Ted Tomlinson is still unconscious.
The chloroform did its job.
His knees are a destroyed mess—blood soaked through the makeshift bandages I wrapped around them to keep him from bleeding out on the drive.
He's pale and clammy, but alive.
For now.
The back door opens.
Hakon and Ulf step out.
They see me, then see the truck, and within a few seconds they see what's in the bed.
"Holy shit," Hakon breathes. "Is that?—"
"The guy who attacked Ingrid. Yeah."
"What the fuck did you do to his legs?"
"Shot them."
Ulf lets out a low whistle.
"Gunnar, what the hell? You went after him alone? Without backup? Without telling anyone?"
"I did what I had to do."
"Runes is going to lose his fucking mind."
"Probably."
I grab Ted under the arms, start dragging him out of the truck bed.
His body hits the ground with a thud.
He groans but doesn't wake.
"You going to help me or just stand there?" I ask.
They exchange a look before they move.
Hakon grabs one arm, Ulf the other.
Together, we drag Ted Tomlinson into the clubhouse, heading straight for the basement.
Into the room we use for situations exactly like this.
The room is concrete.
Windowless.
Soundproofed.
A single chair sits in the center, bolted to the floor.
Chains hang from the ceiling.
