Page 35 of Ravaged Soul
“You want to lower the piece?”
Jaw clenching beneath his blonde scruff, Hyland’s raised gun doesn’t budge. “Alternatively, I could unload it into your carcass.”
“You son of a?—”
“It’s alright.” The formal croon that seems to haunt me rings out. “No need to get all worked up, boys.”
Strolling towards us like he doesn’t have a care in the world, Blaine immediately catches my eye. His self-assured grin is full of smug satisfaction. Such a shit stirring drama queen.
“What is this?” Warner steps forward to meet him. “The plea deal didn’t include running around the city and playing pointless games.”
Blaine grants him an exaggerated eye roll. “Good morning to you too.”
“Stop wasting our time. Why are we here?”
“Want me to take the trash back out?” Spyder offers.
“No, stand down.” Blaine shakes his head in denial. “Our friends may be rude beyond belief, but for once, we’re on the same side.”
The sound of another nearby scream punctuates his words. We all collectively stiffen while Blaine’s lascivious smile widens.
“Care to follow me?”
Pushing off the arm that Hyland attempts to block me with, I cut him a glower then follow behind Blaine. We’re led through the empty workbenches, pockmarked with telltale scars, out towards a storeroom. Only it isn’t boxes or crates being stashed inside.
“One more chance,” someone yells. “Where is Luis?”
Oh, hell. Axel.
The ultimatum is levied with a firm strike, causing blood to erupt from the asshole’s busted nose. Stained metal attached to Axel’s knuckles glints beneath the dim-orange lighting. My lips part on a gasp when he delivers another blow.
“You won’t take Antonio Gael’s secrets to the grave,” Axel warns in a light, teasing voice. “There’s much more we can do while you’re still alive.”
“F-F-Fuck you!”
“I’ll pass. You’re not my type.”
It’s hard to make out the middle-aged man he’s systematically beating with blood-slick knuckledusters. Nor do I recognise the three others, all cuffed and bound on theirindividual wooden chairs, sporting varying degrees of injuries and consciousness.
“Madden?” Warner motions to the half-dead looking men. “Explain.”
“What did you call them before?” Blaine taps his chin. “Honeypots?”
Every inch of me clenches tight in anticipation. We pumped Luis’s men for information after the raid, including Miguel, before tossing them into cells to await prosecution. But these guys? They’re fresh meat. Brand-new players.
“How?” I rasp.
With a self-assured wink, Blaine gestures for everyone to enter the room. “I have my ways.”
“Who are they?” Warner inches inside.
“Old employees of my father. Men he used behind my back to fuel his trafficking enterprise. Their allegiances soon shifted when his empire collapsed. All four of them freelance now.”
“For Gael?” Hyland asks.
“Among other players.” Blaine tilts his head towards the man being tortured. “I believe Sabre’s been searching for this one in connection with the Sanchez case for several years now.”
It’s hard not to clock Hyland’s visceral reaction—an almost full body recoil at that name. Then he tucks his gun into his waistband and heads to Axel’s side to inspect the captive’s red-stained face.
