I pass Monica who’s carrying a tray of drinks to another private room reserved for some associates of the club.
When the girl sees me marching for the side door, her face blanches. She’s been with the club for a few years, and she knows what I do. Women are supposed to be kept out of club business, but word gets around no matter how hard we try to keep the gritty stuff locked down. She’s not stupid; she’s heard about what I’ve done to people who have wronged the club. She keeps her mouth shut, but her expression says it all. She knows the monster’s coming out to play.
The shed sits at the end of the back lot. Those who work at The Den but who aren’t in the MC think the shed’s only purpose is to house empties until they’re picked up every week. Only my brothers know I use it for roughing people up when it’ll be too messy for a private room.
Pip is sitting in front of the shed, polishing one of his boots. He says nothing when he sees me. He does a good job of a deadpan stare that wouldn’t look out of place on a patched in member.
“Has he been giving you trouble?”
“He screamed his fucking head off until Dragon knocked him out.” The throatiness of his voice is the only sign of his apprehension.
Clapping him on the shoulder, I feel a shudder go through him. He swallows. I can practically see him trying not to picture what’s going to happen to Tony once I close that door. He looks ready to barf.
“Stay tough, Prospect.”
I unlock the padlock on the door and step inside.
The shed is dark, the moonlight momentarily throwing what’s inside into sharp relief. Boxes of empty beer and liquor bottles line the walls, stacked halfway up to the ceiling. It’s the middle of the week, so the shed’s nowhere near full. Tony is hanging from the rafters by a rope, his wrists and feet bound.
I suppress a snort. The left side of his face is swollen, his eye puffed shut where Dragon clocked him. His chin is on his chest.
He’s still out cold. Or he was until the door creaked open.
The bouncer’s head jerks up. He glares at me, his good eye a dark, beady stare filled with something between fear and loathing.
Saying nothing, I yank on the chain dangling from the ceiling near the door. His teeth peel back in a silent snarl, his good eye squinting at the sallow, yellow light.
When I first enter a room for an interrogation, I can always tell how things are going to go within several seconds of seeing the person. How the person reacts within the first few seconds usually tells you all you need to know about how they’ll handle it. Some people immediately start pleading for mercy, often telling me what I want to know without my having to say a word. Most will start to sing as soon as they realize what I’ll do to them.
Tony doesn’t say anything even when I shut the door, even though he’s been hanging in here in the dark for at least an hour. It’s a surprise. Meaty with shoulders and arms almost as big as mine, but a few inches shorter than me with layers of fat over muscle and a pudgy, bulldog face, Tony Gaffrey doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d work over an MC from the inside. He looks like a beer-gutted couch potato who belongs in a dirty wifebeater yelling at his woman to get him a beer. I always thought he was the kind of creep who looks imposing only if you’re a woman, who’d fold as soon as he realized he’d pissed off a biker.
Silent, I stalk over to him. He stares straight ahead, not a word.
The message is clear. He knows he’s dead anyway. He thinks he has nothing to lose by keeping silent. He has a lot to learn about guys like me.
“You can make this easy on yourself, Tony.” I step back a pace, watching him, arms crossed. “Tell me what I want to know, and it’ll be over quick. Otherwise, you’ll see firsthand what happens to people who fuck with the Outlaws.”
His eyes snap to mine, watery fear masked with anger. Thick lips peel back into a smile that makes me want to knock his fucking teeth into his throat. It’s full of triumph that says we had this coming.