Page 6 of The Wild Charge

Both of them went goggle-eyed when they spotted Reese and Tenny’s new patches.

“Dude,” Boomer said, “what the fuck? They patched you in?”

Reese said, “Yes.”

Tenny said, “Apparently, if you’re not a useless dullard, they let you jump to the head of the line.”

Deacon made a disgusted sound. “Fuck that, we were here first.”

Mercy said, “Come on, boys, your time’ll come. How’s our prisoner?”

Deacon shot a sullen glare to both of them, then managed to draw himself together. “Quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Boomer added. “I think he’s planning something.”

“Good luck to him, then,” Mercy said, hefting his tacklebox, and stepping through the door. Inside, beyond the office, dark with the blinds drawn, the main part of the building lay empty except for the stock trailer parked in the corner, its door padlocked shut, its slats too narrow to allow for escape.

Carter – who’d come back this morning, tired-looking, but less tense than last night – was there, and Tango. They’d set up a chair, and set out duct tape. A folding table onto which Mercy could arrange his tools. A second chair, for Walsh, who settled onto it right away with his clipboard and a pen, one boot resting on his knee. Deceptively casual. Reese figured he’d done this hundreds of times, at this point.

“Thanks, boys,” Mercy told Carter and Tango.

“You good here?” Tango asked, voice cracking a little with nerves.

“Yeah, we’re good, Tiny Dancer, you can head out.”

Tango nodded, offered a fleeting smile, and left with an offer of “good luck.”

Walsh paged through the questions he’d already written out.

Carter said, “Do you need me to stay?”

Mercy had opened his tacklebox, and paused in the act of setting out a wrench. “I don’t need you to, no, but you’re welcome to stay if you want.”

Carter glanced toward Tenny, and Reese knew he was remembering the ill-fated questioning of Jimmy Connors, Tenny wild-eyed and wielding a knife. The cuts on his arm and palms were still visible as pink lines, not fully healed yet.

“I’ll stay,” Carter said, and Mercy nodded with obvious approval.

He set out a screwdriver, a pair of pliers. “Reese, you and Slick go get our little birdie.”

“Slick?” Tenny protested. “I think not.”

Mercy chuckled. “Uh-huh. You don’t get to choose your own nickname around here.”

“Hmph.”

Reese nudged him, and they went to the rear door of the trailer.

Carter tossed him the key, and Reese opened the padlock, pulled the chain loose and opened it with a loud squeal of rusted hinges. Enough light filtered through the steel slats of the trailer to illuminate Luis sitting up near the front of the trailer, down in the straw, forearms resting on his knees.

He wore the clothes they’d captured him in, straw-flecked, crusted with dried sweat. The trailer reeked of the bucket they’d given him to use for a toilet.

He lifted his head as they filled the rear door, and despite the tell-tale shine of dried tears on his cheeks, and the deep circles of pain and exhaustion beneath his eyes, the blood-soaked bandages wound like a club around his hand where Ian had stabbed him with a letter-opener, a spark of defiance remained in his gaze. His jaw was set stubbornly.

Mercy would enjoy that, Reese thought, not at all sure how he felt about it himself.

He said, “It’ll be easier if you cooperate.”

Luis showed his teeth in a snarl that wasn’t nearly as devastating, personally, as one of Tenny’s.

---