Page 55 of After the Chase

“How can you be so relaxed? I’m fucking terrified and not sure I can do this.”

“You’ve done it before with the carjacking. It’s just a bit of blood, Chase. Nothing will hurt you, people die anyway, it’s just that this guy won’t have a choice on when that happens.”

He shakes his head at me and then continues to look out of the windows, quiet for the rest of the drive.

The clubhouse is busy tonight, several motorcycles are parked outside, and I can see lights on in the back rooms. Marcus meets us at the door. His eyes flick to Chase, then back to me.

“Come with me." Marcus leads us through the main room where several Saints members watch us pass. Their expressions are hard and impatient.

"We caught him dealing in our territory three hours ago, he’s been undercutting Kozlov prices and has been at it for months. He says he doesn't know the supplier, and we've tried to be persuasive, but he's not talking," Marcus says.

We reach a door at the back of the clubhouse and Marcus opens it, and the smell of sweat, blood, and piss hits me immediately.

The room is mid-size, a room with no windows and a concrete floor with a drain in the center. The man is tied to a chair, I would say he is in his mid-forties, with a bloodied face and one eye swollen shut. His breathing is labored.

Blade stands nearby, and I notice his knuckles are cut and bruised. Another club member I don't recognize leans against the wall with his arms crossed.

"He’s all yours, but if you could get some answers, that would be great. Dima and Lev are aware and said they are on their way over," Marcus says.

I circle the man slowly, studying him. Chase stands near the wall, watching everything with an intensity that surprises me. To be honest I thought he would wait outside.

The man's good eye tracks me, trying to anticipate my next move.

"What do you think, you up for it?” Marcus asks me and I nod, my focus purely on the guy in the chair.

"What's your name?" I ask quietly.

"Fuck you."

I don't react, instead I play with my food and continue studying him, looking at the way his hands are tied, the angle of his shoulders, the visible injuries already inflicted.

"Who's your supplier?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I pull out my new knife that I bought to replace the one I discarded in Venice, and his one good eye widens. His breathing becomes labored.

"You've been stealing from the Kozlov organization," I say casually.

"I didn’t."

"Don't lie." I press the blade against his cheek, not cutting just yet.

"Who's your supplier?"

"Some guy in Queens. I don't know his name."

"You're lying."

"I'm not…"

I make a shallow cut across his cheek and he screams. The sound is so satisfying, sending a wave of tranquility over my body. I track the blood that drips down his skin, before dripping onto his clothing.

"Try again,” I say as I lift my knife to the other side of his face.

"Fine! Just don’t cut me again, his name is Tommy Ricci. He operates out of Astoria."

"Better." I wipe the blade on his shirt. "How long have you been working for him?"