“He’s one stubborn bastard,” he sighs. “We finally got him to talk. Michael and Da are here too. They wanna go over all the intel together,” he says.
“Intel? Are ya working for MI6?”
“Feck off,” Logan groans, “I got maybe three hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. I still have to hear Daddy Armstrong wailing and moaning. Why can’t we finish him off? Richard rejected two offers to swap the formula for his Da.”
“He’s still useful,” I say, “even if he’ll never walk again.” Uncle Lachlan does love his techniques. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Bring a case of beer!” Logan calls before I can disconnect. “This shite is thirsty work.”
“In other words, ya already drank everything with an alcohol content, including the paint thinner?”
He hangs up on me.
By the time I arrive at the warehouse where we keep these kinds of ‘guests,’ beer in hand, the mercenary is barely breathing.
Good. Just a spark of life left is all I need to work on this son of a bitch. He’s a mess, hanging from a hook in the ceiling, held up by the shackles on his wrists. One eye is swollen shut, and he’s missing most of his teeth, along with a few of his fingers.
“Nice work,” I compliment Logan. “Uncle Lachlan would be proud of ya.”
“Now you’re makin’ me blush,” he says, draining his first bottle of beer.
“Ach, my son finally shows up.” Da and Michael stroll into the room.
They’re both dressed in suits without a speck of blood or internal organs on them. “So, I’m guessing Logan did all the heavy lifting here?”
“I offered,” Michael says defensively, “he said he wanted to quote, ‘Refine his craft.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
“Rise and shine, arsehole.” Kicking him in the knee, I wait for him to open his eyes, groaning.
“Jus’ fuckin’ lemme die, you piece of shi…” he slurs.
“What’s that?” I hold my hand to my ear. “It’s hard to understand ya, mate, what with most of your teeth missing.”
His head lolls back, barely conscious.
“Ya tried to kill my wife,” I snarl. “I could have been more lenient if it had just been me. Ya fecked up. Who sent ya?”
“I tol…” A dribble of blood comes from the corner of his mouth.
“The shooters were under instructions to catch Luna and you and bring ya to the Aristocrats,” Da says, stepping in. “They’re obsessed with making ya suffer. But Armstrong’s not the one who sent them in.”
“Fecking Aristocrats, too delicate to get their hands dirty.” Michael spits at the man’s feet.
“Who hired ya?” I pat his cheek. Well, more of a punch with the full force of my weight behind it.
“The Mancin… Mancini Maf…” More blood spills down his chin, and I’m thinking we dinna have long.
This is not good news. The Mancini Mafia do the shite that’s below every other crime organization, the lowest of the low. If they got their hands on the nerve gas… I yank his head back by his bloody hair. “Did they win the bid for the formula?”
“Doan’ know,” he groans. “You guys…bonus to get the bi…” His head rolls back, his one good eye staring up at the cracked ceiling.
“That was quick,” Logan laments. “Ya think he’d have a stronger constitution. Fecking mercenaries.”
“Xenia and Georges have been livin’ on Red Bull and takeaway for the last three days, scrolling through the chatter on the dark web,” Da says. “It dinna look like the Mancini Mafia won the bid since they couldn’t produce you two, because that is now one of the conditions to win the bid for the nerve gas.”
“Those feckin’ Aristocrats are mighty sore losers,” Michael says. “Comes from being pampered little ghallas their whole life.”
“We’re no closer than we’ve been to finding Armstrong and that feckin’ formula.” I’m pacing the sticky concrete floor, running my hands through my hair. “Who do we have in Sicily that can snatch up someone in the Mancini Mafia and question them? Shite, the Toscano Mafia would likely do it for free. They hate the Mancinis.”
