“So,” I say, “you gonna tell me what you want? Or do I have to guess?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me.
Finally, he says, “I thought it was time we collaborated.”
I smirk. “Collaborate? That what the kids are calling it these days?”
He nods once. I laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because of the restraint it requires.
I step back from the elevator, giving him my full attention.
“Go on,” I say, voice cool. “I’m listening.”
Chapter 28
Nik
Roger doesn’t scream like I expect him to. Not at first.
He whimpers. Shakes. Asks questions no one’s answering. He’s trussed up like a sack of meat someone forgot to refrigerate—bruised, snot-faced, lip split wide. Still breathing. Unfortunately.
I keep my distance. Let the space between us thrum with expectation. I haven’t touched him. Don’t need to. That’s what Johnny’s for.
He walked with me into the warehouse. Didn’t ask questions. Just clocked Roger in zipties on the floor and stopped. Still as stone. Like a fuse waiting to burn.
I watch Johnny carefully. I need to know what kind of man I’m dealing with. Walter trusts him, but trust can be manufactured. So can loyalty. Pain, though? Pain strips people bare.
“He works in a trafficking house,” I inform Johnny. “One of Walter’s. Figured you might have questions.”
Johnny doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look at me. Just steps forward, slow and deliberate.
Roger lifts his head. Eyes bloodshot. Blinking fast. “What the hell—?”
Johnny answers with a punch. No wind-up. Just a straight, savage shot to the ribs.
Roger folds in on himself, coughing.
“Talk,” Johnny says, emotionless, kneeling over our captive.
“Talk about what?” Roger wheezes.
Another punch. This time to the jaw. A bloody tooth skips across the concrete.
I step in. “How many houses are there, Roger?”
No answer.
Johnny grabs the back of his neck and slams his face into the floor. Not hard enough to incapacitate him, but hard enough to break Roger’s nose. Blood gushes everywhere.
“How many girls did you sell?” he growls, voice rasped and low. “How many kids?”
Roger sobs. “I—I don’t know. Walter handles the details—please—”
Johnny doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t slow. Just pulls a knife I didn’t even know he had, and presses the flat of the blade against Roger’s cheek. Doesn’t cut. Just promises to.
“You ever put your hands on a kid?” Johnny growls, low and savage. “Ever helped Walter move one?”
Roger cries out. “No—no—I just handle intake! Logistics—I never—”
