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Toad kneels beside him and turns Cutter’s head from left to right. “He’s out, folks!”
“Haul his ass up,” I say, pointing to a large semi-engine hoist at the rear of the warehouse.
I turn back to the men who’ve just finished hoisting Cutter up. He’s alert once more, and I stride back to him.
“That hit differently, didn’t it?” I ask, smirking at him.
Once again, he spits, but this time in my direction, and I jump back in time enough that it misses me.
“Who sent you after the cop?” I ask, wrapping my chain around my fist as my brothers step back several feet.
“Not telling you shit! You’re gonna kill me one way or the other, so just get it over with.”
“Do you know who I am? You know what I’ve done?” I smirk. “Guess you haven’t heard about the Sinners, and you damn sure don’t know me,” I say, flicking my wrist as the tail end of my metal link chain catches him on the side.
His body jerks, and he flails in the air as a thick silence descends upon the warehouse before it lifts like a cloud, ripped apart by his scream.
“You don’t get off that easily, bitch!” I snarl. “Who the fuck sent you after the cop?”
His body is still flailing when he shakes his head. “Kill me!”
“I’m a man of my word. I will kill you, but you will pay first.”
“Why the fuck you care about a pig? They don’t give a shit about you or me,” he cries.
“Who sent you?”
“Vete a la mierda!”
I walk behind him, flexing the whip and catching him across his back. His body jerks, and he screams.
“Who sent you?” I repeat because that’s the only answer that I want right now. The other answers I can get from the person who sent him, though I suspect I know who that is. I just need confirmation before making another move.
It takes a couple of minutes before he regains his bearings. Tears streaming down his face and snot from his nose, he whimpers between breaths, “You and me are the same. Trying to make a living just this side of the law. I don’t come to your fucking neighborhood, and till recently, you don’t come to mine. Why the fuck you give a damn about a bitch ass cop who should be dead with a bullet to the head? If they’d allowed me to, that’s how I woulda took him out. Not some punk-ass injection. Boom!” he says, laughing maniacally.
I flex the chain again, but this time not once but multiple times, catching him in the ribs and the back repeatedly until Snake shouts, “Nitro! You need answers!”
“Lower him,” I grit out.
When they lower him, I stand over him and watch the blood pool under his body, dribbling from his lips as his watery eyes watch me.
After a couple of minutes, he whispers, “Why the fuck you care?”
“He’s my fucking brother!” I snarl as understanding dawns in his eyes.
He now knows this was no random kill, just as my hunting him down and torturing him was no random crime. If he understands nothing else, he has a universal understanding of the protection for familia.
“Who. Fucking. Sent. You?”
“Miguel García.”
I turn around and look at my brothers.
“Higher up on the totem pole. From what I hear, he’s Armand Rodríguez’s right hand,” Snake says.
I turn back to Cutter. “Did you shoot him and send him to the hospital?”
“No. Miguel,” he says, coughing as blood spurts from his mouth.
