Page 27 of Damron
Chapter eleven
Damron
The second we walked into the club, every head pivoted toward us. There was a flicker of recognition, a handful of wary nods. Nobody trusted a senator in their midst, even if she had bled all over the carpet last time she was here. Come to think of it, I didn’t trust senators either. I watched the tension stretch between her and the club like an elastic band, waiting to snap. Carly said nothing, cradling her arm against her ribs like she was afraid I’d break the other one. She looked half-alive, half-ghost, eyes rimmed red but clear. She clocked the chaos, sized up the threat, and gave nothing away. That was what made her dangerous. And what had almost gotten her killed.
I stomped over to Nitro, who didn’t bother with pleasantries. He spat into a trash can, thumbed toward the far end of the bar. “Got a present for you,” he said. “Gift-wrapped and everything.”
He jerked his head, and I saw it: a kid, maybe mid-twenties, zip-tied at the wrists and ankles, duct tape gag hanging around his neck like a sad party streamer. His face was a pulp of blood, snot, and something yellowish I didn’t want to identify. He wore a prospect vest, brand new and barely broken in. The patchessaid “DIRT” and “RAT” and “SANTA FE.” His left eye was already closed up, purple and swollen. His shoes were missing.
“He firebombed us?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
Nitro grinned, a flash of wolf teeth. “Tossed two Molotovs through the side window. Third one bounced and damn near took off his own eyebrows. That’s when we nabbed him. Little shit tried to run, but Augustine got him with a barstool.”
Augustine, the club's SAA, raised his glass from across the room. “Fucker bit me,” he said, showing off a bandaged hand. “I’m getting rabies shots tomorrow.”
I circled the prospect, watching him like a coyote eyeing roadkill. He looked up, tried to meet my gaze, but couldn’t keep the tremor out of his chin. He spat a gob of blood at my boots. Missed by a mile. I crouched, elbows on my knees. “Name?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. I could see the calculus running behind his eyes: if he talked, he’d get gutted by his own club; if he didn’t, he’d get gutted by mine. No way out but through. I smiled, slow and patient. “You want to do this the hard way? You’re not the first, kid. You won’t be the last.”
He sneered, lips split and leaking. “Fuck you.”
I straightened, nodded at Nitro. “Hold him.”
Nitro braced the kid’s head against the bar. I leaned in, grabbed his jaw, and forced his mouth open. “You want to play hero? You get the hero’s treatment.” I clamped two fingers down on his tongue, hard, until he gagged. He bucked and tried to bite, but Nitro kept him in place. “Listen, Prospect,” I said, close enough to feel his breath on my knuckles. “I’m gonna ask you one more time: who sent you?”
He tried to spit again, this time catching my cheek. I laughed, wiped it off, then snapped a backhand across his face. The sound echoed off the cinderblock walls, and the club fell dead silent.
“Let’s try again,” I said, “before I start breaking things you’ll actually miss.”
Behind me, I heard Carly shift, her voice low and careful. “Damron, don’t.”
I shot her a look. “You want him to hit you with a fucking car next time? Shut up and let me work.”
She held my gaze, but said nothing more. That was the trick with her—never let them see the fear.
I leaned in again, voice even colder. “You don’t talk, I pull your tongue out with pliers. I’ll even let your own brothers watch, maybe livestream it for their next recruitment drive. Who sent you?”
He rolled his head, spat a tooth onto the floor. “Eat shit, old man.”
I whistled. “Old man, huh?” I turned to Nitro. “Give me the bag.”
Nitro ducked behind the bar, came back with a canvas tool sack we kept for special occasions. He set it on the table and unzipped, laying out the contents like a chef prepping a roast: wire cutters, pliers, a blowtorch, duct tape, a hammer with the grip taped for blood. I picked up the hammer, weighed it in my hand.
The prospect’s eyes went wide. He started to shake, but still said nothing.
“Let’s start easy,” I said, laying his left hand flat on the bar. Nitro pinned the wrist down, and I brought the hammer down on the first knuckle. The sound was wet and sharp, like stepping on a fat bug. The finger crumpled sideways, bone poking through the skin. He howled, tried to pull away. Blood spattered the bar and my jeans. I grabbed another finger and did it again. This time, the screaming was wordless, animal. The club watched, nobody moving, nobody even blinking.
I bent close. “You want to lose the whole hand? Or you want to tell me who gave the order?”
He gasped, hyperventilating, then gritted his teeth. “You’re dead anyway. Doesn’t matter. You’re all fucking dead.”
I smashed another finger, then another. The hand looked like a bowl of chili by the time I was done.
He sobbed, blood and snot and tears all running together. “It was Giammati,” he choked out. “Giammati paid the club.”
Nitro glanced at me, eyebrows up. “Santa Fe, right? Dire Straits?”
The kid nodded, wild, desperate. “Said to burn the place. Make a message. That’s all I know.”
