Page 36 of The Truths We Seek

I cauterize each cut to make sure he doesn’t bleed out, the stench of burning flesh making him gag through his cries of agony.

When I move to his hands, having discarded the finesse of the scalpel for the brute force of pliers, fear finally glistens in his eyes as he tries to thrash around on the table. I grab each of his nails, prying them from his fingertips, before crushing each of his knuckles in their grip.

I’ve gotta hand it to him, nobody’s ever been dumb enough to withhold information for me for this long.

I sigh, growing weary of his screaming, and reclaim my blade before grabbing his balls and stretching them taut, the tip of the blade poised and the first droplet of blood dripping onto the table.

“Harper Williams! That’s who told me where she was!”

I pause at the name, keeping my shock tucked away, because I don’t quite believe it. But he also said there was more than one person, so I’m not going to stop yet. I use the soldering gun to seal the wound I just made, his screams now filling me with deadly, brutal annoyance.

“YOU WANTED A NAME!” he screams.

“I did. But you got cocky and told me there was more than one person. I want them all.”

A tear slips down his cheek, like a balm to the scars on my soul from what happened to Quinn, but it’s not enough.

Protecting her at all costs is what I vowed, and that means enjoying this a little more than I should.

Putting down the soldering gun, I grab another blade and move toward his right eye. “You don’t need to see to speak,” I say with a smile as I tower above him, his pathetic whimpers hanging in the air between us. “Now give me the other names.”

* * *

After a day with Trent, I’m both invigorated and exhausted, but my work isn’t done yet. Meyer might have told me to focus on Trent, but I had a pre-arranged meeting with Dario for tonight about this fuck up with the Ghosts.

Hunter might be better with most people, but Dario is more like me than the others.

We speak the same language.

Well, sort of.

I push open the wooden door to the bar the Ghosts own, the stench of beer, piss, and sweat filling my nostrils as my feet stick to the floorboards.

Fuck, I hate this place.

Trying to make a deal with the devil is never fun, but getting the devil to agree to not traffic people while also trying to stop a flood of low-grade drugs choking our streets is kind of a priority. There’s money in vices, that’s how we survive, but when people start dropping… it’s not good for anyone.

The problem is the Ghosts are known to try and cut corners to make a bigger profit. Which is exactly why I’m here.

We have their guns still, Meyer’s doing a deal for them with the boys across the border, but the drugs? They’re still in my warehouse and, after testing, they’re basically rat fucking poison. So I get to find out who supplied them, deal with that, and try to put a better option on the table while bringing them in on the gun operation we’ve been running to make it profitable for them, but more so for us.

All while delivering apt punishment for breaking our original deal. The truck of girls we intercepted… I clench my fists just thinking about it. I might be a monster, but I’ll never be that kind of monster.

Fuck, I hate this part.

Politics isn’t my strong suit, I don’t exactly play well with others.

Give me wet work any day.

I spot Dario across the room and lift my chin in greeting before heading to the bar.

The blonde behind the pine gives me a wide smile, her low-cut top barely containing her tits, which are as real as the blonde of her hair. I give her a tight smile as I lean against the worn bar top, scanning over the booze available. This is going to require whiskey. “Rory, not often we see you here. Slumming it with the riff raff.”

“Hi Tor. Just a whiskey,” is all I respond. I’m not here to flirt with Dario’s niece. That’s a dangerous game, and since Quinn… well, women who aren’t her just don’t appeal to me.

Tor frowns at me but slams a glass in front of me and pours the amber liquid. I slide some cash across the bar, throwing back the booze before motioning for her to pour again. It’s cheap-ass whiskey and tastes like shit, but whiskey is whiskey. She pours another, all while looking like she’d rather smash the bottle over my head, and I lift the glass in thanks and head over to Dario.

If I believed in a god, I’d be praying for the will to get through this without shedding blood. Fortunately, I have a stronger motivation to keep it on track: the knowledge that this will benefit Quinn and keep her safe.

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