Page 105 of Devil's Due

“You going to clean them out?” Chaz calls.

“Yeah, will have to if they haven’t got the message by now.”

“We’re wasting time,” I interrupt.

“Respect, Beef,” Drummer says, warningly.

Stinger lifts his head and nods in appreciation at my prez, then his eyes narrow. “Him. He’s the one in with the feds?”

Him is Devil. Devil grins and, stepping forward, speaks up for himself. “Your house, your rules. But I work with, not for, the feds. Right now, I’m employed by Drummer to find Stevie Nichols.”

My eyes shoot to Drummer’s, he gives a confirmatory chin lift in return. I didn’t know Drummer was paying him. Fuck it’s good to have someone at my back.

“He straight?” Stinger asks Drummer, clearly still suspicious.

Drummer gives a twisted grin. “He’s watched Blade’s handiwork before, and we’re still here.”

“I can sit the questioning out,” Devil offers. “But could be he’ll let something slip I can get my guys following up on. Save time if I hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“You a fuckin’ Aussie?”

Devil snorts. “British.”

Stinger regards him for a moment, wasting yet more time, before giving a sharp up and down of his head. He points his finger at him and snarls, “You rat us out, you’re dead.”

Devil shrugs as though a death threat is water off a duck’s back and then, finally, we’re led out back, across a yard, and into a storage shed. The walls and roof are made of corrugated iron, and to say it’s hot inside is an understatement. I can immediately see why Stinger’s enforcer is stripped down to a naked chest.

They’ve got a man tied to something I’ve only seen on the rare occasion I’ve gone to a BDSM club. I’ve never been into that shit seriously, but I know enough to recognise a St Andrew’s cross that he’s been strung up to. Arms in a V above his head, leg’s in an inverted V tied apart at the ankles. It leaves him wide open and vulnerable.

“How’s he doing, Brake?” Stinger enquires as we walk in.

“Sweating.” Brake, who presumably is the enforcer, grins widely.

Anyone would sweat in this environment. I can already feel my tee dampening under my arms.

“Well, make him a bit more comfortable.” Stinger leans back on a workbench.

I stand, my hands clenching into fists. I try to relax, but despite my efforts, each time I force them open, seconds later my fingers have curled inward again.

Clearly knowing what his prez is asking, Brake steps forward carrying a blade that even from here looks sharp and lethal.

“Stay still,” he warns in a gravelly voice.

The man strung up protests, “What you doing? I’ve done nothing…”

Then he goes silent as the knife cuts through his tee as easily as through butter. Brake then sinks to his haunches and begins carving his way up through the denim of his captive’s jeans. “Stay very still,” he warns again. “Or I might cut off your balls accidentally.”

Like any man would, he stills. But protests still come out of his mouth. “Don’t cut my jeans, no man, you can’t.”

But Brake can.

It’s hot, sweat is already running down the Joker’s face, and his face is flushed from the heat. But I’ll be fucked if he doesn’t go even redder as his pants and underwear hit the floor. Yeah, I can see there are benefits to a St Andrew’s Cross. Vulnerability. His legs stretched apart leaving his sensitive parts wide open.

Not that the Joker’s are currently very impressive. Mind you, in the circumstances I would think any man’s would wither.

Stinger leans in conspiratorially. “Blake’s got some fuckin’ good techniques. He put a cock cage, one of those real tight ones on a man once. He then fed the fucker Viagra and let’s just say he didn’t take heed of the recommended dose. You should have seen him. His eyes looked like they were popping out of his head.” He’s not speaking particularly quiet. The Warped Joker looks in complete distress, his eyes flicking around as if to spy what Brake has waiting for him.

“He die?”

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