I shot a glance at Nitro, who shrugged. “He firebombed us, Senator. We’re just grading the test.”
She moved forward, anger and horror warring on her face. “This is—this is inhuman. You don’t need to—”
I cut her off with a look, ice cold. “You want to take over, or you want him to try again next week? Maybe with a bullet, not a bottle?”
She recoiled, silent.
I turned back to the kid, who was sobbing and snotting and bleeding all over the floor. “You’re doing great, Twisted. Now let’s talk about the man who paid your club.”
He shook his head, eyes wild. “You’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill you slow if you don’t.” I reached for the next nail.
He howled, voice cracking. “Giammati! The money came from Giammati’s people. I never met him, but everyone knew the name. Said it was politics, not club beef. Just a job.”
I pulled the pliers away, let the new wound bleed.
“Who gave you the target?” I asked. “Who told you to go after Carly?”
He was breaking now, shaking so hard the chair rattled. “Orders came from the top. Dire Straits president, but he don't make calls like this without backing." His voice was barely a whisper now, each word dragged out like broken glass. "There's a connection. Someone who knows both sides."
I leaned closer, the pliers still in my grip. "What kind of connection?"
"Don't know names. Just heard... heard there's someone feeding intel. About the club, about her." He jerked his chin toward Carly. "Someone close."
I glanced back at Carly. “You have a rat in your circle.”
Chapter twelve
Damron and Carly
Nobody said a word, not even the prospect whose hand was now more pulp than flesh. Nitro had taken him out back, and I could hear the hollow whimpering through the door, low and animal, the sound of a kid learning the true price of loyalty. The rest of the club drifted to corners, some lighting cigarettes, others just staring at the floor, shell-shocked by what they’d witnessed or wishing they could scrub it out of memory. You never forget the first time a man screams with your name on his lips. The veterans didn’t flinch, but the prospects looked green around the gills, and I made a mental note of which ones kept their lunch down.
Carly stood in the middle of it, arms crossed, feet planted but knees locked, like if she shifted her weight the world might collapse under her. She was white as a ghost and shaking in a way that suggested she didn’t even realize it, jaw clenched so tight the tendons showed through her skin. I watched her take it in—every drop of blood, every crushed knuckle, every battered ego in the room. She blinked, hard, then looked at me like I was the last man on earth worth hating.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing her by the uninjured arm. Her skin was ice, and I had to resist the urge to rub some warmth back into it. “Let’s talk somewhere that doesn’t sound like a slaughterhouse.”
The club corridor was narrow and lined with ancient black-and-white photos of men who’d died uglier than they lived. Their eyes followed us down the hall, silent judges for a world that never learned to clean up its own messes. I steered Carly past the bar, past the main lounge where the TV still blared news of her own shooting, and into my office at the back. The door was steel, with a deadbolt and three sets of hinges. You could survive a war in here, or at least outlast a good siege.
The office was spartan—no family photos, just old patches in glass frames, a few tarnished trophies from charity races, and a map of New Mexico riddled with thumbtacks. The desk was covered in open ledgers, half-written notes, and a small arsenal of handguns and knives. Behind the desk, two AKs hung side by side on a wall rack, one with a cracked stock and the other covered in tally marks I’d made as a joke and never bothered to erase.
I dropped into the creaking leather chair and gestured for Carly to take the seat across from me. She hesitated, then sat, spine ramrod straight, hands folded over her bandaged forearm like a shield. Her eyes flitted over the weapons, then over me, then back to the wall, never settling for long.
I poured two fingers of whiskey into a chipped glass, then poured another and slid it across the desk to her. She let it sit, condensation pooling on the wood.
“You ever see a man’s fingernail come off with pliers?” I asked, more curious than cruel. “Because if you haven’t, that’s one to check off the bucket list.”
She looked at the glass, not at me. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Nothing’s supposed to be anything,” I said, draining my glass in a swallow. “You either get it, or you don’t. I didn’t choose this life, Carly. It chose me. Once that happens, there’s not a fucking thing can change it. I’ve tried. Fuck, I’ve tried.”
Her jaw flexed, the skin around her mouth blanching even paler. “I came here to survive, not to watch you torture some kid into a confession.”
I grinned, all teeth. “Welcome to the fucking desert, Senator. Sometimes survival looks like torture. What the actually fuck do you think they would do to you if captured? Sing you theTitanictheme song?”
She didn’t rise to it. Instead, she stared at the whiskey, fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on the desk. “Who are the Dire Straits, really?” she said, voice low. “And why do they want me dead so goddamn bad?”
I shrugged, then reached for the bottle and topped myself off. “They’re another MC. Meaner than most, but not half as smart. They used to run strip joints and fireworks, now it’s fentanyl and guns.” I hesitated, letting the words stretch. “Their president is Dean Whitman, but everyone calls him Ghost. Ex-Marine, old as dirt, more scars than skin.”
