The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(108)

V stepped around Hollywood and shitkickered his way across the street, falling into the wake of a human male who was six feet tall, but only about a hundred twenty pounds. The addict was in the same clothes as he’d been in the other night, when that undercover cop had walked him to the Holy Mother of Salvatory Stuff a couple streets over.

“My guy,” V called out. “Hey.”

The man glanced over his shoulder, got one look at the two pieces of trained killer on his tail—and took off at a surprisingly fast bolt. Then again, maybe he’d had training in these kinds of sprints.

V just loped along in his trail, knowing damn well that that body didn’t have a marathon in it. Sure enough, three blocks down toward the river, there was a sudden drop in forward motion. And as the classic respiration triangle manifested—the guy bracing his arms on his knees and making plenty of torso space for his labored breathing—Vishous and Rhage pulled up alongside.

Flash Gordon looked up from his panting. “I dint—I—dint—do—it—”

“Take your time,” V muttered. “We’ll wait.”

Palming his tin of hand-rolleds, he popped the top and put the offering in the human’s face—and like the cigs were the hookup to a ventilator, or at the very least an oxygen mask, the guy reached for the nicotine with quaking fingers.

“Here, I’ll get you one.” V did the job with his gloved hand. “Only tobacco. But it’s Turkish. The best.”

“Th-th-thanks, man.”

The cigarette went in between thin lips, and then the man kicked his head forward for the Bic that was offered. As he puffed up, the habit kicked in and calmed the hyperventilating.

Three inhales later, and the guy said, “I dint do it. Really.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.” V thumbed over his shoulder. “Neither is my brother.”

Eyes that would have been considered rheumatic in an eighty-year-old went back and forth.

“We’re not related by blood,” V explained.

“Oh.”

“Listen, I know you’ve got to be somewhere.” V motioned around in a circle, indicating all of downtown. “So I’m not going to waste your time.”

“Okay.”

“I want to know about a woman you were with the other night. She’s about this high.” V put his hand out flat at about five feet, nine inches tall. “Short dark hair. Had a leather jacket on. She helped you over to that dry-out tank—”

“Resource facility,” Rhage cut in with a glare. “And hey, pound me for getting some help. That takes courage. Good luck with your recovery.”

As Hollywood put out his toaster-oven-sized fist, the human put his open palm over the knuckles in confusion. And then when Rhage clapped the man on the shoulder, V had to catch Flash Gordon before he eggshelled onto the sidewalk.

“You know the woman I’m talking about?” V prompted. “You need her description again?”

“I, ah . . . yeah, I know her.”

“Great. Do you know where we can find her? You got a cell phone number or an address for her?”

The man fell quiet, and paid a whole lot of attention to the end of the hand-rolled. Then he smoked some more. Meanwhile, the city kept going. A couple of cars—a sedan and a truck—went by, and then some twenty-ish men in tight jeans and narrow-shouldered jackets slicked across the intersection.

“Hello?” Rhage said.

V reached into his back pocket. “Here. This hundy’ll help. I get how times are tough.”

The human’s eyes flared as he focused on the folded bill.

“Just answer any of my questions and it’s yours.” V held the Benji between his fore-and middle fingers. “Telephone number. Address. Regular place of business. Anything you know would be a big help.”

The human cleared his throat. Then he dropped the hand-rolled and stamped it out with a Converse All Star that had seen better days. And nights.

Flash Gordon shook his head. “Nah. I ain’t telling you nothing. Rio, she’s good to me. She cares about me. She makes me take care of myself better even when I don’t feel like it. I can’t tell you nothing. Sorry.”

The human straightened from his sagging posture, and even though he was still shaking, like he expected to have a gun put to his head at any second, his lips were shut and staying that way.

“Okay.” V nodded. “I can respect that.”

To a point.

By passing the human’s nobility and free will, he entered the man’s mind, and took a brief stroll around. The guy was currently sober, but that was not going to last—and he was feeling bad about being determined to score, like he was letting that undercover buddy of his down. In the end, though, the man didn’t know anything specific about the woman, other than her street name, Rio, and the fact that she was supposedly high up in an organization run by a guy named Mozart.

Pulling out, V didn’t bother patching anything up. It was better not to mess with the man much, because God knew that brain was damaged enough from the drug use.

In response, the addict winced like he had a headache, and those eyes went back and forth again between V and Rhage, all other-shoe-drop, bracing for some kind of retribution.

Vishous tucked the hundy in the man’s pocket. “Keep the money. Go get a hot meal, it’s going to be a long night.”