"You know," I said conversationally, selecting a serrated hunting knife from the array, "I've always found it interesting how quickly federal agents break compared to street thugs." I tested the blade against my thumb. "Street guys expect pain.They've lived with it. But you suits? You think your badge protects you."
Hillabrand's eyes followed the knife, his breathing shallow. Blood trickled from his split lip and the gash above his eyebrow where Harley had introduced his face to the wall earlier.
"Fuck you," he spat, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his fear.
"Original."
Swiftly, I drove the knife into his thigh. Not deep enough to hit an artery, but enough that his scream echoed off the concrete walls. I twisted the blade slightly, watching his face contort. The screams settled my nerves, as I knew that this asshole who wanted to implicate my Goddess as a traitor was getting exactly what he deserved.
"The Colombian shipment," I said quietly, leaning close to his ear. "Details. Now."
"I don't— I can't—" He gasped, sweat pouring down his face.
I withdrew the knife, wiping the blood on his once-pristine shirt. "Wrong answer."
Moving behind him, I gripped his left pinky finger, bending it backward until I felt the resistance of bone and tendon. "Your career's already over, Agent Hillabrand. Best-case scenario, you're labeled a corrupt agent who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Worst case?" I applied more pressure. "You never leave this room."
The snap of his finger breaking was almost delicate. His howl was not.
"The shipment," I repeated, already reaching for his ring finger.
"Wait! Jesus Christ, wait!" His body convulsed against the restraints. "Wednesday—it's coming in on Wednesday night. Hanger 4."
I twisted the blade a quarter-turn. "What's in it?"
"Her—" His eyes rolled back, sweat beading on his upper lip. "Heroin. Brown sugar. China white." Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth as he tried to breathe. "Twenty bricks. Street value—" He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Twenty mil, easy." I leaned in close enough to smell the copper tang of his blood. "And?"
"AK-47s. Grenade launchers. Military shit with serial numbers filed off." His pupils dilated with fear. "The powder's just window dressing."
I pressed my thumb against his shattered finger. "Who's waiting for Santa's delivery?"
When he hesitated, I let out a dramatic sigh, then reached for the bolt cutters.
"Westwood! Felix Westwood’s son is trying to reestablish his father’s old territory."
Westwood. The name sent ice through my veins. If he was expanding, that explained the recent border skirmishes.
"And the Bureau's plan?" I asked, picking up a pair of bolt cutters.
"Joint task force. DEA is heading it. They're letting it land, tracking it to the distribution center. There's an informant in Westwood's crew. Been feeding information for a year."
"Name?"
"I don't know." His eyes followed the cutter with naked terror. When I raised them toward his face, he thrashed against the restraints. "I swear to God! That's above my clearance! Only the task force leader knows!"
I studied him, the whites of his eyes showing all around the iris, the sweat and blood making his face shine in the harsh light. He wasn't lying.
"Task force leader," I said softly. "Who?"
"Mendoza. James Mendoza."
I nodded, committing the name to memory. Then for posterity, I set the cutters over his nose and snapped them shut. His scream filled the air before it was abruptly cut off when he passed out, and I was left with the sound of gurgled breaths.
Tossing the cutters, I pulled up a chair directly in front of him, our knees almost touching. I stared at him as Harley put a hand on my shoulder. “Do you think Elin would have betrayed us?”
I shook my head. “But she also thinks I killed her father.”
“She’s your Goddess though.”
