Page 51 of Strider's Misstep

My enforcer seems to think for a moment before nodding his head. “Three weeks, two days. Hell, there was no bone left unbroken and barely any blood in his body.”

“We burned him alive in the end,” Buzz throws at him as if he needed to be reminded.

The man looks from one to the other of us, then at all the other members standing around. There’s no indication that we’re yanking his chain or joking. That’s because we’re not. It’s only moments before he yells, “I’m Clyde,” as if deciding he should cooperate. We’ve certainly gotten to him if the stream of urine darkening his pants is any indication.

Chaz jerks his head to the side. Taking the hint, I step to the back of the room, inclining my ear so he can talk into it. I listenfor a moment in total agreement, then step back and again take centre stage.

“Now, Clyde, I’m forgetting my manners. You’ve introduced yourself, but I haven’t reciprocated. My name’s Strider, and just in case you can’t read our cuts, I’m the president of the Wretched Soulz Texas Charter. And this,” I indicate Chaz, “is the prez of the Arizona Soulz. Perhaps you’ve been so buried in the mob that you haven’t kept up with anything else. The Soulz have charters all over the United States and internationally.” He’s paled. Of course he knows, but it doesn’t hurt to give him a reminder. “I think you’ll find your mob you’re so proud of would pale into insignificance beside our combined strength.”

Clyde swallows hard, making his Adam’s apple bob. His headache seems forgotten. I wonder how hard he’s going to play it. He must realise no one’s coming to rescue him, and if he’d been listening to Chaz and my discussion earlier, even if his cohorts made it onto the compound, they’d never find our torture chamber.

“Tell us everything you know. All the names, all the businesses.”

“I can’t!” His voice is a little above a whisper.

I need to hurry this along. I’ve got far better things I could be doing, like a woman I can’t wait to get back inside. “He’s all yours, Teq.”

With no expression on his face, Tequila steps forward. As fast as lightning, he grabs Clyde’s hand and cuts off two fingers. As they drop to the ground, Clyde screams.

“We’re not fuckin’ around.” My statement probably isn’t necessary, as I think the enforcer has gotten his point across.

Tequila, his face still impassive, addresses him directly. “Just so you know, I’m good at my job. I know exactly how many parts I can cut off before you start to bleed out. And then, I’ll be getting the blowtorch to cauterise your wounds to keep you alive.”

It takes longer than I’d hoped. Clyde’s lost the fingers and thumbs on both hands, and one arm now ends at a wrist, with the smell of burning flesh as Tequila had done just as he’d promised to stop the blood flow. Eventually, Clyde gets the point that even if he gets out of here alive, his life is probably not going to be worth living.

When he starts speaking, it’s as if he can’t stop. We’ve got the names of everyone Barclay Aster had been dealing with, a list of all the businesses he owned, all his connections, and the nice little titbit that Barclay was in debt to his Mafia bosses.

When he’s been drained of all information, Tequila cuts his throat.

Buzz breaks the silence. “Well, that went well. I thought Prez would shoot him in the head.”

He gets my middle finger pointed at him while I suppress a grin, considering he’s probably got a point. Maybe, having Jasmine back in my life means I’m back in control.

CHAPTER TWENTY

JASMINE

“Mrs. Aster, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Unable to act like the grieving widow, I wave his condolences off. “We’ve been separated a while.”

The lawyer nods as if it’s of no consequence and turns to the well-dressed man sitting to my left-hand side. “And my sympathies to you too, Mr. D’Angelo.”

“There’s no need. We were business partners, not friends.” Michael D’Angelo—his real name, I kid you not—glances toward me, his eyes narrowed in disgust. We’ve learned a lot about each other during the week since Barclay died. He’s the consigliere of the local Mafia family, answerable only to the Don himself.

To my right sits Strider, looking totally out of place in his customary worn denim jeans, motorcycle boots, T-shirt and cut. While the Italian is dressed in a sharp dark grey suit, which I suspect is something like Armani, individually tailored, of course. A crisp white shirt, silk tie, and gold cufflinks complete the look.

Michael is an attractive man—sharp features, aquiline nose, hair expensively cut and styled. He’s the same height as Strider but doesn’t have his bulk. Though I suspect anyone would bewrong to underestimate his strength. He oozes confidence from every pore, and from the moment I first met him, I knew he was a man you’d think twice about arguing with. His words are measured, each one thought out before being delivered so they can’t be misconstrued.

He's a male among males. Other men instinctively know this, straightening their backs when he walks into a room as if they don’t want to come up lacking. Only Strider and Chaz seem unaffected, their self-assurance matching his.

The lawyer starts talking in some kind of legalise, and I let my mind drift. We all know what we’re about to be told. The Mafia and the Soulz had written Barclay’s will, hackers from both parties working together to forge both his and witnesses’ signatures. After the negotiations were completed, though an original hadn’t been thought to be in existence, Barclay’s home and office had mysteriously burned to the ground. Something Michael hadn’t been surprised about.

I think back to when I’d met him.

Strider hadn’t wanted me anywhere near the Mafia man, but I’d reminded him I had a right to be included. I’d been riled I hadn’t been able to question Barclay’s guard, so this time, I wouldn’t be missing out.

As I’d walked through the door, Michael’s eyes had widened, and he’d stepped forward to take my hand, raising it to his lips.

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