Page 285 of Sticks and Stones
He was honest.
“We don’t get money. We get to use the drugs and the men. We get to fuck them and take some of the balloons. That’s our cut. Then, we can sell the drugs we take, or use them how we want.”
That wasn’t going to help them. Ethan knew they needed something—anything to connect the dots. Someone had to have that thread they could tug.
“Who have you delivered to?” he asked, trying a different route.
Truck shrugged.
“It’s always a truck stop. The buyer meets us there, but all we do is throw the person into their open trunk, and they drive away. By the time they get them, we’ve worn them down and they don’t fight.”
Gene was curious.
“When we were at the bar, were the men in there being coerced into sex?” he asked, still feeling horrible that he didn’t get them out.
But he knew what they looked like. If they were victims, he could go through the missing person reports to find them.
He nodded.
“Yes.”
Now, Gene had a vendetta against that bar, and one way, or the other, he was going to shut that bar down.
For.
Good.
Now, would he be able to?
That was a different question all together.
“So, you’ve never seen a face? What about his car?” he asked.
“It’s a white Benz. You know, an expensive one. I ain’t never seen his face.”
Well, Truck was mostly useless. They knew it was a man in a Benz.
Ethan pulled out his phone, and he dialed the one number in there.
“Transport for one,” he said, clueing the Marine in that this one was a waste of their time.
Then, he hung up.
Just as he did, Truck thought it was a good idea to try to escape. When he lunged for Ethan, Gene was on him so fast, the man hadn’t been able to get far.
He shoved that ring deep into his neck, burning his skin.
“That’s two for the ones you gave our friend. You’re lucky I don’t cut off your balls and take them as a souvenir to him,” he whispered into his ear.
The man struggled and screamed.
Only, Gene wasn’t having it. He was bigger, meaner, and pissed off.
“I should fucking end your disgusting life for spitting at my boyfriend. You’re lucky, Truck, or Raymond, or whatever you want to be called, that I’m somewhat in control,” he said, slamming him off of the wall a few times until he left a person-sized indentation in the sheetrock.
When the Marine walked in the Kitchen door, he let him wrap it up.
“Nice night we’re having,” Lewis admitted, as the man begged him to stop Gene.
