Page 69 of Shadows of Justice

“Well, Special Agent Montgomery, it’s so flattering to hear that you have an interest in me,” I say, thoroughly enjoying this moment. “But as much as I’d like to listen to the extent of what I can assume is probably a very underwhelming trade, I’m not a rat, and I’m not living my life under the government’s thumb.”

I scoot my chair back, standing on shaky legs. All the blood rushes out of my head and the room starts to spin, but I hold his gaze. “Are we done here?”

“Sit down, Barone,” he orders. I don’t move a muscle. “We know about your residence in Cypress Park, and your other four.”

“Three,” I correct him. “My other three.”

“Four,” Gavin says slowly. “We know about the house in Cambria. Have for years, actually. It was the first one we found, but we sat on it, in case this moment ever arose.”

My blood chills. No.

“So, I’ll bet that residence is being used by an illegal immigrant, since according to your record, all of your relatives have passed away. Am I getting warm?”

I have no choice but to sit, or my legs will give out from underneath me.

“Now, let’s talk out a deal that works for both of us,” the fucker says, and my fists clench. “And, let’s discuss your son—Alejandro.”

Chapter Twenty-Two - A Lover of Violence

Saturday, July 25th

Genevieve

Sugar lets out a hair-raising scream as Lucky drags a serrated knife across her cheek.

The ribbon of crimson that opens up and spills down her face makes my blood boil, knowing that her being in this mess is completely my fault. Watching her suffer because of me has sufficed perfectly as mental torture, and the Dogs have also ensured that I’m never in short supply of physical.

My body has become well acquainted with pain.

The drip-drip-drip of blood from my left foot onto the floor echoes in the cold room. I can’t see the bite wound Dante inflicted on my calf, but I can sure feel it. I screamed and fought wildly, trying to shake the dog from my leg, but my struggling probably only made it worse. Trismo and his boys observed the spectacle with a fascinated evil in their eyes, watching the violence unfold with the awe of art enthusiasts viewing Monet.

Between the bite and the shattering bat swing I sustained to my right hip, I couldn’t walk out of here if I tried.

I have never been a lover of violence.

Not that I’ve shied away from it, either. But seeing the glee in their faces as Sugar and I are both tortured makes me want to do very, very violent things to each of them. To draw out their deaths in the most inhumane ways—so that they know what real terror feels like when it’s turned back on them.

That anger has changed me. Morphed me. It’s burned through my blood, and now nothing but pure hatred courses through my veins.

Magnum grinds his hardened cock against my ass through his sweaty jeans. He fondles my breasts, sighing his coke-stinking breath onto my neck. I’m losing a lot of blood—the pool on the floor has grown at an alarming rate—and there’s still the concern of my head injury. I lost all feeling in my arms and hands a while ago, but exactly how long I’ve been chained up is really hard to pinpoint. I have no idea what time it is, but I do know that the sun will be up soon—the darkness outside the windows in the storeroom has lifted from inky black to gray.

“I’m sorry, Sugar,” I rasp, the sound barely carrying over her weeping. “I’m so sorry.”

Her bloodshot eyes lift to me, swollen eyelids fluttering with the movement. She’s covered in slashes, bruises, piss, sweat, and I don’t even want to know what else. There’s blood running down her thighs, some crusty and some new, and her right arm hangs loosely at her side, her collarbone jutting unnaturally under the skin.

In an impressive show of will, she manages to hold my gaze and tip the corners of her mouth up—and smile.

“All in a day’s work, chickie-pie,” she rasps. “And, it’s Grace.” My eyebrows draw together in confusion. “My name.” A rattle harmonizes with every jagged intake of her breath. “It’s Grace.”

Lucky kicks her in the ribs to shut her up. A sob breaks through my lips, tears running in torrents down my face. If they kill her, I don’t know if I’ll be able to ever look at myself again.

They’ve been torturing her in front of me since I came to. If I didn’t think that they’d kill us both, I’d tell them who I was in order to stop them. But if they hear “cop,” they could panic. Trismo seems to be convinced I work for the Koreans—their current enemies. He says he’s known Sugar to have associated with them in the past as well, so they’re running with that theory.

I’ll let them believe whatever they want, as long as we both survive this.

Thankfully, they seem to have lost interest in our suffering for the time being and the storeroom has burst to life with activity. Trismo and his lackeys are hurrying around the space, blaring Spanish rap music and drinking tequila from the bottle. Tables have been set up and droves of Dogs have filed in and out, lugging boxes and equipment as organized as worker bees. A skinny, jittery guy that doesn’t look a day over twenty joins them, tapping on his laptop and repeatedly shoving his glasses back up his nose. He looks quite out of place, but he seems more or less in charge of the whole operation, everyone coming to him with their questions.

One of them calls out to him using the name “Tres,” and my foggy memories piece together. He must be TresAce, the techy “genius” that Leo had been so irritated—or impressed—with.

---