* * *
Atticus made it to the cabin in good time. It was a lot easier to navigate the barely-there trail in a 4x4, especially when you didn’t have to worry about branches scratching the paint or getting stuck in the mud. He parked the truck next to Jericho’s vintage Bronco. He loved a fixer upper. Atticus stopped short. Was that how Jericho saw him? A fixer-upper? A project? He supposed the idea should bother him more than it did. Jericho wasn’t the first one to look at him and think that way. Even Thomas thought of him that way.
There was a single light on in the window but it lit the place enough for Atticus to see Jericho moving about the space. He texted Jericho to let him know he was there, even though he was certain he heard his engine. It didn’t pay to spook murderers. He opened the door and Jericho’s gaze raked over him, a small smile hitching his lips upwards. “Hey, Freckles. You made good time.”
“I brought the truck.”
Atticus noted the faint blood trail that led from the chair to the door. A chair that once had held Trevor. Something big had helped itself to Trevor’s corpse, dragging it back to its den. It had been kind enough to leave the chair for the brown-haired man who was screaming behind his gag. Atticus could only assume that was Bryan.
He wasn’t screaming in terror. No, Bryan was fucking pissed, enraged even. His sweaty face was bright red, and a vein in his forehead throbbed in time with his pulse as he gave them a piece of his mind, none of which he understood. He wore baggy jeans and a flannel shirt over a wifebeater, like some gangbanger straight out of central casting.
“Has he been doing that since you got here?” Atticus asked, dropping his duffle bag on the same table he’d sat on the last time he’d watched Jericho torture a man to death.
“Only since he woke up,” Jericho said, unbothered. Atticus’s stomach chose that moment to announce that he hadn’t had time to eat before he got there. Jericho snickered. “I brought some of those granola bars you like. They’re in my pack.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, Freckles. I know eating isn’t a big priority for you. Can’t have you wasting away.” He slapped Atticus’s ass as if to make a point and, once more, Bryan began to freak out behind his gag.
Atticus found the granola bars and hopped onto the table before lying back with his head on his bag, unwrapping his treat. Jericho lined his instruments of torture along the bench seat just below him so he didn’t have to strain to hand anything over. Jericho really did think of everything.
“You ready?” Jericho asked.
“Sure,” Atticus said around a mouthful of granola.
Jericho ripped the bandana out of the guy’s mouth. “Do you fucking bitches know who I am? Do you know what you just did? My boys are gonna fucking gut you, they’ll shove a blow torch so far up your ass you’ll—”
Jericho stuffed the gag back in his mouth with a sigh before dragging a chair in front of Bryan, spinning it around so he could straddle the back. “Bryan, you need to take a minute and think about this. Note that we’re not wearing masks. That means we’re not worried about getting caught.” Jericho pulled a knife from the holster strapped to his thigh. “Do you know why we’re not concerned about getting caught?” he asked, opening the man’s skin from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth while he screamed. “It’s because you’re not walking out of here.”
Atticus took another bite of his granola bar as the seven stages of grief overcame young Bryan. His eyes widened as he shook his head. Atticus sighed. Denial. Behind the gag, Bryan began to shout again. Anger. Soon bargaining would come. Atticus hated bargaining.
“This is going to go one of two ways. Easy or hard.” Jericho shook his head as Bryan tried to somehow yank himself free of his restraints, still talking the whole time. “Shh,” Jericho chided. “You don’t want to miss my offer.”
The man glowered at him but fell quiet.
“My offer is this. You answer my questions and you die quickly. You don’t and you die slowly…screaming.”
The man’s gaze shot to the front door, then back to Jericho. This time when Jericho pulled the gag down, the man remained silent.
“You going to cooperate?”
“Man, fuck you, fa—”
Jericho slipped the blade between the man’s lips. “I highly recommend you don’t finish that sentence.”
When he pulled the blade out, blood followed. The wound was superficial but tongues always bled like a bitch.
“Fucking do what you want, man. I ain’t tellin’ you shit. You think I’m afraid of you fucking—” He cut himself off. “You think you can do something worse to me than what the crew will do to my family if I talk?”
“This isn’t about your gang, Bryan. This is about your friend. The one who goes by the name, Scar.”
Atticus had thought that mentioning Scar would have put the man at ease but, instead, his shoulders went back and his eyes darted around like this was some kind of test. “I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“Problem is, Bryan…you do know who he is. We know you do. That’s not in question. We want to know who he is. Is he one of your gang friends? Is that why you’re so scared?”
The man scoffed, the blood spraying from his lips narrowly avoiding Jericho’s face. “Fuck you, man.”
“You’re wasting your time trying to be nice,” Atticus said, reaching down to pick up the cordless drill. “Use this to pop one of his kneecaps off and he’ll either die or tell you what you need to know.”
