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She looks at me like I’ve just struck her. “What? Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to see what I’m going to do to him.”
“Dixon, I was ready to murder you. Do you really think I can’t handle a little blood?”
“It’s not just a little. It’s buckets,” Ghost says. “OK, not all of it is blood. There’s piss, there’s puke, there might even be a little shit, but damn, this guy, for being a hired killer, he was a bleeder, like—”
“Ghost, you’re not helping,” I say.
“Sorry, Smokey. Right.”
“Alexandra, I promise you, I’ll come get you when he’s talking. You’ll hear the truth right from his lips. I swear. But I don’t want you to see me do what I’m going to have to do to make him talk. Maybe you say it wouldn’t affect you, maybe it wouldn’t change things between us, but I don’t want to risk it.”
She sighs. Doubt flickers across her face. It’s fierce, but exists only for a moment. “Fine. I love you that much, Dixon. But the moment he talks, I want to face him. This man has the answers I need, and if I don’t get them…”
“You’ll get them. I promise.”
Nodding, she leans against the wall. “I’ll wait out here.”
I enter Reid’s Repairs. The shop itself is how we usually leave it. There’s a car upon a lift, having its transmission redone; there’s an oil stain the size of an adult, and in the shape of one, too, from yesterday when Thunder and Bullet got into an argument about whether the Rams had a chance at the Super Bowl, and there’s a set of tools spread out on a workbench for a serious engine job we have scheduled for the coming evening with a customer. The tools are Rook’s. They’re set out exactly how he’d line them up — neat, organized, everything in its exact place and the order he’d expect to use it. They even glisten like he’s cleaned and even polished them recently, which it wouldn’t surprise me if he had, because that hardass keeps a lot of his old military habits.
I grab a few of his tools. Then I head to the back room. To our customers or any other visitors we have, they’d see us go through this door and figure we’re just heading back to where we keep the spare parts. They’d think it’s benign. Unless they actually touched this particular door, then they’d notice that it’s heavier than most doors, that it’s reinforced, that there’s more than one lock on it, and the room it leads into is pretty barren, with nothing but a grim fluorescent light overhead and an ominous drain in the concrete floor. I see the second that I enter the room that Ghost has put that floor drain to use. A sniff tells me he was right about Marquez messing himself. I suppress the urge to gag. It’s an old stench, and must’ve happened early on. Sometimes they do that when you hit them in the right spot at the right time — the body just lets go.
“Hi Erik,” I say.
Erik lifts his head slowly to meet my gaze. His face is a mess of dark bruises and dried blood. One eye is swollen completely shut. He tries to speak but only manages a weak groan through his split lips. He reeks of sweat, urine, and fear.
As I approach, his eyes widen. He strains against his bonds and whimpers through the gag in his mouth. I set Rook's tools down on a metal tray with a deliberate clang that makes Erik flinch.
"Sounds like you've had a rough time with my pal Ghost. He's enthusiastic about his work. Me, I'm usually the good cop in this scenario. Well, as good as I can get. Which ain’t much, but it’s a fucking fair bit nicer than Ghost. Not today, though, Erik. Not with you."
I pick up a wrench, feeling its weight in my hand.
"See, you've upset some people I care about very much. And while I may not relish causing pain the way Ghost does, I will relish hurting you. I want the truth about what happened with Lucas Reyes, of course, but I want to wreck your body and your soul nearly as much."
Erik makes a gurgling sound, blood bubbling on his lips as he tries to protest.
I ignore it.
"Ghost says you're close to breaking. That you want to confess. Because you know what's coming to you. Isn't that right, Erik?"
He shakes his head weakly, sending spatters of blood across the concrete. Defiant to the last. He’s about to learn just how fucking stupid that is.
I lean in, dangle the wrench just inches from his face.
"This is your last chance to do this the easy way. Tell me what happened with Lucas Reyes. Tell me why he died. Tell me everything you know. Or I will rip off every one of your digits with this fucking wrench and shove each one down your throat. I’ll make you fucking eat your trigger finger first. Then the rest of your fingers. And, if you won’t chew them, I’ll shove them in your mouth and fucking jam your jaw together until you gnaw them to the bone. Then I’ll move on to your toes, one by one. Rip them off and make you swallow. After that, well, things will get nasty. Maybe I’ll make you dance for me, or give you a chance to run for it. See how far you get with no toes."
I press the cold metal of the wrench against Erik's cheek, let him feel its weight. He shudders and whimpers, tries to jerk his head away. But there's nowhere to go.
"You see, Erik, I will not kill you. No matter how much you might wish for that sweet release. Death is too good for scum like you. I'm going to keep you alive and make you suffer in ways you can't even imagine. Because you hurt someone that I love, which means you are going to pay, and pay, and pay until I’m fucking satisfied that there is no more fear or pain to be ripped from your broken body."
I grab his jaw roughly, forcing him to look me in the eye. They’re dilated, they twitch and squirm in their sockets, unable to lock gaze with me.
"Unless you talk. That’s your only fucking out. You give me what I want, right fucking now, and I give you what you want. What do you know about Lucas Reyes’s murder?"
Erik makes a choking sound, blood and spittle dripping down his chin as he tries to form words. I rip the gag out of his mouth.
“I’ll tell you,” he spits, a thick gob of blood landing on my shoe. “I was ready to tell that other guy, but he kept drawing this shit out. Wouldn’t let me talk. Said I had to just work through the pain and wait for someone else to get here. Fuck, man, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just don’t make me fucking eat myself.”
