Page 115 of Start A War (Saint View Psychos)

“Yeah, he’s clean.”

I nodded, letting myself out of the gate, my boots crunching on the gravel. “You’re either a very brave man or a very stupid one. What’s your name?”

The guy hurried forward. “Winger.”

He was at least five inches shorter than me and thin as a reed. The track marks up his arms were a dead giveaway for the reason he was so twitchy and agitated.

“If you’re hoping to score, we ain’t selling nothing,” Hawk spat out from behind me.

He always had my back, and I knew Fang did too. Not that I would need backup if this guy was dumb enough to try something. I was itching to punch someone after Vincent had got his lucky hit in on me. If it wasn’t going to be him, this guy would do if he gave me a good enough reason.

But Winger shook his head. “I got information.”

I glanced at Hawk and then back at the Sinner. “Go on then.”

He shook his head, his greasy hair hanging limply around his ears. “It’ll cost you. Money up front. Two K.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Or I could just beat it outta you for free.”

The man stopped his twitching. “Come on, War. I need the fucking money.”

“To inject into your arm?”

“What’s it to you?”

I shook my head and turned around, striding back toward the gate. “Not interested.”

Fang and Hawk followed close behind me, and the gate was almost shut when Winger yelled out.

“It’s about who killed your dad.”

I froze. “What did you say?”

“Your dad. I know who killed him.”

I was on the runt of a man before he could blink, lifting him by his shirt and dragging him up against the fence.

He yelped like a little bitch. “Two K and I’ll tell you everything!”

“You tell me everything and I won’t leave your body cold and dead on your mama’s lawn.”

He blanched. “I need the money.”

My fingers crept around his throat. “Your mama need a new lawn ornament? Start talking.”

The fight went out of him. “Fine. I don’t know who set it up. But I know who carried it out.”

“I’m waiting, and my fingers are getting the urge the snap something. Considering the nearest something is your neck, you’re gonna want to give me a name.”

I let my fingers flex tighter around his neck, eyeing the bluing color of his lips as his oxygen supply was cut off.

Fuck, that was satisfying.

Winger scratched and grappled at my fingers, and eventually, that was annoying enough for me to drop him back onto his feet. He coughed and wheezed, staring at me with big bloodshot eyes.

Hawk blew out a plume of smoke from his cigarette. “A name, asshole. Or start digging your own grave, ‘cause you ain’t walking out of here alive.”

Winger’s big eyes darted between us while he rubbed his rapidly bruising neck. “The hitman the club uses when they want someone gone.” His voice was raspy and weak.

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