Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Welcome to the pit. This isn’t part of the usual tour, but sometimes it comes in handy. Like today.” He gestures for me to come closer.
“What the hell?” My voice comes out in a squeak.
There are three people in the last cell. Mack, Scrapper, and… Hank Mullerby. He's tied up, with a gag in his mouth, sitting on a stool in the middle of the room. His eyes widen drastically as we enter the cell.
“Did you…” My brain stops working. I was ready for a lot of things, but this wasn’t it. “Did you guys kidnap him?”
“Surprise?” They all say together, looking like dogs proud of having dropped a dead rattlesnake at my feet.
Like yeah, I appreciate the gesture, but… “You can't just kidnap people!”
Scrapper looks like I’m saying something weird. “I'm pretty sure we did.”
“B—but…” What do I even say to this? Most guys don’t even remember to buy flowers. “Why?”
“He fucked with you,” Reaper answers simply.
Mack nods. “And I think we all have some questions for him. He could’ve answered nicely, but instead we brought him here where we could have a little chat without freaking out the neighbors.”
Reaper puts his powerful hands on my shoulders, leaning close so his voice is right in my ear. “You have a captive audience, and we'll make sure you get your answers straight. Do you want to play good cop or bad cop? Shit, you can practice both. No one here's gonna stop you. The fucker deserves whatever he gets.”
Jesus.
On one hand, every moral fiber in my body is screaming out in protest. You don't just go out and kidnap your interview subjects and force them to answer under pain of death. “You're not going to kill him, are you?”
The guys look at each other for a moment. Reaper shrugs, but Mack replies, “Not if he behaves himself.”
Mullerby closes his eyes tight, looking like he's trying to wish himself away.
“I get it. This isn’t what you’re used to,” Scrapper says, ripping the gag out of Mullerby’s mouth. “You’re probably thinking that we’re fucking psychopaths. If he’d just been a dick to you at the interview, he wouldn’t be here right now, but he crossed that line first. You spooked this fucker, and instead of being a smart rat and hiding in his hole, he sicced fucking mercenaries on a college student.”
“That’s true, but it’s still wrong.” Isn’t it?
Mullerby watches me, eyes wide open and his pupils black with terror. I'm literally holding this man's life in my hands, and knowing Reaper, Mack and Scrapper put it there is kind of terrifying. That said, this isn’t just about a college project. It’s about my brother. Others. Whether the boys are doing the right thing or not, this is a huge opportunity.
“Mr. Mullerby, I hope you'll cooperate.” My voice is shaky. I don’t owe this man anything, but I’m a little afraid of what they'll do to him if he doesn't behave. “I’d like to resume our interview from earlier. Is that all right?”
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. His wild eyes dart one way, then the other, but there's no escape. Not from here. But he doesn't answer.
“Maybe we’re wasting our time,” snarls Scrapper. He pulls out a knife and flips it between his fingers, not directly threatening, but the implication is definitely there.
Mullerby looks like he’s about to be sick. “Yes.”
Reaper gestures for me to continue.
Gathering my courage and trying to forget that I'm basically participating in a violation of the Geneva convention, I continue. “You defended my brother six years ago. Or, maybe I should say my brother was on your client list. He should have gotten a few years for some minor drug offenses, but instead he was accused of armed robbery out of nowhere. It added decades to his sentence.”
Mullerby shakes his head. “I’ve had hundreds of cases pass my desk in that time. You can’t expect me to remember all of them. Everyone says they aren’t guilty, young lady. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“He was nineteen! Of course I didn’t want my brother to go to jail, but if he was guilty I could have accepted it. I’ve seen the records. You did nothing to push back against the new charges. In fact, you encouraged him to plead guilty. Not one person interviewed any of his friends or family to find out if we could give him an alibi.” I hardly recognize the fury that makes my voice quaver. “I was young when it happened, too young to see the details, but I didn’t forget, and I’ve seen that my brother isn’t the only one this happens to.”
He doesn't answer, but refuses to look at me.
“It’s surprising how many of your assigned cases end up with additional charges. I bet the police love that, don’t they? How many cases per year go unsolved because someone else, someone you don’t think is worth it, takes the rap?”