Irving raised his hand, but he and his buddies kept running.
“Drive, Fallon,” Rowen demanded.
Fuck, I’d never heard him sound this serious, so I jumped behind the wheel and did as he said.
It took me about an hour with the traffic to get to Vinegar Hill, the sleepy suburb where the torture house was located. I didn’t know why the guys called the three-story, brown brick building Mount Pleasure, but the name had been around long before I came into the picture. The tires bounced from the asphalt onto the cobblestone street near the trees in front of the place, and by the time that happened the Cartel guy had come to at least once. I’d heard Rowen doing something back there that normally would’ve left me cringing, but I’d ignored it.
All I could think about was the moment of horror that had made Sloan look so human before it had slipped away again. Fionn was his family. Conall got pissed off sometimes about things Fionn said, but I knew he would be upset, too, and that had me grinding my teeth. I wasn’t sure when it had happened, but Conall was one of my best friends, and I fucking hated the thought of what this would do to him.
It was still dark when we dragged the asshole along the cracked sidewalk, then inside up to the torture room on the second floor. Rowen slammed the door behind us. While I thought this might have been an apartment at one time, it had mostly been gutted, and all that was left were exposed pipes, a stained wooden floor, one shiny wooden wardrobe full of Cillian’s favorite tools, and a sturdy chair. Black padding on the walls kept everything quiet, and blackout blinds covered all the windows in the building. There was no way to scream for help in this room. Well, peoplecould scream, but no one who cared would hear them.
By the time we had the Cartel guy anchored in a chair, his head was bobbing and his eyes were blinking open, but his mouth was set in a permanent grimace, probably because his hands had been zip-tied behind him and he’d been shot in the left shoulder. Rowen and I hadn’t said much since we’d been too busy working. I was sweating, so I took off my suit jacket before tossing it, then removed my holster and did the same thing with my shirt.
“What are ye doing?” Rowen asked, and he sounded a little more like usual with his tone bouncing lightly. I loved his voice, different from the growl of Cillian’s accent.
I sighed and shrugged. “I’m hot.”
“Ye are.” He grinned at me.
I stared at him for a second before I snickered. “That’s my line.”
He walked around the chair containing our new “friend” and wrapped his arms around me, giving me a tight hug.
“What the fuck happened, Rowen?” I mumbled, pressing my face against his neck. The tang of sweat and cologne tangled in my nose, and the masculine scent raised goose bumps on my arms. “Holy fuck.”
“I know,” he whispered, digging his fingers into the hair on the back of my head. “But we need to get what we can out of this arsehole before he either dies of shock or Sloan wants his throat slit on principle.”
“I have an idea,” I said, going to the scratch-free wooden wardrobe that sat against the wall to our right. Normally it wasn’t me searching for tools—or anything else—but I knew I’d seen a few things in here for when Cillian was feeling evil, and I opened the doors, scanning the shelves. On the top one I found a pair of scissors and on the bottom one I easily spotted a can of salt, which I opened.
Rowen hummed. “Ye’ve been paying more attention than I thought.” He flashed me a toothy smile, but it didn’t exactly look happy.
“He shot Fionn. And Fionn’s a shit sometimes and says snotty stuff to Lor, but he’s our shit, you know?” For the first time ever, I felt really good about what I was planning to do.
Rowen nodded seriously. “Aye, I do. Ye should put gloves on, rabbit.”
Shrugging, I didn’t bother, and Rowen only sighed as he came over to watch me cut away the clothing over the man’s shoulder injury.
“Do you think this will wake him up?” I asked, glancing into the can at the salt.
“Well, love, there’s only one way to find out.” Rowen tickled his fingers across my cheek.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, and he grinned. With a grimace, I went to a knee beside the chair. The shoulder wound gaped and blood still ran. I dumped salt in the exposed muscle. The man’s eyes snapped open—far too wide—bugging for a few seconds before rolling back into his head as he slumped again.
“This might take a while,” Rowen said with a sigh. He ran a hand over his beard and shook his head. “Likely that was too much to start with.”
“Sorry,” I grumbled.
Rowen slung his arm around my shoulders, giving me comfort I hadn’t asked for but wanted. “No, that’s not more than Aspen might’ve done, and less than Cillian would’ve. It’s a delicate balance.”
He hooked his hands under my arms and pulled me to my feet. Once I was standing, he tried to take the salt can, but I didn’t want to let it go for some reason—or at least, my out-of-control fingers kept squeezing it. He yanked the salt container from my grip, tossing it on the floor nearby.
“Rowen, I could race a train and win right now,” I said with a grin. My heart still slammed against my ribs. Energy surged in my body, making me twitchy.
He nodded and swallowed hard. “If Fionn dies, it’s gonna be a nightmare. Ye promise me ye will listen. Ye do as I say until Cillian and Aspen are back. It’s gonna take everything we got to keep alive and out of jail if things go the wrong direction.” He cupped my cheek, and I leaned in as he traced a thumb under my eye.
“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning.
He shook his head, and the dim light from the fixture above us glinted in his sweat-soaked red hair. “Not everyone is Sloan’s biggest fan,” he murmured, shuffling closer until his shoes touched the tips of mine. “While the boss is at the top of his game he’s got no challengers, but his apprentice is in the hospital and might die. Reyes is in town. I don’t believe it would take much to get Sidorov to throw in with someone he thought would take Sloan out. Sloan embarrassed him. Elio Folliero has been playing his cards close to his chest. The rest of the Italians aren’t in love with the Company. We need to keep our eyes open. We need to keep our own safe, ye know?” He tapped his thumb on my cheek.
