Page 34

Diesel

I stand in the dim light of the secure room we keep hidden in the clubhouse. It’s accessible through a secret door in the back of a maintenance closet, the door itself solid steel set in a concrete frame. The air roils thick with tension and the metallic scent of blood, feeling as much like a blanket of grime and crimson. Pitbull sits before us, his face a mess of bruises and cuts, eyes darting between Rabid, Mayhem, and me.

The chair creaks as he shifts, testing his bonds.

Rabid steps forward, and his presence fills the small space.

"Let's cut the bullshit," he growls, leaning in close to Pitbull's face. "We want everything you know about Moretti's operation. Every detail, every whisper, every fucking sneeze. Start talking."

Pitbull tries to smirk, but it comes out as more of a grimace, which makes me smile; I’m the one who busted his face up so much that even being a cocky asshole — his natural fucking state — hurts him like hell. "You think I'm gonna roll over that easy? I got nothing to say to you assholes."

I exchange a glance with Mayhem and see the same icy determination in his eyes that I feel. This will not be pretty, but we need answers. And even though it won’t be pretty, it’ll still be fun. A little. Maybe even a lot.

But not as much as it would be if Samantha weren’t here, lurking in the back of my mind and stirring up my conscience.

I feel a twinge of guilt at that, a twinge that I try to chase away as soon as I recognize it for what it is. The look she gave me, the reaction she had to what is a necessity in war — the capture and interrogation of your enemies — made me hesitate in doing what I know is right. As much as her loving me makes me stronger, makes me feel like I can move on from Brandy, I wonder how much weakness it might bring out in me, too.

Though is it even weakness?

I shake my head, and before I can think any further, Rabid's hand shoots out, gripping Pitbull's jaw. He squeezes, and things in Pitbull’s jaw pop and crack in a wet way, and the dealer howls. "Wrong answer, dipshit. You're in Ironwood Falls, and you're gonna learn real quick that we don't fuck around here."

I step closer and crack my knuckles, eager for more blood.

"Last chance to make this easy on yourself," I say. "Tell us what Moretti's planning, or things are gonna get real unpleasant for you."

Pitbull spits blood onto the concrete floor. "Fuck you," he snarls, but his voice wavers.

Rabid nods at me, and I step forward and swing. My fist connects with Pitbull's stomach, sinks deep into his flesh. Muscles cave, he whines, the air whooshes out of him, and he doubles over as much as his restraints allow.

I then grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back.

"That was just a love tap," I growl. "You wanna see what happens when I get serious?"

Mayhem steps forward and produces a knife from his pocket.

"How about we start with those teeth of yours? See how many I can wedge out with this little toy of mine before you sing?"

Pitbull's eyes widen. He shifts and squirms. Rabid leans in close, until his face is inches from Pitbull’s. "You think Moretti gives a shit about you? He'd sell you out in a heartbeat and forget about you in a second. But us? We can make this last for days. We won’t forget about you, Pitbull. We’ll make you and everything you go through so very fucking memorable."

I slam my fist into Pitbull's face, feel his nose crunch under my knuckles. Blood sprays, and he lets out a strangled cry. I hit him again, then again, turning his face into something that looks like the hamburger skillet dishes my mother used to make when I was younger — and my mom was a shitty cook.

After a series of heavy blows, I step back, and flex life my hand. At a nod from Rabid, Mayhem then grabs Pitbull's hand and isolates his pinky finger.

“Please, don’t,” he whimpers.

"Last chance," Mayhem says, positioning the knife. "Talk, or we take you apart joint by joint."

I watch with grim satisfaction as Mayhem positions the knife against Pitbull's pinky. The dealer's eyes are wide with terror now, all pretense of bravado gone. Part of me hopes he keeps resisting; I want to hurt him, to make him suffer for working with Moretti, for endangering my brothers, my friends, my Samantha.

Mayhem presses the blade against Pitbull's skin, drawing a thin line of blood.

"Tick tock, asshole. Start talking, or I start cutting."

Pitbull's breath comes in ragged gasps. He looks from Mayhem to me to Rabid, his lips quivering. Then, suddenly, his face crumples. A high-pitched wail escapes his throat, and tears start streaming down his battered face.

"Mommy," he cries, his voice cracking. "I want my mommy!"

“The fuck?” I blink, taken aback by the sudden outburst. Mayhem's hand falters, the knife pulling away slightly as he stares at Pitbull in disbelief.

"Please," Pitbull sobs, while snot and blood mix on his face. "I want my mommy! I'm sorry! I'll tell you everything, just please don't cut off my fingers. I need them all. Even the little ones."

The room falls silent except for Pitbull's loud, uncontrolled sobbing. I shift uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with Mayhem and Rabid. Mayhem puts his knife away, then awkwardly pats Pitbull on the top of his head.

“There, there,” he says.

“Don’t you fucking pet our prisoner,” Rabid says.

“But he just looks so fucking sad,” Mayhem says.

“He’s a fucking drug dealer. He deserves to suffer.”

“But he’s got snot coming out his nose,” Mayhem says, pointing. “Look, he’s even making fucking bubbles with it. I’m going to go get him something to calm him down. Pitbull, would you like an Otter Pop? I think I have watermelon flavor in the fridge. It’s fucking delicious.”

“I would… I would like that. Thank you,” Pitbull replies, his nose, mouth, and eyes dribbling like the Niagara falls of tears and snot.

“No treats, no snacks, no nothing for him,” Rabid says. “That’s a fucking order, Mayhem.”

I step forward and ram my fist again into Pitbull’s stomach. It feels weird as hell to hit a grown, tattoo-covered man who is crying like a three-year-old who just lost his favorite toy, but it’s the only thing I know of to get him to shut up. “Stop crying.”

He sniffles. “Then stop hurting me. God damn, you guys are so fucking mean.”

“Then tell us what Moretti is up to. And keep your fucking tears and snot inside your fucking body,” Rabid snaps.

I stand there, watching Pitbull blubber like a toddler, feeling a mix of disgust and awkwardness. This isn't how I expected this interrogation to go. Mayhem keeps trying to comfort the sobbing drug dealer, while Rabid looks like he's about to explode.

"Alright, alright," I say, and now I’m patting him on the head, too. What the fuck is wrong with me? "Pitbull, just tell us what you know about Moretti's operation. The sooner you talk, the sooner this can be over."

Pitbull sniffles, and his nose makes a wet, disgusting sound. "Okay, okay. Just... just don't hit me again, please?"

I nod and step back to give him some space. Mayhem pats his shoulder, which earns him a glare from Rabid.

"Moretti's been... he's been operating small, you know?" Pitbull starts, his voice shaky. "Mostly in Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, the Dakotas. Places where he could fly under the radar, build up his operation without attracting too much attention. He’s got labs now. Nothing huge, but enough of them, which means lots of product."

"And now?" Rabid prompts, his patience clearly wearing thin.

"Now he wants more," Pitbull says. He’s started hiccupping between words. "He's got his eyes on the West Coast. Washington, Oregon, California. That's where the real money is, you know? So many people, so much money."

I nod. It makes sense. The West Coast markets are lucrative, but also fiercely competitive. "So why's he pushing into Ironwood Falls? Why’s he working with you? Is this just to get to Hunter?"

Pitbull sniffs again, and Mayhem hands him a bandanna. The drug dealer looks blankly at the bandanna, then Mayhem says, “Shit, forgot your hands were tied. Here, I got you, man.” He holds the bandanna to Pitbull’s nose and Pitbull blows his nose loudly.

“Thank you. You’re really kind,” Pitbull says. Then he continues, "It's all about logistics. Moretti knows he can't just waltz into those big markets without a solid distribution network. That's where the trucking company comes in."

"Hunter's brother's company," I mutter.

"Exactly," Pitbull nods, his eyes still watery. A tear falls from his eye, then a bubble of snot forms from his left nostril as he sneezes. “Excuse me.”

“Bless you,” Mayhem says.

“Will you fucking stop?” Rabid says.

“It’s just fucking common courtesy. What sort of society are we living in without respect for basic rules?” Mayhem says.

“The weeping man is a fucking meth dealer. Who gives a shit?”

“I do,” Pitbull says.

“You don’t fucking count,” Rabid says.

“Continue, Pitbull,” I prompt.

"With an established trucking business, Moretti could move product across state lines using the interstate highways. It's the perfect cover. And Ironwood Falls, too. It’s in an excellent location. Good access point where the eastern roads intersect with the north-south interstate. Honestly, he probably would’ve come here anyway, even without wanting the trucking company. He has a lot of product to move."

Rabid leans in, his eyes narrowed. "How much product are we talking about?"

Pitbull swallows hard. "Tons. It might literally be tons. Moretti's been stockpiling to prepare for this expansion. He's got warehouses full of product just waiting to flood the West Coast. He is going to push everyone out of business so he can corner the market."

I exchange a glance with Mayhem and Rabid. This is bigger than we thought.

"And the trucking company would be the key to all of this?" I ask.

Pitbull nods vigorously. Snot drips from his nose and Mayhem solicitously wipes it off. "It's the linchpin of his entire plan. Without it, he can't move that much product without raising suspicion. But that company’s trucks are known. The brand is respected. Hell, some drivers even have personal relationships with customs agents, so Moretti could use that to haul product across the border all the way up into Canada.”

Rabid runs his hand through his hair. “God damn. Where's Moretti now? What's his next move?"

Pitbull's lower lip quivers, and I swear to God, I'm about to lose it. He shakes his head, trying to clam up again.

"Fuck this," Rabid snarls. He whips out a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light. He presses it against Pitbull's cheek until it draws a thin line of blood, then presses harder, and that thin line becomes a small stream. "Open your fucking mouth or I will cut it open for you."

Pitbull lets out a high-pitched wail that makes my teeth ache. Tears stream down his face and mix with the blood. "Please, no! I can't... Moretti will kill me!"

"We'll kill you slower," I growl, my patience wearing thin.

Mayhem steps in, his voice oddly gentle. "Come on, buddy. Just tell us what we need to know, and this can all be over and you and I can share some fucking bomb Otter Pops."

Pitbull sniffles, his nose a free-flowing river of snot that would put the Nile to shame. It's fucking disgusting, and I have to look away. He lets out another pathetic whimper before finally breaking. "There's... there's a house. On the outskirts of town. We've been using it to store product, but lately... it's been different."

"Different how?"

"More activity. More men. They've been fortifying it, bringing in heavy weapons." Pitbull's voice cracks. "I think... I think they're preparing it for Moretti. He’s coming soon."

Rabid's grip on the knife tightens. His knuckles turn white and the blade bites deeper into Pitbull’s flesh. "When? When is that fucker coming?"

Pitbull shakes his head, tears and snot flying. "I don't know exactly, but soon. Very soon." He looks up at us, his eyes wild with fear. "You don't understand. Moretti... he's not just coming for your business or your territory. He's coming for your lives. He’s fucking crazy, and everyone in his organization talks about how, when he gets in these rampages… he uses his own product, he goes on these binges, and…" A chill runs down my spine as Pitbull continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's going to wipe out every single one of you. And not just you — everyone you care about. Your families, your friends, your children, the people you love and care about. He wants to erase you all."

The room falls silent. I exchange glances with Rabid and Mayhem, and see my shock and anger reflected in their eyes. Rabid nods once, and grunts something before looking from Mayhem to me.

“I think we’ve heard everything there is to hear, don’t you?”

Mayhem nods. I do the same.

In a second, my mind goes to Samantha and the look on her face. To her words. To her belief and her belief in me. Maybe there is a better way to deal with Pitbull — he’s a broken man, pathetic, trapped and afraid like a child.

In a sudden movement, Rabid tightens his grip on the knife and runs it across Pitbull’s throat, cutting deep to the spine. A spout of blood shoots from Pitbull’s throat and his nearly severed head lolls backward, revealing a mess of gore. Rabid turns and heads to the door, the dealer’s blood dripping from his hands and the wicked blade of his knife.

“We’ve got work to do.”