His face goes pale. “Making a delivery.”
Interesting.
“For who?”
Silence.
I apply pressure. The blade bites skin.
“For Kaya!” he shrieks. “I make deliveries for Gabriel Kayasometimes!Small shit, nothing big, he doesn’t trust me, I’m just a runner, I swear—”
I remove the blade.
Of course.
I should’ve seen his fingerprints all over this from the beginning.
“Checks out,” Vaska mutters.
“Tell me more about Fuentes,” I demand, bringing the knife back to his hand.
“Just kill him and let’s go,” Vaska says bored. “Fuentes is nothing.”
“Don’t kill me, please,” he begs. “I know nothing about how long she’s been with Fuentes, but I’ll tell you everything you want to know about him.”
I stand back and study him.
Blood pools beneath the chair. His breathing comes in short, panicked bursts.
“Talk,” I say.
“Fuentes runs small-time operations. Weed mostly. Some pills. Nothing that would get him noticed by anyone important.” He’s rambling now, desperate. “He works out of a warehouse near pier seven. Has a crew—hangs with Jace Cross and a tiny girl, red hair. They’re nobodies, I swear.”
“And Ayla?”
“I don’t know what she does with him! Maybe she buys from him? I don’t know!”
I exchange a glance with Vaska. He shrugs.
“Pier seven,” I repeat.
“Yes! Yes, pier seven. That’s all I know, I swear on my mother—”
I drive the blade through his hand.
His scream tears through the warehouse, raw and animal. I leave the knife there, watch him writhe against the restraints.
“That’s for touching her,” I say.
For thinking you were entitled to look. To follow. To decide.
I turn to Vaska. “Clean this up. Then get me everything on Fuentes and his crew. I want addresses, routines, weaknesses.Everything.”
“You want this one alive?” Vaska asks, nodding toward the sobbing mess in the chair.
I consider it. Then shake my head.
“No.”
