Page 130 of Mob Bride

The other guys have already gotten the other passengers out. Angela struggles but gets her belt off. I move out of her way enough for her to get out of the car.

“Kneel.”

As she does, I put the barrel to the back of her head and shove.

“My patience is gone. Too bad for you. Explain.”

She remains silent. I put a bullet through the back of her left calf.

“Normally, I don’t hurt women. Normally, I’d defend a woman. But you—you lost any chance for mercy. Finding you in this car means you wanted Carys dead.”

“I’m good as dead, so what does it matter how I go?”

“You stupid bitch.” I shift to bend over, so my face is in front of hers. “You have no idea the invitation you just gave me. You want to play in the big kids sandbox, now you’re about to find out what it means to pick on a bully who doesn’t back down. Goliath’s going to win this one.”

The rifle muzzle presses against her carotid.

“Finn, what’d they say?” My brother’s Polish isn’t fluent, but it’s pretty fucking close.

“They’re not feeling so chatty.”

“Maybe a little truth serum will do the trick.”

Dillan holds up three bottles of shitty Polish vodka. He must have found them when he popped the trunk. He hands me a bottle after unscrewing the top. He gives one to Finn, and the last one to Cormac.

Finn asks another question, but the guy stays quiet. He turns toward Angela.

“I’ll ask you the same thing. Who owns the contract?”

He means now that Bartlomiej and Jacek are dead, who’s keeping the mercenary contract to kill Carrie active.

Angela doesn’t answer. I’m forcing my temper to remain in check, or I’ll kill her before I find out what I need to know. I nod to Sean, who puts his pistol to her forehead as I grab a handful of hair and yank as hard as I can. It snaps her neck back and her mouth open as she howls in pain. I pour the vodka down her throat, not stopping as she chokes and splutters.

“You came near my wife. Now you pay.”

I pour down her throat until I know she’s on the edge of drowning because I don’t relent long enough for her to breathe. She can’t inhale through her nose while she’s gasping, and every gasp just lets more vodka down her throat. The angle ensures plenty is going down her windpipe. I pause.

“Ready to talk?”

“Fuck—”

“I have a wife for that, remember? You targeted her. You’re going to tell me who sent you. When I run out of vodka, I’ll switch back to bullets. Who?”

“Someone who doesn’t like you.”

“You’re going to have to narrow that down. We’ll be here for days if I have to guess. Who?”

“Someone who thinks you’re bad for business.”

Something’s off. I don’t know what, but intuition’s screaming it.

“Is the person you’re working for the same person who’s keeping the hit on?”

She goes quiet. She just glares at me.

“Two different people. Good to know.”

I watch her as my mind leapfrogs from one thought to another, skipping some and doubling back to others.

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