Page 91 of Ink's Devil

This place is indeed falling down. There’s a big open area for storage, and presumably what were once offices off to the side. Drywall has come away and fallen so the wooden partitions are almost see-through. The room where I’d seen the men is probably in the best condition. Maybe they’re there because they can keep it heated.

Beef’s approaching from the other direction. When he signals with the gun that’s in his hand, Judge, Wills, and Ro fan out to check the hidden areas of the interior. The rest of us wait outside what looks to be another weak door.

Beef kicks it hard with his steel toe-capped motorcycle boot. It puts up no fight.

The two occupants are taken completely by surprise. From the way they stagger as they stand, I reckon most of that bottle of what I can now identify by the smell is whiskey, has gone down their throats tonight. They reach for guns, but their hands drop as they belatedly notice ours are already pointing at their heads.

Quickly, Thunder and I step forward and relieve them of their weapons, searching to make sure they’ve no second piece or knives concealed on them. Then, I zip tie the hands of mine behind him, and none too gently.

From the protest by the other, I take it Thunder has done the same.

“Who are you? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hellfire, can you find Ro? Tell him he can search with lights now and to tear this fucking place apart.”

Hellfire snaps to it. If the situation wasn’t how it is, I’d be amused at how my ex-prez takes orders from the new VP. Another reason why it was good to appoint someone from a different chapter. I think the years when it was ingrained we had to obeyhimwould make it hard for any of us to dare tell Hell what to do.

A quick glance behind me shows lights have now come on in the warehouse.

“Right. Where’s Connor Foster?”

“Look, man, don’t know what you’re talking about. You must be in the wrong place.” The one who asked who we were looks shiftily at his companion, his expression making me not trust him one bit. “We’re just two dropouts finding a dry place to stay for the night.”

“Not buying it.” Beef picks up the whiskey bottle. “This is malt. Dropouts would buy a cheap blend.”

“Dropouts wouldn’t have that kind of dough either.” Thunder points to a pile beside the cards. I can see at least one fifty-dollar bill.

Beef growls. “Connor Foster. Where is he?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mace

“We don’t know any Connor Foster, man. Why would we? We’re just squatting here for a few nights.” The Hispanic looks scared. It’s the worried look in his eyes which keep going to the area that Pyro and the others are searching that makes me think there’s something here to be found.

“Look, just let us go. We’ll collect our things and be out of here. Didn’t know this place was owned by… who are you anyway?”

Out of our territory we’re not wearing our cuts so we could be anyone.

Beef gives me a tired look. I’m not the only one who’s been awake for thirty-six hours. “Mace.”

My name, spoken in a tone of voice which only means one thing. I look from one to the other, quickly assessing which man can least handle pain. The Hispanic looks scared, but the white man? He’s all bluster, I’m sure.

“Sit him down,” I snap to Thunder. “Hold him tight.”

Taking my pliers out of the utility belt I’d thought to bring with me, I kneel on the floor and roughly pull off the man’s right boot. When he tries to kick out, Beef’s there with two sets of handcuffs. The VP soon has the captive’s legs fastened to the wooden legs of the chair. I nod my thanks at him when he stands.

When I remove the man’s sock, I could puke, and wish I’d started with his hands. But trying to breathe through my mouth and not my nose, I take a strong hold of his ankle. As I’d hoped, his personal hygiene isn’t good, and he’s neglected to trim his toenails for some time and gives me something to get hold of. Yes, I might have done this a time or two before.

“What the fuck you doing?”

“Where’s Connor Foster? Who are you working for?” Beef’s barking questions at him. “Start talking and we’ll stop this now.”

“I don’t know anything,” the man protests.

Glancing at his face, I see his eyes widening as the pliers approach his smallest toe. “You can hurt me all you like. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

I’ve heard similar words before, from Skull. Then, they were true. I hesitate only a moment. As things had turned out, if I could go back, I’d do it all over again, and this time, I’d kill him. Save one hell of a lot of pain that was to come. My remorse at what I’d done has gone. There is no such thing as an innocent man.

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