Page 46 of His Road Dog

His V.P. stepped up, holding a ten-pound sledgehammer. Priest could almost smell the sweat rolling off Hamilton and Jones. Their silence either indicated their cooperation or their fear.

"Who do you work for?" he asked.

Neither man looked at him. The cords in Hamilton's neck bulged. Jones' hands fisted in front of him. Each one of them had an internal battle to survive and hated the disadvantage of being tied together, worried that the other man would get him killed.

Priest had seen the battle many times before.

"See here. You both disappoint me. I thought we had an understanding. I ask a question. You both answer." He looked at Paco. "Isn't that what I told them?"

"Sure is, Prez." Paco exhaled heavily. "Simple rules."

"Curley? Go ahead and..." He shook his head. "Fucking A. My mistake. I should've directed the question to one of you instead of both. My fault. Maybe I confused you. Let's let Hamilton go first." He paused. "Who do you work for, Hamilton?"

The man's jaw hardened. Priest dipped his chin, sending Curley in. He wasn't playing around. The sooner the men learned, the faster he could go home.

Razor reached the man first, wrapping Duct tape around his head, covering the guy's mouth. Priest never moved a muscle, taking it all in.

Curley kicked Hamilton's leg to the side and swung the sledgehammer. The muffled scream came a split second after the rectangle chunk of metal connected with Hamilton's ankle. Not even the black leather boots could protect the fragile bones.

Several minutes passed, and the outrage of pain settled into heavy breathing that flared Hamilton's nose. Using the punishment as a lesson, Priest looked to the other man. "Your turn, Jones. Who do you work for?"

"Coveck." Jones' neck muscles spasmed.

Curley moved over and stood in front of Jones. Priest clicked his tongue. He needed both men fearing for their life. Should he give Curley another chance to guarantee the answers to his questions were truthful?

"Who killed Roy Guthrie?" he asked.

Hamilton shook. His body strained against the rope, distracting Jones. Priest motioned to Curley with the tip of his pistol.

His MC brother lifted the sledgehammer.

"Coveck," blurted Jones. "He ordered the kill. Hamilton was the one who pulled the trigger. I swear. Jesus Christ. I'm telling you the truth. Don't hit me. Please. Don't hit me."

Most men would start singing when faced with death.

"What was Coveck's problem with Guthrie, Jones?"

"H-he...Guthrie owed him money."

Priest had already assumed as much. If someone owed him money, he'd torture them, not whack them off. Once dead, there was no chance of gaining the money back.

"I need more."

Jones hung his head. "Man, I can't—"

Curley swung the sledgehammer, busting Jones's kneecap. Paco shoved a towel in the man's opened mouth, cutting off the agony bellowing out of him.

"Take the tape off of Hamilton. He looks like he'll be nice and quiet now." Priest stood from the chair and walked over and squatted in front of the bigger man.

The smashed ankle had done him in. The paleness of his skin and the unfocused eyes showed Hamilton had gone into shock.

"Why did Coveck have you kill Guthrie?" Priest was losing patience.

"Guthrie's got himself girls." Hamilton's eyes remained on the concrete floor. "He brought in two a week—runaways, homeless, it didn't matter as long as they were good-looking. Coveck only wanted ones he could clean up and put to work in the casino. Th-the one woman Coveck wanted, Guthrie wouldn't hand over, so he had me kill him, man. There was nothing I could do. If I came back without doing the job, he would've killed me."

Priest focused on the man's eyes, his muscles tensed, already understanding where the story was going. "What woman?"

Hamilton closed his eyes. "Guthrie's girlfriend. Nicole."

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