Page 48 of Oath
The sound of flesh striking flesh was a meatythunkin the downstairs quiet. Undeterred, O’Rourke turned his head to the right and spit out blood before he looked back at me.
“I thought this was your interrogation.” O’Rourke raised both of his eyebrows. “You need them to hold your dick for you too when you take a leak?” The blatant challenge just begged for us to beat the shit out of him.
“I let my friends do lots of things.” I shrugged. “Friendship doesn’t come with conditions.”
Despite how incensed he was—as demonstrated by how hard and fast he’d hit O’Rourke—Lunchbox didn’t react. At least not visibly to the taunt from the other man. Give it five minutes, at this rate, however and O’Rourke might get his wish.
“But it came with an expiration date.”
“We are not debating your choices or your betrayal. Either answer the question or we stuff you back down here and leave you.” It made no difference to me at the moment—except that he had answers that could get us to Bones a fuckload faster since we had zero to work with at the moment.
“I’ll answer Grace,” O’Rourke said. “In fact, she’s the only one I’ll answer now.”
Lunchbox popped him again, sending another wad of crimson-laced spittle to strike the wall. Grin bloody, O’Rourke just straightened himself and waited. I could almost feel Lunchbox processing the man’s request, actions, and our response.
Did we let Grace down here to talk to him?
Did we just say fuck it, and go?
Did we take the time to break him down?
We could do it. Anyone could be broken. It was all a matter of time and effort. Just because we could, didn’t mean we should on any front. It also didn’t mean what we got would be successful. Most intelligence obtained through torture wasn’t as actionable as the information coaxed from a prisoner.
When all you wanted was for the pain to stop, you’d say just about anything. Promise anything. Do anything.
A low whistle cut through the silence. One. Sharp. Sound. Voodoo made the call. He’d assumed command. That was how it worked, particularly right now. A shuffle of step, then soft little bumps as she descended the stairs.
Her feet didn’t add any additional sound, but the stairs had a light creak to them and she wasn’t trying to be quiet. Lunchbox melted back a few steps. It wasn’t so much a retreat as he posted himself next to the cell “bars” and leaned against them.
The way he folded his arms suggested relaxation, but he was far from it. Hell, so was I. But as Grace made it to me, I moved ahead of her and stationed myself firmly between them, but not blocking her view.
Shackles didn’t mean O’Rourke was helpless.
When she was five feet away from him, Voodoo said, “Far enough.”
Dressed in loose sleep pants and a tank top, she’d layered a hoodie over it but her feet were bare. The incongruity of her pale pink toenails on her delicate feet irked me. Really irked me.
She was made for softness, for laughter, and for music and fun. Instead, she was down in this dusty basement with this bottom feeding asshole who was more interested in negotiation than making peace. O’Rourke shifted his full attention to her, a faint glint in his eye and a half-smile on his bloodied lips.
Unimpressed, Grace folded her arms and actually stood with one hip jutted slightly. “Where is Bones?”
“Prisoner, would be my guess. Probably being interrogated.”
“That’s a supposition,” Grace said. “Do you know where he is or not?”
Good girl. Direct questions. No wiggle room.
“Not.” Another shrug, or as much as O’Rourke could manage in his current condition.
“Do you know who has him or not?”
“Vega.”
I didn’t growl, but irritation at O’Rourke’s words grew.
“Is Vega real or not?” Impatience crept in Grace’s voice. The sleepy doe-eyed look she had when she came in had vanished to something far crisper and intent as she watched O’Rourke.
“Vega is real enough,” O’Rourke said. “What you want to know is who isusingVega and why.”
