Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Saltano still had the stones to laugh. “I didn’t fucking kill nobody.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Spec barked as he pulled Saltano a few inches off the wall. A second later, he slammed the scumbag against the building again.
“Jesus, fuck!” Saltano said with a groan.
“You knock her up too?” Spec asked.
A rustling noise drew Tracker’s attention, but not for more than a second. As soon as he realized it was only a rat scurrying near the dumpster, his gaze was back on Saltano in time to see him speak.
“Fuck no. I was her employer and nothing more. Couldn’t pay me to stick it in that nasty bitch.” His gaunt face twisted in disgust. “Some John is responsible for that shit show.”
Hatred, dark and twisted, crawled through Tracker’s gut. Beachy music wafted from inside the bar, a complete contrast to the heavy feeling of irritation that had steadily increased from the moment he almost kissed Jo. Tracker rolled his shoulders and wiggled his fingers but couldn’t shake the crawling all over his skin.
“She deal for you?” Spec asked.
Fuck this. Where the hell was the man who shot first and asked questions later?
With a low growl, Tracker shoved the unsuspecting Spec out of the way at the time he pulled out the switchblade he never left home without. It’d gotten him out of a few scrapes, and tonight I’d move this show along. “The man asked you a question,” he snarled as he placed the blade against Saltano’s scrawny neck.
“Tracker…”
Saltano’s eyes widened, and he sputtered. Finally, the fucker seemed to clue into the fact that he was in a shitload of trouble if he didn’t give the right answers.
“Y-yes, she, uh… a lot of her clients liked to buy from her as well as, uh… date her.”
“Date her.” Tracker barked a harsh laugh. “She use your shit too?”
“Uh, y-yeah. She was a total fucking junkie.”
“Hey!” Tracker dug the long line of the blade into the pale skin of Saltano’s throat. Elation soared through him at the first sight of blood.
“Oh fuck!” The guy moaned.
“Jesus, Tracker,” Spec said, but he didn’t interfere. They’d switched roles and his brother kept watch.
“You know you’re selling shit laced with fentanyl, motherfucker?”
“Uh, no. Fuck no. Shit,” Saltano said. He started shaking his head, but the motion only sliced into his skin. He hissed and winced before freezing completely still. “No! I had no idea.” The way he couldn’t look Tracker in the eye showed the lie for what it was.
He leaned in and spoke near Saltano’s ear as he pushed the blade harder. “Here’s how this is gonna go. You’re gonna tell me the name of your supplier, and if I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you live.”
Saltano sucked in a breath. “I g-get my stuff from… oh fuck. I can’t tell you. He’ll fucking kill me.”
“I’ll fucking kill you.” Spec yanked Tracker back and rammed his fist into Saltano’s face in one smooth move.
Finally.
Two more quick pops had the pathetic excuse for a man sagging to the ground and moaning. Blood poured from his nose, and his left eye was already swelling up. “No more. I’ll tell you.” He held up his hands as though that could ward off Spec’s attack.
“Cracking after three punches,” Spec said with a laugh. “You’re a big man, Saltano.” As someone who’d endured a week of torture at the hands of terrorists, three punches would feel like a pat on the back to Spec.
Panting, Saltano lowered his arms. He sagged against the building in defeat, which gave Tracker an idea. With their new friend’s attention on Spec and his powerful fists, Saltano paid Tracker no attention. He pulled out his phone and opened the video app.
“I need a name. You got ten seconds before I lose my temper.” Spec hovered over him with his arms crossed.
“All right. Just don’t hit me again.”
Jesus, what a weak-assed baby. Tracker hit record.
“Dante. I get my shit from Dante.”
Tracker’s gaze met Spec’s as recognition flared. That particular hemorrhoid had caused more than one problem for the club in the recent past. He’d assaulted Spec’s woman a few months back and nearly lost his life at the hand of Spec’s fury. And he worked for Lobo. There it was. The proof they needed to go after the guy.
Proof they’d normally handle themselves, but with the cops’ eyes so focused on Lock, the club might have to hand this information over. The sudden death of Dante or Lobo would look suspicious as hell for Lock and the rest of the MC.
Christ, how he hated to give up this lead.
With a sigh, he ended the recording.
“See how easy that was?” Spec said. He squatted down to Saltano’s eye level, giving the guy a heavy pat on his bruised cheek. The battered man flinched as though Spec had hit him again, which Tracker found satisfying as hell.