And right as I’m about to do it, our captive makes a sound. A twitch and pathetic groan.
Ronan’s eyes darken in annoyance.
I whisper. “Bad timing.” Then, I tap his cheek gently and murmur, “Showtime.”
Rowan chuckles under his breath. Emerson outright laughs. Ronan looks like he wants to bite something. Preferably me.
I slide down to a crouch in front of our captive and pull one of my blades. The metal catches the light, sharp and beautiful. I run my thumb along the flat edge, grounding myself. Nothing steadies me like steel.
He wakes in stages, confusion first, then a dawning horror as he realizes he’s zip tied to a metal beam and surrounded by three large men and one tiny, dangerous woman.
I tilt my head at him and smile sweetly. “Hi. Welcome back. You took a little nap. We were bored without you.”
He jerks against the restraints, panic lighting his features. “What the hell. Who are you people?”
Emerson moves closer and cracks his knuckles. “Don’t start with stupid questions.”
Rowan folds his arms, voice low and steady enough to cut stone. “We ask. You answer. Keep it simple.”
The man swallows but tries bravado. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know who you want or what this is about.”
Ronan gives a soft, dangerous laugh. “Wrong answer. And you’re pissing off my girl.”
I place the tip of my knife on his thigh, lightly. Pressure. Just a warning. “You know,” I say almost sadly, “men usually get more cooperative when sharp things touch their skin. But maybe you’re special.”
He tries to lean away from me, but the van is small and the wall behind him is unforgiving. Sweat beads across his forehead.
Ronan leans in, voice dark. “You should probably tell him, Pix. About your special talent.”
I tap my blade on his thigh. “Oh. He means my octopus hotdog trick.”
Riker freezes. “I donotwant to know what that is.”
Ronan answers for me. “She takes the dick of a piece of shit like you and slices eight little legs. Looks like a cute little sea creature. Really impressive craftmanship.”
The man makes a strangled noise.
I sigh. “Honestly, no one appreciates the art.”
He starts breathing too fast. The panic is sharp and satisfying.
Rowan’s voice slices through it. “Where are the packages going? What is Horizon Logistics paying you for? How often do you pick up? What are you delivering?”
“I swear I don’t know,” he gasps. “I don’t know what they are.”
Wrong answer.
I slide the knife into his thigh. Clean. Controlled. Shallow, but loud enough in his nerves to make him scream.
Emerson leans over him, voice flat. “Try again.”
Riker trembles violently. “I just pick up the packages. That’s it. They tell me where. They tell me when. I drop them where they say. I don’t ask questions.”
I yank the knife out and tilt my head. “Why bigger payments recently?”
“I don’t know,” he sobs. “Something escalated. I thought maybe it was drugs or weapons. I’ve never looked.”
“Should have,” Emerson says quietly. “Because our sister is missing, and your bosses are involved.”