Page 136 of Princes of Carnage

No matter what’s between me and Quinn, or Quinn and all of us, we have more pressing shit to deal with at the moment. Namely, finding out how to track down Silas before he can cause anymore chaos with our gangs.

Thinking about the members of Carnage and Enigma who died the last time there was an attack is a pretty good dash of cold water, calming down my low-key arousal and getting me to focus.

I grab the list several of my crew members compiled for me and head back out to my bike.

After glancing over the list, I nod in satisfaction, then fold it up and tuck it into my back pocket. I slide my helmet on and then climb onto my bike, turning it on and revving the engine. When I peel away from the clubhouse, I head toward the first stop on the list: a pawn shop that’s known in the underground circles to be a front for weapons dealing.

The pawn shop is a short ride away, and it’s in a sketchy enough area that there aren’t many people around. I park down the block and remove my helmet, then tug on a ski mask before striding toward the shop’s entrance.

It’s dim and dusty when I step inside, and there’s nothing to immediately give away the true nature of the place. Luckily for me and my purposes, it’s empty right now, silent except for the rustling of the greasy-haired man behind the counter, who seems to be the owner.

I stride quickly toward him, and he looks up as I approach. He immediately does a double-take when he notices my mask, but before he can react, my hand snaps out to grab his head, forcing it down onto the counter.

He starts to yell out, but the sound cuts off as I draw my gun, pressing the barrel to his temple.

“Put your hands on the counter where I can see them,” I tell him in a conversational tone, exerting a little more force with the barrel of the gun.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, splaying his hands out on the counter.

They’re both empty, but the left hand is missing two fingers.

“There are easier ways to steal shit, if that’s what you’re trying to do,” he grumbles.

I snort. “I’m not after anything in here. But I do want some information.”

“Information about what?”

“First off, what’s your name?”

His eyes flick sideways to look up at me as he grimaces. “Smith.”

“Well, Smith, let me tell you what I want to know. There’s an ex-mercenary in town, goes by Silas Duran. We’re hoping he’s the type to want to stay well-supplied with weapons, so I figured someone in that business has to know who he is.”

It was Quinn’s idea, actually. After the night Killian fucked her in that graveyard, all four of us put our heads together about how to use the information she and Atlas got from Vincent. She was the one to suggest interrogating weapons dealers around Detroit to try to turn up a lead now that we have a name and know that our attacker is an ex-merc. Mercenaries are only as good as their skills and their weapons, and if he’s trying to come after two established gangs at once, he would probably have had to stop at one of the underground shops for arms at some point.

We’ve already questioned several of the arms suppliers that we know, with nothing to show for it, and we’re getting more than a little desperate to find some fucking clue that this guy is real so we can go after him. That’s what the list I had my people compile is for—they dug up the names of some smaller arms dealers who flew under our radar.

“My memory works better when there’s not a gun to my head,” Smith mutters.

I lift an eyebrow and don’t move the gun an inch, letting my silence speak for me.

“Goddammit,” he finally mutters, the two remaining fingers on his left hand tapping against the table. “Fine. Yeah, I’ve heard the name. He’s been in here before.”

“Tell me what you know about him.”

He pulls his lips back in a grimace, revealing cigarette yellowed teeth. “Not that much. I don’t make a habit of prying into my customers’ business. That’s a good way to die, if you ask me.”

I dig the barrel of the gun into his temple. “Another good way to die is not telling me everything you can think of about him. I don’t care how small it is.”

Smith’s eyes bug out a little. He looks scared, but also annoyed, and I get the feeling I’m not the first person who’s threatened to kill him in his life. Maybe not even the first person this year. He works in a dangerous business, after all.

“Alright, alright. Hold on, lemme think…” He chews on his lower lip for a moment, squinting his eyes. “I remember what he bought, I’m pretty sure.”

“What was it?”

He rattles off several weapons, as well as ammo and tactical gear. It’s a long list, and the quality of the supplies supports what we already know about Silas—that he’s experienced, and that he’s not fucking around.

“What else?” I press when Smith stops to take a breath. “What did he look like? Any distinguishing features?”

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