Page 92 of Ink's Devil

I attach the pliers firmly, then with a practised upward pull and a twist of my wrist, the yellowed nail comes away from the nail bed. Blood floods the area immediately.

The man lets out an unholy scream, and tries, unsuccessfully, to pull his restrained leg up toward his body. It will burn, sting, and then throb. Even stubbing your toe hard seems to cause a disproportionate amount of pain.

“Where’s Connor?”

“I don’t fucking know who Connor is,” the man wails.

“Who owns this warehouse? Who’s your boss?”

Silence. Right. Toe number two it is.

The man is crying with pain. It’s only when I have worked my way along to his big toe that he screams out, “Alder. It’s Alder. We’re working for Alder.”

“Beef? Mace? You need to see this.” Ro appears in the doorway. The expression on his face is grim.

“Thunder. Hell. Stay here,” Beef orders.

I follow Ro. He leads us across the main floor and into a maze of passages and storerooms beyond. There in the last is a pile of bloody rags on the floor. Next to that, lying prone, is my brother.

“Liz?” I start forward, filled with concern.

“Never mind him,” Ro says, tersely. “He saw blood dripping from his hand. He’ll be fine. It’shim.”

The light in here is dim, so I switch my flashlight on. Shit. The bundle on the floor has a head. A very, bloody, unrecognisable head.

“Is he dead?” I’m making the presumption he’s a man. It’s hard to tell from here.

“Not quite,” says Ro.

The body groans as if to confirm it.

“Is it Connor?”

“Man,” Ro’s face twists, “I can’t tell.”

Christ, it is impossible to identify him, I realise, stepping closer. Even hair colour is difficult to determine as it’s all a combination of bright and dark red, some fresh blood, some dried.

“Pal, get here fast. Need to take someone to the hospital.” Beef is already on the phone.

“No… no…”

“Hey. You’re Connor, right?” Making the assumption, I sink down to my haunches, wary of even touching him. There doesn’t seem any part of him that’s not hurt. We need to fix him to the point he’s capable of talking. Beef’s made the correct call, if he’s going to live, which at the moment seems doubtful, only an expert could help.

“Ye…” I take it he’s trying to say yes.

“Looks like he was telling the truth,” Beef says dourly. “If we want questions answered, we need him alive.”

“No hosp… No…”

I realise he’s passed out. Or possibly, dead.

“What are we going to do with him?” I ask. “He didn’t want a hospital.”

Beef looks at Pyro. “We got a doc on speed dial?”

“Yeah. Rusty’s our medic, but this is beyond what he can handle. I know a man who’s dug a bullet or two out for us before now. Decent doc, but expensive.”

“If he’s got info that could free Ink, don’t care about the cost, Brother.”

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