"You rape children," I say quietly. "You beat my fiancée half to death. You took her ring. You threatened to kill your wife."
"Please—" He's crying. Begging. "Please, I told you everything?—"
"And I'm grateful. That information is going to help us burn your entire operation to the ground." I lean closer. "But that doesn't mean you get to walk away. That doesn't mean you get to live the rest of your life with working legs."
"You can't do this?—"
"I can do whatever the fuck I want." I stand. Look down at him. "You're going to meet some friends of mine. And they're going to have questions. Alotof questions. And if you think what I did to your knees was bad?—"
I don't finish the sentence.
Don't need to.
The terror in his eyes says he understands.
I pull the chloroform from my pocket.
Soak the rag.
He tries to crawl away, but he can't.
His legs are useless.
Just drags himself across the floor, leaving trails of blood.
I grab him by the hair.
Press the rag over his nose and mouth.
He struggles.
Weakly.
Pathetically.
Then goes limp.
I stand over his unconscious body for a long moment.
Fighting the urge to put a bullet in his brain.
He deserves it.
God knows he deserves it.
But I need him alive.
The club needs him alive.
Runes and Fenrir are going to want answers.
And this piece of shit is going to give them.
I drag him to the truck.
It's not easy—he's dead weight, and my healing wound screams with every movement.
But I manage.
