“Back!” Grove growls, charging down the hall. Carter follows, gun raised.
There’s a crash. A shout. Then Reyes drags him out—George Johnson, wiry and greasy, his shirt half off like he’d been caught mid-flight. His face slams against the doorframe once, hard enough to leave a smear of blood, before Reyes yanks him upright again.
But it’s not just him.
There’s a girl.
Christ—she can’t be older than eighteen. Thin as bones under skin, pupils blown wide, sweat slicking her face. She’s screaming, slurring, clawing at the air.
“You need a fuckin’ warrant!” she shrieks, voice cracking like glass. “You—You can’t just?—”
Before she can finish, Mason snaps. He grips her by the waist like she weighs nothing and hurls her against the wall. Her body hits plaster with a thud.
She crumples, gasping, wide-eyed, every ounce of fight knocked clean out of her.
“I’ll be quiet,” she babbles, shaking. “I’ll be quiet, I swear—pleasedon’t?—”
I don’t look in that direction again.
George spits onto the floor, snarling like a cornered rat. “You got no right?—”
My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish. The crack rings through the house, and his knees buckle.
“Rights?” I growl, hauling him upright by his collar. “You think you’ve got rights, you piece of shit? You run with Jackson Moore. That strips you of every fucking one.”
He knows fighting is useless— he’s outnumbered eight to one. In truth, he knows even one to one he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance against me, or any of my men for that matter.
The others are on him in seconds. Carter shackles his wrists behind his back. Grove digs the muzzle of his pistol into George’s spine like a cattle prod.
We drag him through the front door, his heels scraping over the porch steps, and hurl him into the back of the truck like garbage.
The sounds of the woman still whimpering inside, curled against the wall like she’s trying to disappear into the plaster. She won’t. She’ll remember this. She’ll remember us.
But tonight, I don’t care.
George Johnson is ours.
And he’s going to fucking talk.
Mason’s workshop sits half a mile out of town, tucked into the woods where no headlights wander by accident. From the outside it looks harmless—sloped roof, stacks of firewood piled neatly along the wall, a porch light flickering yellow. But inside? Inside, it smells like sawdust and oil. Old blood and new purpose.
We drag George across the dirt floor. His boots scuff, voice hoarse from yelling the whole drive. Carter and Grove shove him down into the heavy chair Mason uses for sanding. Thick, sturdy, made to take pressure. Rope bites into his wrists as they tie him down tight.
He thrashes once, twice. Then glares at me. “You ain’t gettin’ shit from me.”
Carter shoots me a warning look. “Boss, remember the plan. Don’t kill him. Not yet.”
I nod once.
I crouch in front of George. He stinks—sweat and fear and blooddrying at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll talk,” I say quietly. Calm. Like I’m promising the weather.
He laughs. It’s ugly, broken. He spits, the glob landing just shy of my boot. “You might scare other folk in this town but you sure as hell don’t scare me.”
Wrong thing to say.
My eyes wander the workbench. Chisels. Mallets. Planers. And there—set gleaming under the overhead light—a pair ofbolt cutters, heavy and razored at the jaws. I pick them up, test the weight in my hand. Perfect.
I step toward George and pin his left hand flat against the chair arm. The ropes strain as he jerks, muscles twitching uselessly. His pinky trembles under the steel, a pathetic little spasm that only makes me press harder.
