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“Are you fucking with me?” Sarge shook his head. “Holy shit.” I couldn’t get to my feet fast enough. My pulse raced as hope flowed through my veins. “Where did they bring him?”
“Location three, Boss.”
I didn’t have to see the grin on Sarge’s face to hear the excitement in his voice. “You’re coming with me, right?”
He chuckled, a dark, sinister sound. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
* * *
As Frank pulled up to my recently purchased nightclub, I briefly wished I had taken the time to change into one of my suits. My suits made me feel more powerful, made my presence larger and more intimidating to those around me. Especially my enemies.
I chided myself for worrying about fucking clothes at a time like this, but old habits die hard. As much as my skin itched, there was no way I was wasting precious minutes changing. I wanted my hands on the piece of shit my men picked up so badly my fingers twitched. I wanted to lay eyes on the person who held the knowledge that would get my girl back. Besides, my shit-kicking, steel-toed motorcycle boots, worn dark wash jeans, and dark Henley would serve me well tonight. Loose enough to allow flexibility, the clothes also covered my blades—one on my calf and two on my arms.
I flexed my wrists to test the weight of my knives. A jolt of excitement sent my pulse racing when I felt the tight sheaths beneath the cuffs of my shirt. Untucked, the hem even covered the gun I had in a holster inside my waistband. Everything I wore was clean and neat and free of stains… for now. It had been a while since I had to torture, I mean, interrogate, someone for information. The process wasn’t usually without… spills.
Deep inside my very being, the monster rejoiced at the chance to release six days of pent-up anger and frustration. The neat freak in me recoiled at the mess that was sure to come. I used to do jobs like this quite a bit, but it was Milo’s thing now. For me personally, it was distasteful to say the least.
“We’re here, Boss.”
Sarge tore me from my gleefully gruesome thoughts and Frank held the car door open. My heavy boots crunched on the gravel parking lot behind the club. Of all of my businesses, my newest acquisition was the only one with a basement. In a past life, the nightclub was an upscale Italian restaurant, and the original owners had put in a rather spacious, and quite expensive, wine cellar. It was the perfect room for what I had planned. In fact, I had imagined using it many, many times over the last six days. I grinned.
I was time to break it in.
Frank stayed with the car while Sarge and I were met at the back entrance by Shade. I nodded as he fell in line with Sarge and trailed behind me.
“Who’s here?” I asked as I continued weaving through the back of the club.
“Me, Little Joe, Six, and Feyo, Boss,” Shade answered.
I stopped at the open door at the top of the stairway that led down to the wine cellar and frowned.
“Where’s Milo?” My first lieutenant would never miss an opportunity to inflict pain. Plus, I damn well expected him of all people to be present when we interrogated someone.
“He said he’s on his way but won’t get back in time. He’s southwest of San Antonio, following a lead. Said we should just start without him.”
I gaped at Shade. “What? Milo is supposed to be in charge of our men, not out tracking Los Guerreros. Who the fuck is monitoring all the communications between everyone and sorting through maps and shit? Crossing off areas and compiling information?”
The excitement I felt in the car ebbed when I realized my lieutenant had once again failed to follow my goddamn orders.
“I’m doing it, Boss,” Shade said, his skin turning red. “I didn’t know you ordered otherwise or I wouldn’t have—”
I held up a hand. “No need to apologize.” Shade did nothing wrong, but I was going to fucking skin Milo alive when he got back in town. As to the issue at hand, “Let’s see what this piece of shit has to say.”
With an inhuman grin, I led my men down the stairs.
* * *
“Por favor, I do not know anything else.”
I leaned against the cold cement wall, arms crossed over my chest, and watched the man. His name was Jesús and it was said he was an upper level dealer for Los Guerreros, one of the unfortunate men left behind to run business in San Antonio while El Cuchillo hid like a little pussy bitch. Jesús wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t large, either. Didn’t matter. I could give two shits what the fuck he looked like. He could be fucking Hercules and he’d find himself in the exact same position. His size wasn’t the issue. It was the black and red tattoo on his left inner forearm that landed him in his current, quite dire, situation.
The mark of Los Guerreros.
El Cuchillo made all his men get branded with the design when they “passed” his test, whatever the fuck that sick shit was. I heard conflicting stories over the years about the initiation rites of the sadistic San Antonio leader. They encompassed everything from killing an innocent civilian to kidnapping and raping a woman. It was the second one that brought my rage thundering to the surface, the monster in me growling and snapping with fury, craving the blood of Miri’s captors. My doll was missing and those soulless bastards had her. Add in the fact that Cuchillo wanted to start selling women as sex slaves and Jesús, naked and shackled in my ex-wine cellar, was in deep fucking shit.
I stayed against the wall and remained silent, merely observing. Giving the man time to imagine everything I was going to do to him. I was content to focus my emotionless stare on him from my comfortable spot across the room. He turned his head in my direction and tried to talk his way out.
“Please. No sé nada. I am just a dealer. El Cuchillo does not tell me anything.”
