Wrecker stood up slowly, chair legs scraping.
The sound made all three of them flinch.
“I think,” Wrecker said, voice almost mild, “you’re starting to understand the situation.”
Jonas glared through blood and swelling.“You can’t do shit.You touch us, Yogi—”
Wrecker laughed.
Not humor.Not joy.
A straight-upare you dumblaugh.
“Yogi,” he repeated, like the name tasted sour.“The VP who’s pretending he doesn’t know what you did?”
Jonas’s face faltered for half a second.
Wrecker stepped closer to the bed.“You guys need to deal with the consequences of putting your hands on club women.”
Rocket’s breathing turned ragged.“We’ll go to jail; just call the cops—”
Junior leaned in with a smile that wasn’t a smile.“You think cops are the consequence?”
Rocket went pale.
Wrecker nodded at us.“Let’s finish this.Back the van up,” he told Junior.
Junior nodded and headed out of the room.
Cole’s fists were still flexing like he wanted another round.My whole body buzzed, rage demanding release.
Pipe stepped forward, his voice like a warning siren.“You even think about running, I’ll put you down before your feet hit the pavement.”
Dusty swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to the door like he was picturing it.
I leaned toward Dusty.“Do it.Try running.I’ll give you a five-second lead.”I pulled out my gun and pressed it to his temple.“I’d like to see if you’re quicker than my Glock.”
He didn’t move.Tears streamed from his eyes and he whimpered.
“Let’s go,” Wrecker said.
We got them up, rough and fast, and marched them out of the room.
The hallway outside felt colder now.
As we hauled them down the stairs, the motel seemed to hold its breath.Curtains twitched.A door down the hall cracked open and then shut again fast.
No one intervened.
No one wanted to.
Junior’s van was already pulled around, engine running, headlights washing the lot in pale light.
The three men stumbled toward it, tied and scared, their bravado stripped down to nothing.
I watched Rocket’s face as he saw the van.
He knew.