"You sure about this?" Zip asks, studying me carefully. "No shame in changing your mind."
"I'm sure." My voice is steadier than I expected. "Let's do this."
The prisoner looks up as we enter, his face showing the evidence of Ice Pick's interrogation techniques—one eye swollen shut, split lip, bruises darkening his jaw. Despite this, a smirk forms when he sees me.
"Well, well," he drawls. "They sending girls to do the questioning now? Saints Outlaws must be desperate."
I take the seat across from him, folding my hands on the table. Zip positions himself near the door, present but not intrusive.
"Hello, Derek," I say calmly. "I have some questions about your operation."
He leans back as far as his restraints allow. "I've said all I'm gonna say, sweetheart. Nothing personal."
The condescension is calculated to diminish me. I let it wash over without reaction. "I'm particularly interested in the warehouse in Chicago. Maritime Solutions. I understand you provide security rotation there."
His good eye narrows slightly. "Who told you that?"
"You did," I reply simply. "To Ice Pick. Yesterday afternoon, around 4:30pm. Along with the names of your lieutenants and confirmation of Kane's involvement."
Uncertainty flickers across his face—he doesn't remember exactly what he revealed under pressure. I press the advantage.
"I'm not here about the warehouse. I have more specific questions about the Kings of Purgatory and their arrangement with your club."
"Don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, but his body language betrays his discomfort.
"The 'debt collection program,'" I continue, watching him carefully. "You mentioned it specifically. I'd like to know more about how it works."
His expression shifts, calculation replacing bravado. "Why do you care about ancient history?"
"Humor me."
He studies me for a moment, then shrugs. "Basic business arrangement. Kings identify targets with connections to rival MCs, people who owe debts, or just valuable merchandise. We provide extraction and security. Hargrove's organization handles distribution and sales. Everyone profits."
The clinical description of human trafficking makes my stomach turn, but I maintain my composure. "And the debt collection aspect specifically?"
"Simple," he says, warming to the topic as his ego engages. "Someone crosses the Kings, they take something valuable in return. Usually women. Girlfriends, wives, daughters. Sends a message while creating profitable inventory."
I allow a slight tremor to enter my voice—not entirely feigned. "How do they select targets?"
"Carefully." He smiles, enjoying what he perceives as my discomfort. "Research. Surveillance. They choose for maximum impact—psychological and financial. Kane personally approves each acquisition."
The moment has come to shift tactics. I lean forward slightly. "Like they chose me?"
His expression freezes, confusion replacing arrogance. "What?"
"July 17, 2017," I say clearly. "Parking garage at Camden Towers. Two men, claiming a debt payment for the Saints Outlaws MC." I push up my sleeve, revealing the small, circular burn scar on my forearm. "One of them gave me this when I fought back."
Recognition dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by something darker—interest, perhaps even excitement at the connection. "Holy shit. You're that one. The VP's old lady."
"I was taken as debt collection," I press. "I need to know why. What debt was supposedly being paid?"
He laughs, an ugly sound devoid of humor. "Lady, you weren't payment for a debt. You were punishment."
The statement hits like a physical blow. "Explain."
"Kane had a sweet heroin pipeline running through Saints territory. Your boyfriend and his club torched a major shipment, cost Kane millions, made him look weak to his suppliers." Mercer leans forward, clearly enjoying the story now. "Kane doesn't handle humiliation well. Could have started a war, but he's smarter than that. Decided to hit Falcon where it would hurt most."
"Me," I say quietly.