Page 111 of Rogue

I grind my teeth together. Francis is going to pay for selling us out.

“I should have killed you that day at the diner.”

Ditto that, yet long before the diner, back to the day you murdered my father.

“Little did I realize what a nuisance I had on my hands. Like a dog with a bone, snooping around Shelby, then the catacombs, spying on me.” He gestures at me and my sewer-rat condition. “Drawing attention to my business. Today I’m not leaving until I get the answers I want. Specifically, who you’re working for.”

Just my good luck the king Prick’s come out to play.

“Start the fire,” he tells one of the men who’s accompanied him into the prison. I’m not certain but I think it’s the same men who’d been carrying the boxes of weapons.

“Thanks. It’s kind of chilly in here,” I comment. Doing my best impression of a dumb blond except the three Pricks at my feet don’t exactly help my cause.

Even down here in the bowels of hell, Novák’s dressed to the nines. He’s wearing a charcoal suit tailored perfectly to his body. His hair’s combed neatly in place. An overconfident tilt to his head.

Of course he’s confident. He’s got seven Pricks with him to get one stupid blond to squeal on her organization.

He slowly approaches then enters my cell. All by his lonesome.

How many seconds do I have to kill him before the men just outside the cell can react?

I count his steps as he approaches me. Seven.

Jesus. I’m beginning to hate that number.

I relax my body. “Finished taking inventory? You know, counting the so-called untraceable boxes of guns you had your men hide for you?” I ask.

His deep V forms in his forehead, then glances over his shoulder at the six men lined up like ducks. The seventh is busy with starting a fire to warm this hellhole up.

“How does she know about them?” He fixes his eyes back on me.

“She was inside the catacombs—” one of his men begins to explain but I cut him off.

“Those vans you’ve arranged to pick up your boxes, they won’t be showing up tomorrow,” I say with faux confidence.

Novák’s face is now the color of tomato soup. I give myself a mental pat on the back. Yep, I never thought I’d admit this, but this is Sabrina’s training, hard at work.

“What does she mean?” one man asks the other.

“She’s lying,” the wisest of the bunch exclaims.

“Mexico?” I toss out the name of a country I heard them say once.

Novák’s nostrils seem to flare. “How is it that you know . . . ?” He turns and eyeballs the line of Pricks.

“They told me everything,” I lie. “About the ammunition, the weapons, Mexico, and Farhed.” Okay, the last was a long shot. A name I’ve only heard once. But hey, I’m a gambling kind of girl. Besides, what do I have to lose?

It does the trick, though, because every single man present, except for the silent one undoubtedly listening in the next cell over, repeats the nameFarhed. Over and over, enough where it’s abundantly clear he’s someone important.

“So you’re just a little ant like the rest of them.” I nod toward the Pricks. “Trying to please Farhed with a shipment of black-market weapons.”

“Is the motherfucking iron ready yet?” Novák demands.

“Now would be grand,” my sole ally quips.

Irish,I think.

“Shut your trap. Or are two letters not enough for you?”