Fallow (Sins of the Banna #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Colm

There’s a single droplet of blood running down my arm, and it really fucking tickles. I shouldn’t be focused on that sensation over all the various pains that have been lodged into my body in the past hour, but that’s the one that stands out, for some reason.

It tickles, and I can’t reach it, because my hands are tied over my head. The droplet runs over every dip and curve in my arm, traveling from my bound wrists all the way down until it settles in the crease of my neck and shoulder, and it tickles the whole damn way.

It’s like an itch I can’t scratch.

No one wants to die this way.

No one wants to die strung up like a gutted hog, either, but it is what it is.

The Aryan Brotherhood got the jump on me when I was out in the open, killing the two Banna members who were supposed to be protecting me, and now they have me hidden away in some random shack in the forest. Judging from the dark stains on the floorboards and decent spread of tools for persuasion, calling it their torture shanty can’t be far from the truth.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give in now? We’re going to kill you anyway; we can get this over with nice and quick if you spill.”

The man in front of me is waving a curved knife in my face in a way that’s supposed to be menacing. It’s wet with my blood, which adds to the effect a little, but it still falls flat.

Maybe it’s the guy. I spent the last decade working alongside the most brutal torturer in the business.

Savage was cold, distant, and utterly relentless in his pursuit of information.

It’s what made his reputation so fierce that he was practically a mafia boogeyman.

Watching him work was a thing of fucking beauty.

This sallow, pock-marked asshole doesn’t have shit on him.

Especially considering he’s lying about getting this over with quickly.

He’s not letting me off, no matter what I tell him.

In the last hour, all he’s done is pussyfoot around with some bruises and shallow cuts.

It hurts, but I’m more irritated than legitimately wounded.

If I could get out of the damn restraints–my ankles tied to each side of the chair I’m sitting on and my wrists bound together and strung up over my head–I could still kick all their asses.

They may be armed, but they also look high as fuck, and I’ve got minimum fifty pounds of muscle and three inches of height on the biggest of them. I’d bet my life not one of them really knows how to fight hand to hand, either.

No discipline. There’s a lot of reasons I hate the Aryans, more than just the f act that they’re the sworn enemy of the Banna. But their total disregard for presenting themselves as professionals is one of them. Just because we’re criminals doesn’t mean we can’t take pride in our work.

I’m convinced you shrivel in size and stamina the longer you spend stewing in hate, and that’s why the four men in front of me all look like extras from The Walking. Dead. They would never have stood a chance against my guys if they hadn’t caught us by surprise.

Because I’m an idiot, and I got complacent. Maybe I deserve to let them kill me. But I really don’t have the energy for it to take twelve hours, while this guy nicks and pokes at me the whole time, pestering me with questions I’m not going to answer.

Let’s fucking go.

I flex the fingers in my hand as much as I can, trying to get a grip on the rope.

They were slashed when I pulled my gun, and even though the cut isn’t that deep, it’s deep enough that I can’t seem to grip with it.

Without a grip, there’s no leverage for me to move around, and I’m stuck sitting in this fucking chair, waiting for a rescue that isn’t coming.

My men in the Banna may be excellent fighters, but they’re not the smartest. The chances of anyone deducing what the fuck happened and tracking me down is, sadly, slim to fucking none.

I’m jolted back to the present when the guy grabs my face with one rough hand and presses the blade of his knife into my neck.

I feel a small pinch, so he might have nicked me, but not enough to do real damage.

I focus on staying still and not antagonizing him.

His grip on me is as unstable as his interrogation technique, and I can tell he’s annoyed my hair is buzzed too short for him to fist.

“Tell me where the Savage is, and this can all end.”

It’s Savage, not the Savage, you insufferable moron, I think to myself, but don’t bother to say out loud.

“I don’t have anyone named Savage working for me. Sounds like a badass, though. Maybe go check the local motorcycle clubs.”

He hisses in frustration, and it’s nice to know he’s so easy to rile up. Angry people are easier to get the jump on. I do a more careful mental inventory of my injuries, and I’m certain that nothing is debilitating. I just have to get free.

There are only two henchmen with him as well. They’re standing behind him; one looking bored, and the other one’s eyes filled with bloodlust as he watches everything go down.

I understand what they want. Savage tortured and killed one of their men before giving a big fuck you to this lifestyle and retiring.

I know from my sources that the main leadership of the Aryans don’t give a fuck about one single croney getting killed in the middle of a conflict over territory, but clearly these particular guys have a grudge and don’t care that he’s long gone from this mafia shit.

It doesn’t matter. I’ll let him slit my throat before I roll over on my former lieutenant. Even if it wasn’t a matter of honor, Savage fucking deserves it.

I never looked out for him the way I should have. He found happiness anyway, and protecting that is the least I can do.

As the man pushes the knife harder into my neck, dragging it a little at a time, blood begins to trickle.

Small drips, one after the other, tickling just as much as the one on my arm.

He’s not hitting any of the deadly veins or arteries yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

I try to buck my hips again, but it doesn’t do anything to dislodge him, and frustration sets into every cell in my body.

Fuck, this is annoying. What’s worse, is I’m pretty sure the only reason I was distracted enough to let them nab me was because of this whole ‘Fallow’ mystery I’ve been trying to solve.

It’s a name, I guess. A guy. I keep hearing weird rumors, but nothing concrete. He’s a vicious killer. He’s one of us. He’s not one of us. He’s coming here, but some people say it’s to help us, and other people say it’s to murder us. Who sent him? Dunno. Where is he coming from? Also no idea.

Why gangsters have to treat every piece of information like a bedtime story, I’ll never understand. I’ve been clawing around for facts, but no one knows shit.

All I do know is that some guys have died mysteriously in a fucking bloodbath down in Oklahoma City this past week.

Some were Banna, some were not, and no one knows who was behind it.

Padraig, my boss who only just left Possum Hollow to go home and left me in charge in the process, is fucking pissed about it.

He told me to figure out what the hell is going on and who this guy is. And if he’s the one who’s behind the mysterious murders to take him out.

I can’t do any of that while I’m tied to this chair, though. If I get my throat slit and my balls cut off by this white power piece of shit salivating in front of me, I never will.

Fucking frustrating. I really like my balls. I’d have a hard time concentrating without them.

I’m calculating my options for the millionth time when the atmosphere in the room shifts.

I don’t think my captors sense it, but my spidey-sense starts tingling.

Before I have the chance to make a real assessment, I see a shadow.

Behind the guy with the knife to my neck, there’s a doorframe with no door.

It’s a hallway leading to the exit, I think, and the two other guys are standing on either side of it, guns in hand but relaxed as all hell.

Clearly, they’re confident that we’re in the middle of ass nowhere, and no one is coming to find me.

In a fraction of a second, one of the two guards goes from standing and smirking at me to lying on the floor.

His neck is cut, just like mine, except this cut was not fucking around.

The left side of his neck is sawed open nearly down to the bone, spurting blood in a dark spray halfway across the room while he gurgles and thrashes on the dirty floorboards.

The person who did it moved like a shadow.

They slid in, wrapped their arms around the guard and damn near decapitated him with what must be a very fucking sharp knife before releasing him, all in an instant.

By the time I’m able to get my eyes to focus on them, they’re reaching for the other guard.

Who has about enough awareness to turn and widen his eyes, but not much else. This one stands there, his gun half-raised, while the intruder lodges their knife in the underside of his jaw.

The intruder is… Something. A man, athletic looking but not bulky. He’s wearing an oversized faded black Nirvana tee that’s hanging off him and ripped, pale denim jeans, along with some brown work boots with the laces untied that have clearly seen better days.

He almost looks like a drifter. A very sexy, lethal drifter with just the right amount of stubble to accentuate a sharp jawline, dark, narrow eyes, and dark, straight hair that’s long enough to part and fall around his eyes.

Focus, Colm.

What he looks like doesn’t fucking matter. Neither does the fact that he’s slowly wiggling the knife as it’s lodged in that man’s jaw, a teasing grin spreading over his face as the guy paws at him ineffectively.

What matters is that hopefully, if there are any gods of the fucking mafia, he’s here to rescue me.