“Yep. I’m never wrong.”
He hasn’t been yet. “And you think they know something about Henry?”
“Mhm. And his name isn’t really Henry, Boss-man.”
Yes, right. He told me this already, but I keep forgetting becauseHenryis the one who hurt Bane.
He hurt what’s mine.
I will make him pay for this. I will make him beg.
“He technically doesn’t have a name. Bane doesn’t either, just so you know.”
I frown at that. Sven never told me that before.
“He technically doesn’t exist. Not on record. Neither of them do.”
“I didn’t ask you for this information.”
“No, but you should know who you’re working with.”
It’s so much more than work. So much more.
“Anything else?” I bite out, and Sven is silent for a moment, his fingers clacking across a keyboard.
“I don’t know what room they’re in. I bet this place uses paper and pen to track guests. Probably so they can burn it if need be. I’m still working on getting the room number from the lady at the desk. I’ll keep you posted.”
I press my fingers to my temple, and my teeth clench.
“Just let me know how right I am when you get them. And tell them that MightyBalls says hi.”
I frown at that. I absolutely will not be saying that. I would rather watch my carcass be eaten by rats.
Hanging up, I turn my gaze toward the motel once more and then pull my briefcase open, looking down at the syringe and scalpel inside.
I plan on using both tonight. Plan on doing so much more with both of these.
My skin starts to feel too tight, itchy and unbearable.
I rub at my forearm and shift in my seat.
I can’t fucking stand it in here. It’s making everything inside me crawl. Slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the table, I stand up, the tea and toast untouched, as I grab my bag and move out of the diner.
I don’t want to wait for Sven to give me the room number. I can’t fucking wait.
I will ask the attendant myself.
Without even looking right or left, I stride across the street toward the motel lobby. The door rattles and squeaks when I pull it open, the bell hanging above me making an off-tune clang. Ominous. A warning, and yet it goes ignored.
An older woman sits behind the counter, looking tired and done with life. Her hair is half done, half missing, and a tooth hangs from between her lips.
She doesn’t even acknowledge me, just slides the paper book toward me and points toward the sign on the wall.
Cash only.
“I’m here looking for someone,” I say, not touching the pen sitting in the crack of the ledger. The amount of germs that would be on that. I shudder to even think of it.
“Not allowed to give information. We have the highest security.”
