Shit, what the fuck did I miss? I was about to jump outta my chair when he moved to Rabid next, speaking his name, before moving on to Serial and Splitter.
“Excellent choice, Prez. These boys are good for interrogation duty,” Blackjack said. “Blood on their hands won't sour their guts when we need to get down and dirty. You can count on 'em.”
Fang nodded, looking right at me. Two dozen more pairs of eyes were on us too. Half were jealous, and the rest were just glad they weren't in the spotlight with such an important job.
I stiffened. Couldn't let Blackjack down. He'd helped me get clean since I came south, and I owed the old man big.
Torture was the one thing I hated the most. Didn't have a lotta experience with it either. Most of the time I took my bike and rode with the crew, quick hit and runs, protecting our shipments flowing south from cartel raiders.
Man up and get used to it, a rough voice growled in my head. This shit with the cartel's just getting started. It only gets uglier from here.
“We'll do whatever it takes, Prez,” Serial said, flexing his muscles.
His eyes were hungrier than usual, peering out between the barbed wire inked across his face. I tried to keep my distance from his twisted ass. Yeah, he was a brother like any other, but his bloodlust never sat right with me. The giddy spark that lit him up whenever he got orders like this turned him into a total pitbull.
“Well?” Fang said, clenching his bear claw. “What're you fuckers waiting for? You don't need to sit through the rest of this shit. I'm not calling any votes today.”
Me, Rabid, Serial, and Splitter were on our feet before he could rap at the wood, right behind Blackjack.
Five minutes later, we were on our bikes, riding out to the old warehouse where they had the Mexican.
“Mercy...mercy...please...”
I couldn't remember the last time I felt sick. Something about staring at the bloodied man standing over the shallow pit got to me.
Maybe the fact that he shouldn't have been standing at all. Not after the way Serial and Splitter whaled on his knees, making his legs crack, the same damned thing they'd done to his arms before. Thank fuck Blackjack didn't give Rabid and I any shit about keeping our distance.
We played watchmen by the door, making sure nobody pulled up in the empty parking lot next to our bikes. Took over an hour for the kid to crack – poor bastard held up surprisingly well while the boys stubbed their smokes out all over his bare skin. Burned away the screaming eagles or hawks or whatever the fuck cartel assholes worshiped that was inked on his chest.
When Serial took the cinder block to his left hand, turning it into a broken mess, he started to talk. Rabid and I just looked at each other. Blackjack was the only brother with us who really listened – good fucking thing he was along to take charge because none of us knew shit for Spanish.
The Mexican spilled his guts for ten or twenty minutes. Whatever the fucker said, it was enough to make Blackjack nod, motioning for us to come over. I carried the old shovel, pushing it into Jose's hands before we led him out back to the old courtyard.
Nobody said shit while he dug like a good boy. Quite a challenge with his busted hands and beat up body. Something else must've broke once he'd gotten a foot or two into the earth. Bastard started to beg, whining the same shit over and over again.
“Mercy...mercy...”
Probably the extent of his English vocabulary.
Serial and Splitter barked in his face. Rabid was getting pissed too, and punched the fucker in the back. I could tell by the look on his face that he just wanted this asshole to shut up like I did.
“Come on, you sonofabitch! Just a few more feet and it's done.” Serial rolled his shoulders, ready to lay into him with his fists.
I hated the cartel fucks just as much as anybody, but fuck, breaking his ribs wouldn't make him dig the grave faster. I stepped up, ready to pull the weird hothead off the Mexican, but Blackjack got between us first.
“Don't be a jackass, Serial. Get the fuck back there with the rest,” he growled, pointing to Rabid and me.
I froze mid-step, slowly ambling back over to where Rabid was standing before the freak joined us.
Serial sulked over to our place against the wall, lighting a smoke. When he was gone, Blackjack leaned into the man, whispering just loud enough for us to hear.
“You're dead, son. There's no getting around that. Your grave was dug the minute you ended up on the wrong side of Redding after making your delivery. Don't make this any harder than it has to be. Just finish up and I promise I'll make it quick.”
Jose stumbled a couple steps backwards, tears in his eyes. Blackjack's gaze was colder than Serial's had been, nothing but ice. He was offering him the only mercy we were allowed to give.