Page 173 of Lone Star

And he’d been floundering under a toppled chair while cartel goons clubbed his old lady over the back of the head and threw her in the back of a truck…

He didn’t realize he was moving until the cold night air slapped him in the face. The lights startled him, at first, and then he saw the police van idling, its passenger door open. And then Jackal appeared, walking someone along in front of him – someone bound and gagged, his hands behind his back.

Cantrell.

Albie didn’t think; he moved.

It was only the work of a few strides to reach the van, and by that time Cantrell had come down off the last step, standing unsteadily on the gravel. Albie had his fist cocked before he was in range; the punch started in his gut, in the deep, angry, seething heart of him, and the impact of his knuckles against Cantrell’s cheek echoed off the steel walls of the workshop, a sharpcrack.

The pain was immaterial; it was more numbness than anything else.

Cantrell dropped with a choked shout behind his gag, landing in a clumsy tangle on his side, hands still locked together behind his back.

Albie kicked him in the stomach, and he doubled up like a cooked shrimp, wheezing and choking and retching against the gag. He tried to go to his knees beside the man, another swing already winding up.

But strong hands caught him beneath the arms and dragged him backward. Picked him up off his feet, like he was no more than a doll.

A better man would have realized that he was acting like an idiot, and not resisted. Would have taken his scolding, pulled himself together, and would have applied himself toward something productive.

Right now, Albie was not the better man.

He kicked and thrashed, and tried to get loose, for all the good it did him, which was none. “Fucking – put me – I’m gonna–”

“Albert, you’re embarrassing yourself,” Fox deadpanned, appearing beside him. A moment later, Fox’s fingers were at his throat, pinching in just the right way against his windpipe and the nerves in the side of his neck.

He considered letting it happen. Fox could and would put him to sleep, and maybe that would be better than the hectic, bird-in-a-cage mental state currently plaguing him.

But he thought of the girls, and he subsided, choking only a little.

The beast holding him put his feet back on the ground, but kept hold of him. “Trust me,” Candy said, revealing himself – he’d known that only he or Mercy would have been strong enough to do what had just been done to him – “I wanna do that, too. But we’ve gotta talk to his ass first.” He patted Albie on the shoulders and turned him loose.

Fox still held him, and Albie shot him a glare. Fox waited a full second, unblinking, before pulling back.

On the ground, Cantrell remained curled up tight, heaving or crying or pleading, muffled sounds of pain. The moonlight caught the glint of tears on his cheeks.

Candy walked around to him, grabbed him by a fistful of his shirt, and lifted him up. Cantrell flailed a moment like a kitten, but Candy gave him a hard shake, kicked his feet into place under him, and pushed his face into the other man’s. “Walk.” Albie had never heard him sound like that, and Cantrell’s red-rimmed eyes went properly wide.

Candy marched Cantrell into the workshop, and Albie and the others followed. All save Reese, he noted, who stayed out on the ridge, keeping watch. At least not all of them were blinded by rage and panic.

Inside, some of the girls were on their feet. Albie saw Cantrell’s head turn side to side as they passed.Are you shocked?he wanted to demand.Did you know your little boy was doing this? Did you help him do it?

They reached the first of the tables, and Candy held Cantrell by the wrists with one giant hand, and reached with the other to test the bonds on Jesse’s corpse. “Fox?” he asked, when he didn’t manage to open the cuffs.

Fox stepped up and fiddled a moment. “Wingnuts,” he said. “Not even locked.” In a few moments, he had the dead boy’s ankles and wrists unlatched.

Candy grabbed the edge of the table and tipped it. The body slumped off and fell to the floor in a nauseating tangle of impossible angles and bends. The thump of it impacting the floor was almost satisfying, though, Albie thought. Then Candy hauled Cantrell up onto the blood-slick tabletop, hands still bound at the small of his back, so his spine was bowed awkwardly; the pain on his shoulders and elbows would be sharp.

Good.

Candy ripped the gag from his mouth, revealing red marks on the man’s cheeks where it had been tied overly tight. The sight sent another pulse of satisfaction through Albie’s stomach.

Cantrell started talking immediately, trying to save himself. “I swear I didn’t–”

Candy slapped the table right beside his head, and Cantrell flinched, eyes squeezing shut. “Here’s how this is gonna work,” Candy said, and his voice was still terrible; rough and raw and half a growl. But cold, too. There could be no mistaking him right now for a man with a shred of leniency or sympathy. “I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to give me answers. If you won’t talk, or if you give me a buncha bullshit, that guy” – a nod toward Mercy where he lingered half in and out of a shadow, hulking, profile orange-glazed in the light, hair a sinister ink spill down his shoulders – “is gonna start taking fingers and toes and other non-essential bits until you tell me what I wanna hear. Do you understand?”

Cantrell cracked his eyes open, face lined with pain and distress, and jerked a nod.

“There’s no law here,” Candy said, braced above him, looming, face a cold mask. “There are no badges, no squad cars, no agents to arrest me and save your sorry ass. Right here, in this room, you have no jurisdiction. This is me versus you, and I’m the bigger animal, so you need to think very carefully about your answers when you give them. I’ll know if you’re lying – I’ll be able to smell it on you.” He sniffed, scenting the air like the dog they all wore on their cuts.

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