Page 93 of Ink's Devil

“We’re taking him back to the clubhouse?” Staring down at the unmoving bundle at my feet, I doubt if he’ll still be alive when we get there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t already taken his last breath. “I still say we drop him at a hospital.”

Beef turns stern eyes on me. “Then what? State he’s in, the cops will get called, and we lose our chance to talk to him. Taking him back, fixing him up—if possible—means we get the info that he’s got for ourselves. You get to do your job, Mace.”

Fix him up so I can hurt him. From the state of him, there’s not much more I can do that someone else hasn’t already done. Seems I’ll have to get inventive. The reference to my skills reminds me we’ve got another problem. Well, two of them.

“What about the men tied up back in that room?”

“Pyro, Wills, go and get the main entrance open so Pal can drive straight in. Mace, you come with me.” He pauses and looks around to where Judge is kneeling beside Lizard. “He okay?”

“I’m okay,” Liz answers for himself with a hand to his head. I take it he must have knocked it when he went down.

“I’ve bound his hand again,” Judge says, shaking his head. “I’m worried about him being able to ride.”

“Of course I can fuckin’ ride,” Liz objects.

“You’re not riding. In fact, you’re staying sitting down until Pal arrives. Not risking you keeling over again. We’ll load up your bike. Look at it this way, Pal’s driving. Need someone to keep an eye on him.” Beef points to the bloody heap on the ground.

It’s not a moment for mirth, but the thought of how sheepish Liz must be feeling makes me suppress a grin. It’s far from the first time Liz has been struck down because he’s injured himself, but Beef has made a good observation. Pal will need to concentrate on the road and can’t doctor his passenger at the same time. The thought he might be pulled over with a dead or dying body in the rear seat, well, it wouldn’t just be Ink who’s looking at life on the inside.

“Look for something you can use as a stretcher,” Beef instructs Judge.

“I don’t need—”

“Not for you, asshole.” Beef sounds exasperated. “For Connor.”

Already on board with his allotted task, Judge looks around, his eyes narrowed. I’m sure they’ll find a plank or something. Getting the unconscious man onto it shouldn’t be hard. Getting Lizard out to the truck without him looking at his hand, more difficult. I only hope the second bandana Judge has wrapped around his wound will do the job.

I follow Beef back into the room with the table and cards. One man is crying in pain, the other is looking distressed.

As soon as we walk in, both look up, both scared for their lives. As they should be.

Again, Beef takes the lead. “We found Connor. He’s dead.”

Well, will you look at that? If I thought the men seemed scared before, they’re petrified now.

“No,” cries out the Hispanic. “He’s not. He can’t be. Only gave him a few taps to soften him up.”

A few taps?They’d used him as a punching bag then gave him a good kicking as well, if I’m any judge. And I’d be surprised if some of his blood hadn’t come from stab wounds.

“He bled out.” Beef shrugs as if a man’s death is of no importance to him.

The look that goes between them is interesting to say the least. So are the Hispanic’s words. “We’re in trouble now,” he tells his friend whose injured foot doesn’t seem to be bothering him as much as the words he’s just heard.

“We’re dead,” his friend replies.

So, they weren’t supposed to let Connor die? Just torture him so he’d call Beth and then keep him here alive. Trouble is, they got carried away. Enough so, it’s not too hard for them to believe Connor isn’t dead.

“This Alder want him alive?” Beef asks.

The look on their faces suggests that he does. But without encouragement, they’re not going to elucidate.

It’s at that point when my ex-prez jerks his head toward me and raises his eyebrow at the VP. Beef nods, then says tiredly, “Do your stuff, Mace.”

I do. Conscious we haven’t got much time if we want a chance to keep Connor in the land of the living, I go as fast as I can, figuring out weak points, their greatest fears, and concentrating on those areas which cause maximum pain while leaving them still able to talk.

Their pleas for mercy quickly change until, with their pants around their ankles and their dicks exposed, they’re giving us more information than I’ve asked for. I think at this point they’d give me their bank account numbers and PINs were I to ask.

We learn little about Alder, they don’t know much. They’re foot soldiers, left here to make sure Connor didn’t escape. Alder wanted him alive, but for what, they don’t know. But they’d been the ones getting their hands dirty when Connor was forced to ring Beth.

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