Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I flip the file open with my thumb. Photos, reports, transaction logs.
My pen stills. “Which one?” My voice drops.
Rafe jerks his chin toward the photo. “Southside. We found the place hit last night. Doors blown. Our guys knocked out cold, but alive.”
“And the product?”
He hesitates.
I look up slowly. “Rafe.”
He grimaces. “Gone. Every brick. Cleaned out.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. It’s not a nice sound.
“So,” I say, closing the file with a soft thud, “not only are they stealing from our books, they’re now hitting our warehouses and walking out with our product.”
Rafe straightens. “We’re treating it as an act of war.”
“Oh, it’s worse than war.” I stand and then button my jacket. “It’s disrespect. I need to tell my uncle.”
Rafe’s gaze sharpens. “You want to pay our guest another visit first?”
I smile, all teeth. “He and I do have some unfinished quality time scheduled.”
I step away from the desk, feeling the old, familiar heat of violence rise.
This is going to be fun. Last time, I had nothing to lead with. Now I do . . .
I jerk my chin toward the door. “Let’s go see if our friend has found a sense of self-preservation yet.”
Rafe falls into step beside me as we head down the hall.
“Just a reminder,” he mumbles, half under his breath, “you told Vin you’d try not to kill him before he talks.”
“I recall making no such promise,” I answer, amused. “But I’ll do my best. Think of this as . . . anger management.”
“You should try yoga,” Rafe grunts.
“I prefer hobbies that make my blood pressure rise.”
Together, we head to my car and leave for the warehouse.
When we arrive thirty minutes later, we step out of the car and walk toward the building.
We push through the metal door, and the moment we do, the air changes to that familiar cocktail of concrete and blood.
In the back room, our little problem is still zip-tied to a chair. He looks like shit with a swollen eye and split lip. The arm of his shirt is still red with the blood from my stabbing.
I’m surprised he hasn’t died yet, but alas . . . soon.
He blinks when he sees me, then swallows. He knows his days are numbered.
“Look who’s awake,” I croon, strolling in. “I was starting to worry you’d sleep through all the fun.”
His breathing picks up. Good. I enjoy his panic. It brings me joy.
Rafe takes up a position against the wall, arms crossed, watching like a man at the movies.
I circle the chair once, slow, boots echoing on the concrete. The man’s shoulders tense with every step I take behind him.
“Bad news,” I say lightly. “The situation has escalated.”
His body trembles. “I told you everything I know.”
“You told me nothing,” I correct, stopping in front of him. “You passed out, which is frankly rude when someone is taking such an interest in you.”
This time, he flinches.
I tilt my head, studying his face. “See, I was willing to believe you were just a petty thief with a death wish. But it turns out you’re part of something bigger.” I lean in, smiling. “You’re not special, by the way. Just more of a problem.”
He shakes his head, breathing rough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I glance at Rafe. “You hear that? He doesn’t know.”
Rafe lifts a shoulder. “Maybe he suffers from sudden, acute memory loss.”
“Tragic,” I sigh.
I plant my hands on the back of the chair and lean forward, bringing my mouth beside the man’s ear.
“One of our warehouses was hit,” I tell him. “Product stolen. Men attacked. At the same time, you’ve been skimming from our accounts. That seems like a lot of coincidence for one scrawny idiot, doesn’t it?”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m just middle. I swear. I’m nobody.”
“Then give me somebody,” I reply, fingers digging just a little into the chair. “Give me a name and walk out of here with all your limbs intact.”
He licks his lips. “They’ll kill me.”
“They,” I echo. “There is a ‘they.’ Progress.”
“I can’t,” he whispers.
I straighten, sighing dramatically. “I always appreciate when people make bad choices. It keeps my hobbies funded.”
I nod at Vin, who’s standing by a workbench.
Vin moves forward and drops a small bag of tools on the floor beside me. The clatter makes the man jolt so hard he nearly tips the chair.
He stares at the bag like it’s a live grenade.
“Relax,” I say, crouching to unzip it. “I’m not going to do anything too terrible. Yet.” I glance up at him. “I mean, relatively speaking. It’ll be horrible for you, obviously. Perspective is everything.”
I pull out a length of rubber hose and slap it lightly against my palm, considering.
Rafe groans quietly. “Not the hose.”
“You have a better idea?” I lift a brow.
“Not really.” He shrugs.
“You’re no help.” I step around the chair, and the guy tries to twist away, like there’s anywhere to go.