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Preacher releases the punk, and he falls to the ground, his split lip telling me the offer of information probably came after a few meaty fists landed. Hard.
I fold my arms and stare at the punk. “What kind of information?”
He looks up warily and pushes from all fours to his knees. “The kind of information that’ll get me out of a beating, I hope.”
I stare at the punk and his splotchy skin, track marks up and down his arms, between his fingers. I immediately peg him as a tweaker. “Can’t trust any info that comes from an addict.”
“No beating?”
Yeah, right. “If the info is good enough.” Maybe.
Nova lifts him up with a grunt. “We’ll take him to The Chamber.”
I nod and clean my hands before following Preacher and Nova. The Chamber is a small dark room we keep for various purposes, such as chatting with a tweaker with unknown loyalty. “Tie him up.”
The tweaker’s eyes go wide with shock and panic. “That’s not necessary. I already told you.” He thrashes from side to side as if his one hundred and twenty-pound frame is any match against Preacher’s stocky build or Nova’s Army-built body. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“Damn right you will.” I stand about ten feet away from the chair he’s tied to and crack my knuckles. “Let’s start with something easy. What’s your name?”
“Weasel. People call me Weasel.”
“What’s your real name?” If I need to track this guy down, I don’t want to spend too much time looking.
“Greg. Greg Waters.”
“All right, Greg. What were you looking for in the tail bag?”
His eyes go to Preacher and then back to me. More panic. “Anything. A phone, some cash, drugs, whatever I could sell. Or smoke.”
Yep, definitely a tweaker. “Who told you to choose that bike?”
“No one.” His words are definitive but defiant.
I take a few steps closer and sigh. “Make me believe you.”
“No one told me a damn thing, man. I swear.”
“I guess you don’t want to do this the easy way.” I step in close enough to see his pupils dilate and hit him twice in the gut.
Weasel coughs and spits before he looks back up at me. “Seriously, man, who the fuck would tell me to rob a tail bag? I was looking for a fix, and his bike was the obvious choice.”
“Why?” I pull my fist back, and his eyes widen in fear.
“’Cause the other bike had one of those Medical Corps tags on it, and my dad was in the Army.”
That’s believable enough and would take too long to disprove. “What kind of information do you have for us? Be specific.”
“It’s about the Iron Kings. You guys got beef with them, don’t ya?”
That’s not exactly a secret, but there’s no need to confirm. “I’m asking the questions, Weasel.”
He nods and makes another attempt to tug at his ties. “All right, fine. You don’t want the information, let me go.”
Preacher, who has been silent this entire time, watching, steps forward. “You mean, beat your ass and then let you go, right?”
Weasel swallows hard as it becomes crystal clear that he’s not leaving this room without a beating. “Whatever.”
“What do you know about the Iron Kings?”
“Nothing,” he answers quickly, too quickly, his voice full of defiance.
“Excellent.” I turn away from Weasel and head to the metal table set up, mainly to be intimidating, but there are plenty of useful tools on it if they become necessary.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” I tell him and slide a pair of black leather motorcycle gloves with reinforced steel knuckles on my hands. I fist and flex my hands a few times and stand directly in front of him, smiling.
“You have ties with the Iron Kings?”
Weasel chooses silence.
It’s an admirable trait, but I choose violence and land four body shots, two on each side. “Still got nothing to say?”
Silence. Again.
One shot straight to his chest knocks the wind out of him, and I step back to let the fucker cough it out.
“Iron Kings,” I prompt.
“Shit. I don’t know shit about them.”
“Except that we have beef with them?”
I hit him again, three times, to show him there’s no mercy to be had here in this room. I pull my fist back, ready to land a face blow that no man could withstand.
“Okay! All right! Fuck, okay?” He sucks in a few breaths and spits on the concrete floor. “I don’t know shit, not really. But sometimes they hire me to be a lookout or to deliver shit they don’t want to get caught with.”
“Why you?”
Weasel laughs. “Look at me, man. I’m a tweaker, and I’ll do almost anything for cash, and I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“So you work for the Iron Kings. Good to know.” I look to Preacher and then Nova. Neither man has the stomach for The Chamber except when there’s no choice. My presence at the shop meant there was another choice.
