“Answer my question.”
He shakes his head. “Never.”
I click my tongue twice as I tower over the wounded man. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your call.”
The guy spits on my shoes.
They always love to pick the hard way, don’t they?I smooth my fingers through my hair. “Very well.”
I motion for my men to grab him. He doesn’t want to keep this casual? Fine. I have my ways of getting him to talk. But that will extend my night by quite a few more hours.
I text Stepan and wait on the curb, watching the streets. It’s late. Nobody else is around. We’ve been given a respectable amount of space on this part of Staten Island.
Of course, I would expect nothing less from Ricky. He still plays by the rules that we all spent decades agreeing on. The same rules that Cardona is so intent on tearing down.
Turns out, thereisstill honor amongst thieves.
Liya surfaces in my mind for a split second. I consider texting her about my whereabouts. Lately, I’ve been staying out late, returning only when I stink of gunpowder or vodka—or sometimes, both.
I’ve been scouring street after street for Cardona’s reckless soldiers. They’ve been easy to track. But the man himself continues to elude me. I clench my fist in my pocket.I need to find him.
Stepan’s Mercedes pulls up to the curb. A few cars follow behind him. Kostya emerges from one and shoves the wounded man into the trunk. I slip into Stepan’s car and direct him to an unoccupied building that Ricky has graciously provided.
The building is decrepit, but I don’t need it to be fancy. I just need enough rooms for what’s about to happen next. I watch as my men wrestle our potential informant from the car, patch up his wounds, and restrain him in a chair. Stepan hands me a metal tray with a variety of different implements for torture on it.
I lift a large knife, catching the glint and reflecting it into my captive’s eyes.
“I just want you to know this isn’t personal. But you chose this.”
“Fuck you!” He spits again.
I press the edge of the blade against the inside of his elbow, applying just enough pressure to draw out a bead of blood. He hisses at the pain but otherwise remains silent.
“I don’t have all night,” I say. “Is he on Staten Island?”
He stares back at me as sweat appears on his brow.
I slide the blade up his arm. He twitches but doesn’t say anything.
“Brooklyn?” No response. “Queens?” Nothing. “Who’s hiding him? Is it Donovan? Stryker?”
Each question comes with its own slice. I choose locations strategically on his arm, drawing angry red lines that ooze with thick, crimson blood. The man’s defiance slowly crumbles, and pain creeps into his expression.
His face pales again. His eyes roll up. His head lolls as he fights unconsciousness.
But he doesn’t break. Not yet.
And that just pisses me off even more.
Fuck this.I toss the knife aside and grab the jumper cables.If he wants to play hardball, then I’ll spend the rest of the night until he sings.
***
Hours of slow cutting and slicing leave a mess. I wipe my hands on a towel while staring at what remains of my interrogation. The sun is almost up, and I’ve finally found a clue. My captive ultimately broke, and in his final moments, he screamed out a location:“Fort Lee. Abandoned lot near Riverview Plaza.”
It’s not much, but it’s a hell of a lot closer than I’ve been able to get in a while. Fucking Cardona. If he’s really hiding across the river in Fort Lee, New Jersey, while New York City burns, then the man is as much of a coward as he is slippery.
A tremor of excitement rushes through me.This could all be over soon.That is, of course, assuming my captive wasn’t lying. Either way, the only way left to me is to push forward and follow up on this lead.