“Well, look who’s awake,” Tacoma says, his voice deceptively casual as he circles them.
The big guy who grabbed Frankie spits blood onto the concrete floor. “Fuck you.”
Tacoma chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “I want to introduce you to someone.” He nods to Gator, who steps forward with a wicked grin.
“Hello, boys,” Gator says, cracking his knuckles. “I’m the motherfucker who’s gonna make you wish you were never born.”
Without warning, he drives his fist into the big man’s stomach. The impact is so brutal, I can hear the air whoosh out of his lungs. He gasps and chokes, his body swinging from the force of the blow.
“Now,” my brother continues, lighting a cigarette. “Let’s start with who you’re working for.”
The man who tried to take Saylor keeps his eyes on the floor. “We don’t know nothing.”
Tacoma sighs, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “They always try to lie. Motherfucker, do you think I don’t already know who you are?”
The man’s eyes go wide.
“That’s right, Carl. How’s the wife? She know you’re banging her sister?”
Carl’s eyes round to the size of dinner plates. These assholes have no idea who they’re fucking with.
“And you? Can I call you Will? You owe a lot of fucking money to the Saints. That why you got into bed with Valenciaga?”
The man Gator is working over looks like he might piss his pants.
“So you see, I already know who you are. What I don’t know is why you’re in my town, and why the fuck you came after my daughter.”
“Fuck you.” Carl doesn’t seem to be getting the picture.
Nodding to Journey, I watch as he wheels over a cart covered with a cloth. With a flourish, he pulls the fabric away, revealing an assortment of tools—pliers, hammers, knives, a blowtorch.
“No,” Carl whispers. “Jesus Christ. Fuck.”
“He ain’t gonna help you,” I growl, picking up a pair of pliers. “But I might, if you start talking.”
Carl clamps his lips shut.
The hard way it is.
For the next hour, the shed fills with screams as we extract information, piece by painful piece.
By the time we’re done, Carl and Will are sobbing, broken husks hanging from the ceiling.
“So,” Tacoma grunts, wiping blood from his knuckles. “You’re working for the Valenciaga family, who’s partnered with the Sinners to move girls through the Southeast.”
“Y-yes,” Carl chokes out.
“And you went after my daughter because she fit the profile of what your buyers are looking for,” my brother continues, his voice deceptively calm. “Young and pretty.”
Will nods, blood dripping from the gash in his head.
“And you went after my woman because she was in the way,” I add, stepping closer.
“Your woman?” Journey snorts behind me, but I ignore him.
“Tell me about the trafficking operation,” my brother demands. “Where are they keeping the girls?”
“I don’t know,” Will pleads. “We’re just the pickup crew. We grab ‘em and drop ‘em at a meeting point.”
