Page 56 of The Lies We Tell

“No. Don’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the guy yells as he fights to free his wrist from Spark’s grip.

But Spark is unrelenting as he traps the man’s fingers in a vise. The man’s knees buckle, and he lurches awkwardly toward the floor.

I make a move to get off my bike. To intervene.

Spark says something too quietly for me to hear, then picks up a heavy industrial wrench in his gloved hand.

“I won’t do it again,” the man screams. “I’ll do better.” Tears and snot pour down his face.

Then Spark raises the wrench and slams it down on the man’s secured knuckles.

“One,” the man screams.

Jesus, Spark’s making him count. And he repeats the action until the guy hoarsely says five.

Spark pats the top of the man’s head, then walks back to me, tipping his head from left to right, then giving his shoulders a roll. There’s a smile on his face. “Let’s get out of here.”

I want to ask questions, but he’s right, we should go.

But once we’re parked up in the lot we rescued Briar in, waiting for Haven to show his face, I ask, “You want to tell me why we just smacked that guy down on the way over here?”

Spark grins. “Nope. Other than his hand now matches his little kid’s.”

Jesus. I should have known he’d have good reason. For a moment I wonder what my life would have been like if someone had given my father a taste of his own medicine. My moral compass shifts again. I want the freedom to do that. I wish I was free of the shackles of the ATF and their rules. “Fair enough.”

There’s been limited traffic on the side road, so it’s unusual to see two vehicles headed towards us. Even as I wonder if one is Jasper, they pass us and turn into a shipping container firm.

The first is a van.

“You see that?” Spark asks, and at the same time I realize the second vehicle is the black truck from Bethlehem with Nazi-loving stickers, the one Briar was in that night she found us.

“Saw it.” I hand the envelope of cash to Spark. “Pay the man. I’m going looking.”

“Bad strategy, Saint. We need to pay off this guy before tomorrow, but you going off alone is a recipe for a chest full of lead as you fall into the Hudson.”

“It’s a risk I gotta take,” I say as I start to sprint. I need to know what those fuckers are doing. I bring to mind Briar’s fears for her safety, the tears she cried, the dreams she’s had. Rage consumes me. I’m judge, jury, and executioner. Stopping these men is the one thing I can give her.

Suddenly, a scream pierces the air, and I stop so I can listen.

Spark catches up to me. “Where’d that come from?” he whispers.

I shake my head. “Motherfuckers. I don’t see shit.”

We scramble between the fence and side of the building, avoiding years of built-up debris. As we hit the end of the wall and peer into the darkness around the corner, I see the truck.

My hand is on the hilt of my weapon, ready to draw, as I see five men climb out. They’re armed to the teeth. So are the four men who walk out of a warehouse to meet them.

I pull my gun and step forward, ready to take out Joseph Hosea, when I am yanked back, my ass up against a wall before I have time to process Spark’s fury.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he whispers.

“They have women in that van.” I think of them. Of women like Briar. We need to get to them. Get them out.

“Yeah, and they have bullets in those nine semiautomatics they’re carrying. Lots of them. It’s a suicide mission. Can’t let you go in, brother.”

He increases the pressure of his arm against my chest, and I suck in a breath, trying to reconcile the fact I know he’s right to challenge the desperate need to take action.

“If we die today, it helps no one,” he says.