He pales so fast he looks like he could faint. “I swear. I know nothing about a girl.”
I study him. He’s telling the truth about Kimber. Not because he’s innocent. Because he’s too stupid to be trusted with anything that matters.
“That’s fine,” I say. “We’ll start with what you do know, because you’re lying.”
He shakes his head, pleading. His fear is frantic, almost animalistic, but it isn’t enough. Not even close.
I drag my blade across his shin again. Just a kiss. A promise.
He shrieks. For such a big man and the supposed training he’s had, he cries like a little bitch.
“Operation basics,” I say. “Tell us where the packages go. Where does the money come from? Who pulls the strings?”
He stammers through ragged breaths. “I swear I don’t know where anything goes. I just pick up and drop off.”
Lies.
The knife sinks into his thigh with a satisfying give, his howl snapping through the van like music. “Tsk,” I murmur. “Still lying. You’d think the first hole would’ve taught you something.” I pout with exaggerated sympathy. “I really do try to be patient, but lying?” I grin, bright and unhinged. “Lying makes me all kinds of stabby.”
He loses his mind—blood pulsing through his jeans, breath hitching in broken tatters.
“Next attempt,” Rowan says dryly. “Try harder.”
The man gasps. “Okay. Okay. They’re moving stuff. Not drugs. Something bigger. Military grade. Tech. Attachments. Things you need connections to even know exist.”
That tracks. It fits too well with the other trails we’ve been following.
“Who coordinates?” Emerson asks.
“I never meet them,” he cries. “Everything’s automated. Anonymous.”
“No, not anonymous,” Ronan cuts in. “You get paid. You get messages. Drop times are set. Checks get signed. There’s a name behind it.”
Riker’s still shaking. “I can’t. If I talk, they’ll kill me.”
I lean close until our noses almost touch. I smile. Slow. Gentle. Sweet. “What do you think we’re going to do if you don’t talk?” Then I slide the blade into the soft meat above his knee.
He shrieks loud enough to echo off the empty shipping containers around us.
“Berk,” Ronan says, tone shifting. I glance over as he sits forward, popping the button of Riker’s jeans. “Let me do this part.”
“What part?” I ask, innocently.
He snaps a glove onto one hand. “The seafood section of the torture menu.”
Riker’s eyes bug so far out I swear they’re going to hit the van floor.
My knife pops free, the sound obscene, and I beam like I just unwrapped a gift. “My guys take good care of me. They know I don’t put hands on any other cocks but theirs.” I gesture toward his junk with the blade, playful and threatening at the same time. “Especially your sad little situation right there.”
“Hey,” Emerson mutters under his breath, “I never want to be on Ronan’s bad side.” Then he shoots me a glare. “And I don’t want to hear about you touching other guys’ cocks.”
“None of us do,” Rowan adds.
The man is sobbing now. “No. No. No. Please. Please. I’ll talk.”
I hold out my knife. “Gimme.”
Ronan readjusts with a scowl. “You are not getting near his dick, baby. I said I’d do it.”