Chapter Eleven
Berkley
The van rocks slightly in the breeze coming off the river, the metal siding creaking like a beast shifting in its sleep.
We parked in an abandoned industrial yard that smells like rust and saltwater and secrets.
A graveyard of forgotten machinery lines the shore, hulking shapes silhouetted against the dark water.
Perfect for what we’re about to do. Perfect for disappearing a body and a van when we’re finished.
Inside, the air is thick with anticipation. The kind that sits heavy in the lungs, ready to ignite.
Riker’s slumped over on the metal floor, head rolling with every slight bump of the van.
The sedative still has him half in the dream world, half in the one where we’re waiting for him to wake up.
Ronan sits across from me, elbows on his knees, eyes burning holes into me with that mix of lust and madness that never fails to heat my blood.
He finally breaks the silence with a quiet, lethal murmur. “You know you were fucking hot back there, Pix. Batting those big blue eyes at him. Letting him think he had a shot. When we get home, I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.”
I lean back against the metal wall and blink slowly at him, letting innocence drip from me on purpose. “Me. Belong. Never heard of such a place.”
All three men growl, adjusting themselves as if they’re trying to get comfortable in bodies that suddenly feel too tight. Their reactions roll through me like warm honey. I lean forward, lips hovering over Ronan’s, giving him every intention of kissing him.
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 do not want 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.”
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.”
I roll my eyes. “Relax. I’m not playing with it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Hands off,” Ronan growls, yanking Riker’s junk out and stretching it taut. There isn’t much there, pathetic really, but I still draw my blade lightly across the top of his shaft. The cut is shallow, intentional, and the line of red swells up instantly like it’s eager to run.
He howls—high, ugly, desperate—and that’s the moment he shatters.
“Bryce!” he sobs. “Bryce Blackthorne. He’s the one who recruited me.
He paid me. I never saw his face, but I know his voice.
I know the number he uses. Please. It’s on my phone.
Under a different name. I’ll show you. Just don’t cut my dick off. Please.”
Silence detonates inside the van.
Bryce.
Ronan goes statue still. Rowan’s jaw locks. Emerson’s eyes go dead.
I rock back on my heels, twirling the blade like it’s a damn fidget toy. “Good. Now tell me what he’s under in your phone.”
A beat of silence. Then he mutters, barely audible, “Vanna White.”
Everything goes still. Emerson makes a sound like he’s choking back a laugh. Ronan just stares.
I tilt my head, eyebrows climbing. “I’m sorry… did you just say Vanna White?” The absurdity hits, and a laugh tears out of me before I can stop it. The guys joining the theatrics.
It takes a minute to pull myself together. My laughter finally dies down, trickling out in little aftershocks I have to smother with the back of my hand. I wipe a tear from my eye, exhale, and tilt my head at him again.
“Alright. Fun’s over.” My voice goes flat, blade tapping against my knee. “Anything else you want to share?”
He shakes his head fast, voice cracking. “No. That’s all. I talk only to Bryce. Over the phone. Last time was this morning.”
Pathetic. But at least the fear made him honest.
“Good boy.” I pat the top of his head with the side of my blade.
He sobs harder. “So, we’re done, right? You’re letting me go.”
My smile is sweet but cruel. “Oh, honey,” I whisper. “You were dead the second you opened your door.”