“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” He smiles, and it’s the smile of a man who enjoys his work. “Let’s start with the evidence. Who has copies besides the FBI?”
“I don’t know.”
The slap comes out of nowhere—a backhanded blow that snaps my head to the side and fills my mouth with the taste of copper. Stars explode across my vision.
“Let’s try that again.” His voice is still gentle. Still soft. “Who has copies of the evidence?”
I spit blood onto the floor. “Go fuck yourself.”
This time, it’s a punch. My cheek explodes with pain. The chair tips, and I nearly go over before he grabs my shirt and hauls me upright.
“I can do this all night, Ms. Bright.” He’s not even breathing hard. “But I don’t think you can. So let’s make this easy. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll make your death quick. Keep beingdifficult, and... well.” He shrugs. “I have very creative ways of making people talk.”
My vision is blurring. Blood drips from my lip onto my shirt.
Buy time. Stone is coming. Just buy time.
“The club,” I manage. “The club has copies. They backed everything up to multiple servers. Cloud storage. Encrypted. Even if you destroy everything here, the evidence exists in a dozen different places.”
It’s not entirely true—I don’t know what Steel did with the backups—but it’s plausible enough to make Ivan pause.
“Where are these servers?”
“I don’t know. The club handled the tech side. I just handled the legal strategy.”
Another slap, but lighter this time. Testing me.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m a lawyer, not a fucking liar.” I meet his gaze, refusing to look away. “You want the servers? Go ask Stone. Oh wait—he’s probably out there right now planning how to kill everyone in this building.”
Ivan studies me for a long moment. Then he stands, pulling out his phone.
“Watch her,” he tells Tattoo Neck. “I need to update Mr. Caruso.”
He steps out, and I slump in my chair, every inch of my face throbbing with pain.
Bought some time. Not much, but some.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Minutes. Maybe longer. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and the steady pulse of pain in my cheek. My lip is swelling. I can feel my eye starting to close.
Stone is going to lose his mind when he sees me.
The thought is almost funny. Almost.
Tattoo Neck hasn’t moved from his position by the door. He’s watching me with the bored disinterest of a man who’s seen worse. I consider trying to talk to him—maybe find a crack in his loyalty—but my mouth hurts too much for conversation.
So I wait.
The sound is so distant at first that I hardly register it. A low rumble that could be thunder, except the sky was clear when they brought me in. It grows louder, closer, and I recognize the sound with a surge of desperate hope.
Motorcycles.
A lot of them.
Tattoo Neck hears it too. He straightens, one hand going to his earpiece.
