Page 44 of Kings Fear No One
“Mace,” Silver warns. He looks over at Flanagan, his stare scrutinizing. “It’s got to do with us, Flanagan, because they had one of our people. You might remember the oath you took when you became a King. If you don’t, I’m inclined to let Mace take you out back and teach you the hard way.”
Flanagan falls silent with red blotches coloring his face and neck.
Silver gives it a few seconds, then carries on like he was never interrupted with a stupid question.
“We raided the compound belonging to the religious cult known as the Chosen Saints,” Silver explains. “We slaughtered most of the higher-ranking members and set free the captives. But their leader—otherwise known as Abraham James—was able to escape. Ghost, care to offer your two cents? You’re heading up this situation.”
I stand up from where I’m seated, my arms folded over my chest. I keep it short and sweet. I’m still staring at an indiscriminate point in the distance. Public speaking has never been my thing. Less so after returning from years of captivity.
Crowds put me on guard. Even crowds of my own people.
“Everything he said,” I say. “The Chosen Saints are a cult that held people captive. Men and women. All ages, races, it doesn’t matter. It’s a community based off some bullshit scripture Abraham James invented. They use, abuse, and hurt people, and are out for more power and influence. If what we suspect is true, they’ve got more than one compound in the area. We destroyed one of them. We’ll do the same to the rest.
“We’ve got one of them in our custody. He’s down in the basement. Plan is to interrogate him and get him to crack. Give up the address of their alternate location. Once we get what we can out of him, we’ll start mapping out the next mission. Expect to be ready at a moment’s notice.”
The meeting adjourns how it always does—with another refill of drinks from the barmaids and Mick cutting the music back on from behind the bar counter.
Everyone with real responsibility slips out of the main room and into the back. The door snaps shut behind me, Silver, Mace, Cash, and a couple others.
We’re in the basement where our captive is being held.
Xavier’s strapped down in a chair by rope, a gag stuffed in his mouth. Dried blood mats his hair and dirt and grime cake his skin. He’s seen better days.
Too bad those better days for him were hell for me. Funny how the shoe’s on the other foot.
“Who gave him a black eye?” Cash asks.
Ozzie flashes a grin. “We had to subdue him. Fucktard wouldn’t stay still.”
Silver surveys Xavier for a second longer, then says, “Anybody bring any pliers?”
“Would it be a torture sesh without them? Tito and I put together a whole selection.”
“Don’t put that on me, amigo. That was all you. I supervised.”
Ozzie gestures to the assortment of tools he’s set down on the table against the wall like some impressive display he couldn’t be more excited about. He’s brought screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers, a sledgehammer.
“Half of these I stole from the Chop Shop when Korine wasn’t looking.”
Cash shakes his head. “If she caught you, I’m pretty sure you’d be the one sporting a black eye right now.”
“Fuck this.”
The two words rumble out of me in an impatient growl.
I stride up to where Xavier’s strapped down in the chair and throw a right hook. My fist collides with the side of his head. His neck bends off to the side at the force of the hit. A knot immediately begins to form.
I punch him a second time in the nose. “Remember me?”
“Believer Logan,” he croaks. “We meet again.”
“You’re damn straight we do.” Another punch to the face. “Did you think you’d get to flee that night and not be held accountable?”
The others stand back as I unleash a lengthy combination of hits. I hit Xavier so many times, my knuckles crack open. His swollen eye closes the rest of the way up.
“Logan, this is supposed to be an interrogation,” Silver says finally.
Mace takes a step toward me. “He’s right. We’re supposed to be collecting info.”
