“You’ll talk.” My voice is flat. “Or this little piggy goes to market.”
The cutters bite down, inflicting pain but not cutting through bone. Yet.
“Where the fuck is Moore?” I bellow
His laugh is half pain, half humor, “I aint telling you shit, sheriff.” He spits.
The snap is brutal, brittle—bone breaking like a dry twig. He doesn’t even process it until the blood sprays warm across the wood. Then it hits him. His scream rips through the rafters, high and raw, a sound that doesn’t sound human anymore.
I let the ruined finger drop, flesh and nail skittering across the floorboards.
“This little piggy went to market.”
His chest convulses, air wheezing through his teeth. His eyes bulge, veins crawling red across the whites. Spit strings from his mouth as he shakes his head, babbling, “Fuck you, I don’t know?—”
I don’t wait.
The cutters shift, jaws opening around the next finger. My hand is steady, my grip unyielding.
“This little piggy stayed home.”
The crack this time is wetter. Louder. Blood sheets down from hishand, soaking the rope until it runs black. His scream curdles, breaking into jagged gasps that scrape his throat raw.
Behind me, I hear someone gag, retching into the dirt. Boots scrape as Carter shifts, like he might step forward, but he doesn’t. Mason doesn’t blink.
George thrashes, the chair legs rattling against the floor. His head whips, spit flying, eyes rolling wide. “Stop! Stop! I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you everything?—”
I lean in until my mouth brushes his ear, my words a blade sliding under skin.
“Then talk.”
He sobs, voice tumbling over itself. “The warehouse—the new one—they moved everything—off the interstate, by the old mill road. That’s all I know, I swear?—”
I stare him down. His lips quiver, spit glistening at the corners. His chest heaves shallow, rank breath puffing lies into the air between us.
“He isn’t going to stay in the warehouse… he has somewhere else… Where?” I snarl through gritted teeth.
He shakes his head, tears streaming down his cheeks and snot flooding from his nose. He tries to let out a silent scream, a saliva bubble popping when he opens his mouth.
The cutters bite down on the next finger, jaws grinding against bone, slick with blood. Red drips thick onto the sawdust, soaking it in clumps.
“This little piggy had roast beef?—”
“Wait! Wait!” George howls, jerking so hard the ropes burn his skin raw. “He’s at Sebastian Vale’s! Jackson—he’s hiding at Vale’s place, I swear it—I swear it on my fuckin’ life!”
The men still. Carter’s gaze snaps to me, unreadable. Mason’s jaw knots hard, a vein ticking. The name cuts through the air like a blade. Vale. Connected. Dangerous.
I don’t stop.
The cutters snap shut. His middle finger tears loose, drops to the floor with a slap that splatters the boards. George’s scream breaks, high and cracked, curdling into something animal.
“I told you man…. I fucking told you.”
Behind me, Grove stumbles out the door, boots scraping, gagging until his stomach empties into the dirt. Hayes follows, muttering a prayer between heaves. Rayes and Vance are already out there—they left the second I put the cutters to his pinkie.
Inside, George’s sobbing drowns the silence, thick, choking, begging in words that collapse over themselves. Noise. Nothing but noise.
“Enough,” Mason cuts in, stepping forward. His voice is iron, cold. “We’ve got what we need.”
