Me: Got a major poblem… CALL ME NOW!
CHAPTER 19
GHOST
We’ll finally get to live together like we were supposed to.
“Who the fuckdo you work for?”
Poker and I have been in the Nightmare Room with Monty, the latest dealer slinging Soulless Kings shit laced with Fentanyl, for three hours. The guy’s clinging to life, his breathing shallow and his heartbeat slow as molasses. He’s close to giving up his employer, so fucking close. Hell, he’s almost spilled the beans a few times already.
Monty tries to shake his head, and whimpers in pain at the movement. “He’ll kill me.”
“He won’t get the chance,” I snarl, holding the lit torch to the bottom of his feet. It’s easy to do with him dangling from chains attached to the ceiling.
Monty screams, and the concrete space swallows up the sound. There’s not a soul on the planet other than Poker and me who can hear him now.
Poker reaches into his pocket and pulls out the baggie we confiscated from Monty when we brought him here. The little pills are marked with the Soulless King brand, but they’re a lightgreen when ours are white. And we don’t aim to kill anyone. These little green tablets are designed with that specific purpose in mind.
“Give us a name, and we can make this a little less painful for you,” my brother says, holding the baggie in front of Monty’s face and shrugging. “Yeah, you’ll still die, but you’ll go out on a high.”
A total of forty-three people have died since some jackass put these pills on the streets, forty-three people who might not lead the best life or make the best choices. That doesn’t mean they deserved to die, especially when their addiction is punishment enough for their decisions.
Of those forty-three, eleven have been minors. Soulless Kings aren’t saints by any means, but our dealers know better than to sell to kids. Doing so is a one-way ticket to meet their maker.
When Monty says nothing, I glance at Poker. “Bro, he’s not gonna give it up. Let’s end this and move on.”
Poker hesitates, as I knew he would, and stares at Monty. He’s giving the guy a chance to change his mind, a few moments to let the fear of a painful death override his fear of his boss. Like Poker said, we’re still gonna end his miserable life, of that he has no choice, but he can choose how it happens… kinda.
“Okay,” Poker finally says as he moves to the wall and grabs the scythe from its perch. “I’ll gut him, and you shove the torch up his ass.”
Monty’s eyes widen as far as the swelling allows, which admittedly isn’t much, and he thrashes against the chains. “No. No, wait. Just… w-wait.”
“We’re done waiting,” I snarl, walking around to his back.
“I-I’ll talk, okay?” he cries. “I’ll g-give you what y-you want.”
I turn the torch off and return to his front. “You’ve got two seconds or?—”
“Miguel Cruz,” he blurts, apparently not needing to be reminded of what more we can do to him. “His n-name is M-Miguel Cruz.”
“Now was that so hard?” Poker states, returning the scythe to its rightful place on the wall.
“J-just do it,” Monty begs. “K-kill me and get it o-over with.”
“As you wish,” I say, taking the three green pills Poker hands me. I shove them into Monty’s mouth and cringe when his saliva coats my fingers. “It won’t be long.”
Monty greedily swallows the tablets, wanting death more than he wants to draw another breath. I don’t blame him. The wounds inflicted upon him today would have eventually taken him, and if they didn’t, Miguel Cruz certainly would.
My brother and I leave the room, letting the douchebag die alone. We’ll send a prospect to clean up the mess in a few hours. As we walk through the hall, I pull out my cell to turn it back on.
“That was fun,” Poker says nonchalantly, a wicked grin on his face.
“And fruitful,” I remind him. “Crow’s gonna be happy, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah. Have you ever heard of this Miguel Cruz guy?”
“No. I’m guessing he’s tied to the cartel or something.”
