Something flickers in his one good eye. Surprise, maybe.
"What I don't know," I continue, "is how long you've been operating in Pine Haven, how many girls you've moved through, and where you're taking them. That's what you're going to tell me."
He laughs, a wet, gurgling sound. "I’ll tell you nothing."
I lean forward, close enough to smell his sour breath. "Look at me. Really look. Do you know who I am?"
"Trash," he spits.
"I'm Jackson Kane. They call me Reaper." I let that sink in. "I earned that name in Kandahar. Before the Outlaw Order. Before I decided to play by some rules."
His eye widens slightly. Good. He's heard of me.
"Blade," I say without looking away from our prisoner. "Show him what happens when he doesn't answer my questions."
Blade steps forward, a pair of pliers in his hand. His bravado falters.
"Wait," he says. "Wait. What do you want to know?"
"Everything," I reply. "Starting with your operation here. How long?"
"Three months," he answers quickly. "This is just the transit point. Girls come, stay few days, then move. Sometimes there are special auctions like today."
"Where to?"
He hesitates, and Blade moves closer.
"Vegas!" he blurts. "Final destination is Vegas. High rollers pay premium for fresh merchandise."
My stomach turns at the casualness with which he discusses selling human beings. I think of Evelyn, sleeping in my room. Of the hollow look in her eyes. Of Emma, who could have been one of these girls if fate had been crueler.
"How many girls have you moved through Pine Haven?"
"Maybe... forty? New shipment every two to three weeks."
Forty lives. Forty daughters, sisters, friends. "And the bar? How long has that been your front?"
"One month. Before, we use old motel outside town."
I nod to Blade, who makes a note. We'll check the motels next.
"Your boss," I continue. "Who runs this operation?"
The biker goes pale. "I cannot say. He’ll kill me."
"And you think I won't?" I ask softly.
"You need me alive. For information."
"I have the information now." I stand up, towering over him. "What I need is a message sent."
Fear finally registers on his battered face. "Wait! His name is Charles. Charles Morrow. Chicago-based but expanding west. Very dangerous man."
"Charles," I repeat, committing the name to memory. "And how many men does he have in Pine Haven?"
"Twelve, maybe fifteen. Most at second location."
"Which is where?"
