Page 192 of Mountain Boss

“How do you wanna do this?” Fisher asks, eyeing the man.

I reach out, gripping the rope binding the man’s feet, and drag him to the edge of the bed.

He groans.

“Got your knife?” I ask my employee even though I know he does. He always has his fishing knife on him.

The man in the truck bed starts thrashing. “You can’t do this,” he cries.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” I growl and punch him in the kidney. “And if you say another fucking word, this knife is slicing your throat. Under-fucking-stand?”

The sound of steel clearing leather has the man stilling.

I look over and Fisher holds his knife out to me, handle first. Looking totally okay with me threatening this man’s life.

With my free hand, I grab the man’s ankles again and yank him so his legs are hanging off the back of the truck.

I slice through the rope binding his feet together, then fist the front of his shirt and drag him the rest of the way out of the truck.

“Stand up,” I command when his feet hit the ground.

He stumbles.

Fisher slaps him. “He said stand the fuck up.”

I bite down on the inappropriate urge to smile.

The Creep manages to stand, his weight all on one foot, and I hand Fisher’s knife back to him.

I pat the man’s pockets until I find his phone, then I pull it free.

“Password.” When he doesn’t reply, I look up and meet the man’s swollen eyes. “Your face is too fucked up for facial recognition. So you can either tell me your password and I can call an ambulance for you, or I can smash your phone right here, right now, and you can walk your assto town.” You can’t see the Inn from here, and chances are he doesn’t know there’s a thriving business around the corner.

I drop his phone onto the pavement.

I lift my boot.

“One, one, six, four,” he rushes out, his words garbled. Probably from his broken face.

“There. That wasn’t so fucking hard.” I slap him on the back.

He stumbles forward and falls.

But with his arms still tied behind his back, his landing is… rough.

“Ouch.” Fisher makes a face.

I type in the code, and the phone unlocks.

It takes me a moment, but I get all of his contacts deleted. All his texts deleted. Call log wiped. Messaging apps deleted.

It won’t stop him from getting a hold of someone, but it’s going to make it a hell of a lot harder. Especially if he’s not one of the few people who still memorize phone numbers.

I drop the phone back on the ground, then look up at Fisher. “Help me lift him?”

“Can do.”

We step up on either side of the man who is face-first on the ground and each grip him under the arm.

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