When I dismount, I check the mag of my gun, which was in the back of my pants, before I put it back. Brooks does the same before we stroll toward the door, on which he knocks politely.
It takes a while before it opens. Some scrawny dude is standing in the opening. He wears a cut withProspecton it. As fast as he can, he grabs his gun and points it at us.
Brooks rolls his eyes at me before nodding with a huge-ass grin at Scrawny Pants.
“Can we speak to Long or Torres?” The prospect reminds me of a rat. Probably because of the shape of his face.
Without another word, he closes the door on us. I raise a brow and look at Brooks.
“The fuck? Is he going to get them or not?” He puts his hand on his weapon.
After a while, Ballistic raises his fist to pound on the door again, just as it opens. Brooks almost hits the VP in the face, but stops the movement just in time.
Torres looks at him with a blank expression. “Hello to you too, Ballistic.”
“I was just about to knock,” my bud says and grimaces.
“What are you doing here?” Torres puts a hand through his black, gelled-back hair and his gaze turns to me.
I spread my legs, roll back on my heels. “Talk. We’ve got questions.”
With a nod, he opens the door to let us in.
The empty warehouse smells like oil, which is probably because of the bikes in for repair. It’s loud too. The background music on the radio is unrecognizable because of the noisy workplace.
We follow Torres to his office at the back of the property. Eyes are burning my back, right through my patch. It makes me stand just a little taller.
The office contains a mahogany desk with a huge, weathered leather seat behind it. Torres takes a seat, gestures with an open hand to two similar chairs at the other side of the table. His dark-brown eyes penetrate my gray ones.
“I’m curious about the questions,” he says.
I skip the formalities. “Hayes. Who killed him?”
His black brows rise. “Hayes? The accountant you’re researching?”
I don’t react, just keep my eyes on him.
“What do you want from the numbers guy? Did he work for that porn business of yours?” The Knights VP leans with an elbow on the armrest and puts his chin in his hand. An amused smile graces his face.
“None of your fucking business what he is to me, or why we’re interested.” I put my ankle on my knee and lean backward. My fingers form a tent.
“Just as it’s none ofyourbusiness if we know anything about his death.”
Goddamn it. That motherfucker. I clench my fists, work my jaw and breath out in a controlled way. “How much did they pay you?”
A snort. “Dumbass signed a contract with Nick Vanderberg. With that, he signed his own death sentence, Young.”
“Since when does Vanderberg kill all his employees? Doesn’t seem very productive.” I shake my head.
Torres imitates me. “Accountants know shit. Too much shit. Stuff that could land Vanderberg in jail.” Sighing, he presses his forearms on the desk and bends toward us.
“Isn’t that what confidentiality clauses are for?” I know I pretend to be stupid, but Torres doesn’t need to know my IQ.
“Even I know you’re not that stupid, Young. Those clauses don’t mean shit when you’re doing time.” He laughs humorlessly.
“How much?” I lean a little further back in the chair. Brooks does the opposite and turns a menacing look at Torres while leaning forward.
Torres rolls his eyes, which makes Brooks clench his fists.
