the girls were in by the doors.”

“Shite part of town, mostly no cops, and—”

“He can scream for days,” Killian interrupted with a chuckle. “No one is going to hear him.”

Oh, that was perfect.

Connor did a U-turn in the middle of the road, flipping off some fool that honked his horn, and headed in the direction he needed to go. It took another forty minutes before he had parked his truck around the side of the rundown, dilapidated building that had housed dopesick working girls for years. He’d only visited the place once or twice for something Sean had needed, but he wasn’t about to forget the bright red doors inside.

“Grab him,” Connor ordered, “and I’ll get the chains.”

Killian pushed out of the truck. “Why the chains?”

“The place is old. Thought it might look nice with a decoration hanging from the ceiling or something.”

Connor could tell just by the look on Killian’s face that he had no clue what his friend was talking about, and he didn’t intend to explain. Killian would figure it out soon enough. He grabbed the chains from the back of the truck, and two of his favorite knives he’d stored back there when he had needed his hands free for the guns.

Killian dragged a gagged and bound Lachlan from the backseat of the truck, letting the man fall to the ground without easing the plunge. A gruff ompf sounded from under the black hood they had shoved over the Irish mobster’s head, which was sort of good news.

He was still alive, anyway.

And awake.

That made things easier.

“Pissed himself, he did,” Killian grumbled.

“Careful not to get it on yourself,” Connor warned as he headed toward the locked side door of the whorehouse. “You’ll be walking your dumb arse home.”

“I’m helping you, in case you forgot!”

“Not by smelling like piss, you shod.”

Killian muttered something under his breath, but Connor’s attention was already stolen by something else. He focused his work on getting the lock undone on the door, and once it was, he wasted no time heading inside to look for the perfect spot to do his business.

Ten minutes later, Connor had found a room with a red door and sturdy enough rafter to hold the weight of a man while he screamed and twisted in pain. Killian helped to string a still-gagged and blindfolded Lachlan up to the rafter by his wrists, and then he stepped back to let Connor handle the rest.

He gave his friend fifteen minutes—at the most—before he would need to leave the room.