Chapter 32 This Little Piggy #2
I let the ruined finger drop, flesh and nail skittering across the floorboards.
“This little piggy went to market.”
His chest convulses, air wheezing through his teeth. His eyes bulge, veins crawling red across the whites. Spit strings from his mouth as he shakes his head, babbling, “Fuck you, I don’t know—”
I don’t wait.
The cutters shift, jaws opening around the next finger. My hand is steady, my grip unyielding.
“This little piggy stayed home.”
The crack this time is wetter. Louder. Blood sheets down from his hand, soaking the rope until it runs black. His scream curdles, breaking into jagged gasps that scrape his throat raw.
Behind me, I hear someone gag, retching into the dirt. Boots scrape as Carter shifts, like he might step forward, but he doesn’t. Mason doesn’t blink.
George thrashes, the chair legs rattling against the floor. His head whips, spit flying, eyes rolling wide. “Stop! Stop! I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you everything—”
I lean in until my mouth brushes his ear, my words a blade sliding under skin.
“Then talk.”
He sobs, voice tumbling over itself. “The warehouse—the new one—they moved everything—off the interstate, by the old mill road. That’s all I know, I swear—”
I stare him down. His lips quiver, spit glistening at the corners. His chest heaves shallow, rank breath puffing lies into the air between us.
“He isn’t going to stay in the warehouse… he has somewhere else… Where?” I snarl through gritted teeth.
He shakes his head, tears streaming down his cheeks and snot flooding from his nose. He tries to let out a silent scream, a saliva bubble popping when he opens his mouth.
The cutters bite down on the next finger, jaws grinding against bone, slick with blood. Red drips thick onto the sawdust, soaking it in clumps.
“This little piggy had roast beef—”
“Wait! Wait!” George howls, jerking so hard the ropes burn his skin raw. “He’s at Sebastian Vale’s! Jackson—he’s hiding at Vale’s place, I swear it—I swear it on my fuckin’ life!”
The men still. Carter’s gaze snaps to me, unreadable. Mason’s jaw knots hard, a vein ticking. The name cuts through the air like a blade. Vale. Connected. Dangerous.
I don’t stop.
The cutters snap shut. His middle finger tears loose, drops to the floor with a slap that splatters the boards. George’s scream breaks, high and cracked, curdling into something animal.
“I told you man…. I fucking told you.”
Behind me, Grove stumbles out the door, boots scraping, gagging until his stomach empties into the dirt. Hayes follows, muttering a prayer between heaves. Rayes and Vance are already out there—they left the second I put the cutters to his pinkie.
Inside, George’s sobbing drowns the silence, thick, choking, begging in words that collapse over themselves. Noise. Nothing but noise.
“Enough,” Mason cuts in, stepping forward. His voice is iron, cold. “We’ve got what we need.”
I rise. My hand drips red, sticky to the knuckles. My chest heaves once. Twice. Then still.
The gun clears leather.
George’s eyes bulge, wild and wet. “No—wait—”
One shot. Clean. The crack shakes the rafters, echoes tearing into the walls. His head snaps back, then drops, chin sagging to his chest. Blood sprays across the sawdust, steam curling off it in the cold air. The stink of piss hits a beat later, bitter and acrid, cutting through copper.
The chair creaks under his dead weight, groaning like it’s tired of holding him up.
I wipe my hands down my jeans. The blood clings, tacky and stubborn.
“We’ve got a name,” I rasp, voice rough, ground to rust. “Sebastian Vale.”
The men shift like the name itself unsettles them. Even Carter steady, unflinching Carter—looks at me like I’ve just spoken the devil’s name out loud.
“Vale,” Mason mutters, jaw tightening until it pops. “Of course it’s him.”
I turn on him. “The name’s familiar, but I can’t place him.”
“You know him, boss.,” Mason snaps. “Defense lawyer. Big-shot bastard who moved from out of state last year. He represented Moore against the state. He’s kept half these animals out of prison since.
Always two steps ahead. Always clean. You think Jackson’s smart?
Vale’s smarter. He doesn’t just cover tracks—” Mason spits into the sawdust, eyes burning. “—he buys the whole fucking road.”
A bitter laugh scrapes out of Grove. “And he’s untouchable. Money, politics, judges in his pocket. You can’t put a man like that in cuffs.”
I slam the side of my fist into the workbench. Tools rattle. Wood splinters. “I’m not putting him in cuffs.”
Silence settles, heavy as lead.
Carter clears his throat, steps closer. “So, Vale’s the one harbouring Jackson? That’s where Summer is?”
I meet his eyes. “That’s what George said. And if he’s lying, he’s dead anyway.”
The words taste like iron.
The men exchange glances. None of them argue. They don’t want justice anymore. They want retribution.
Something in me splits wide open—an animal tearing free of its cage. The thought of her in their hands, their mouths on her skin, those bastards touching her. I see them passing her between them, using her, breaking her, and it burns through me until all that’s left is violence.
I holster my gun, my voice flat.
“Then let’s go find the son of a bitch.”