Jackson backs away. “You need to tell me where you’re going.”
“I don’t answer to you,” Ice says. With that, he slaps Jackson’s chest with another crisp thump and heads toward the exit.
I follow Ice to the hog farm Pants owns, or partially owns. I’m not clear on all the details—only that it’s safe and often used as an interrogation or holding space for enemies of the Virginia Lost Kings.
Apparently, hogs will eat any evidence you toss them.
They also smell. At a certain point, a wall of stench slaps me in the face. There’s no amount of breathing through my mouth or holding my breath that makes it tolerable.
We pass an old house that’s seen better days. Ice keeps moving toward a smattering of barns at the back of the property. He slows and stops his bike in front of the last building, an aging, cavernous red timber number that would look more at home on Leatherface’s farm than Old McDonald’s.
“That’s quite a repellent you’ve got there,” I say as I walk up to Ice.
He laughs. “Man up, brother. That’s the smell of money.”
“Smells remarkably like shit.” I shake off the stench. “What was up Jackson’s ass back there?”
“Just flexing his muscles so the locals don’t think he’s on our payroll.” He shrugs. “Probably the most excitement he’s had in a while, so he likes to play it up.”
As long as their power struggle doesn’t impact Shelby, I really don’t give a shit.
He slaps my shoulder and steers me toward the large, wide doors. There’s a gap between them and Ice slides the right side open.
Daylight illuminates the inside. I’d say it’s been a while since the barn’s been used for its original purpose.
Cement floors and strategically placed drains would make the floor easy to bleach and hose down. Lots of iron hardware is bolted into the wood beams at a height more suited to restraining humans than animals.
Downstate has its own murder room beneath our clubhouse, so I recognize the purpose this building serves right away.
Martin Suggs is way in the back—a shadowy corner where Pants has Shelby’s kidnapper strung from the ceiling, his hands stretched over his head, his feet barely grazing the floor.
“Please let me down. My hands hurt,” he whines. Whether he’s addressing Pants or he hears our footsteps approaching, I can’t tell. More like he’s begging anyone within hearing range to set him free.
Pants ignores him and lifts his chin at me.
Martin dances on his toes, trying to turn his body around to see who’s coming.
“Were you worried about Shelby’s comfort when you stuffed her in her trunk?” I ask quietly, stopping directly behind him.
He smacks his lips a few times but doesn’t seem to have an answer.
“No, that’s right. You drugged her.” My fury explodes. I land one fist somewhere near his right kidney. My knuckles sink into his flesh and bounce free. He squeals and curls away.
He coughs and wheezes, fighting to catch his breath. “Your psycho friend cut off my finger!” he yelps as if that’s going to stop me.
“It’s just the tip.” Pants yawns and rolls his eyes. “Quit whining about it.”
“Did you bother to make sure she could breathe in that cage under your bed?” I slam my other fist into Martin’s left side.
He screams, frantically tiptoeing to the right where he’s stopped by Ice’s big, solid frame. “No escape for you,” Ice says in a cold, detached manner.
Martin gasps and scoots back a few inches, bumping into Pants.
“You weren’t concerned about doping her up.” I punctuate the sentence with another punch to Martin’s side. If he lives to see tomorrow, at least he’ll be pissing blood. “Making sure she wasn’t allergic to whatever you gave her.” Punch. Punch.
He screams and wails with each hit. “What are you talking about? She was safe in the box! I made it special for her.”
This time, I punch him in the gut. His knees sag and the ropes pull at his wrists, exposing his raw, abraded skin.
“She’s in the hospital, you fucking moron.”
Martin doesn’t have an answer this time. He’s too busy wheezing and trying to catch his breath.
Finally, the stupid motherfucker raises his eyes to mine. “But I love her. We’re meant to be together.”
I lunge for him but Pants and his tree-trunk arms catch me around the middle, barely holding me in place.
“Easy, brother,” he warns me. “The slug has info you might want.”
“Suggs,” Martin corrects.
Ice backhands him.
I glare at Pants. “What’s this piece of shit got to say that I give a fuck about?”
“You have to let me go,” Martin begs. “If I tell you. Promise.”
“I’m not promising you shit.” Calmer now, I grip a fistful of his hair and yank his head back. “You scared my girl for weeks with your psychotic letters. Then you dared to touch her. Take her. Hurt her. There isn’t a single reason I should let you live.”