The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(7)

Whoop!

There it is.

Without even a snap, crackle, or pop of warning, V went into a free fall, his shitkickers breaking through the mushy roof, his body sucking through the hole they’d created, the drop so lightning fast that he barely had time to put his hands up so that his arms didn’t snap off at the pits.

The weightlessness lasted one blink and a single inhale of powdered urban rot long—and just as he was wondering if he was going to keep busting through until he hit the basement, his soles hit something solid, his knees went into a bend—

And his butt bounced. Twice.

As a cloud of dust blurred the air, his forearms flopped onto padded rolls.

“Fuck me!” Rhage hollered from the far side of the debris bloom.

V glanced down at himself. Well, what do you know. An armchair.

“You want to give me a heart attack?” Hollywood demanded. “Scaring me like that?”

Across a fetid war field of stained mattresses, empty liquor bottles, and drug paraphernalia, the brother was clutching his chest like a little old lady in church who’d just learned premarital sex was a thing.

V crossed his legs at the knees and moved his gloved palm around as if he was on a throne. “You can act like a man. What’s the matter with you.”

“Don’t you Vito Corleone at me.”

“At least you caught the ref.”

Rhage jabbed a finger forward—and kind of blew the tough-guy confrontation by sneezing. Three times in a row. But big, blond, and always-hungry recovered like the fighter he was.

“I liked you better before you got a sense of humor. And I know The Godfather by heart. Also, before you ask, no, I’m not kissing your ring. You don’t wear them, anyway.”

“Oh, but I do. And wouldn’t you like to know where they are.”

Rhage shook his head. “That’s an anatomy chart I do not need to see.”

“Fair enough.” V stood up. Looked to the hole in the ceiling. Well-fuck’d to himself. “What’re the chances.”

Through the ragged wound in the roof, the rain that had started to fall sprinkled his face as flaps of tar paper caught the storm’s gusts and sounded like bird wings.

Rhage came over. “So you didn’t plan it?”

“How the fuck am I going to plan falling through a—”

The groan brought both their heads around. Slumped in the low corner of an off-kilter sofa, a man who was twenty-five-going-on-early-grave was twitching like he was hooked up to a faulty electrical socket, his hands inching toward the red river running out of his lower abdomen.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Hollywood said in a cheerful way. “Great. I thought you were dead.”

“Who’s your friend,” V asked as they went over and loomed above the guy.

Clicking now, from the slack mouth. Followed by a cough. Closer up, the human was meatier than V had first thought, and not from being fat. He was also greasier, which V supposed made him a quarter pounder, instead of a single. He had on a t-shirt that had been white probably three hundred and sixty-five days ago, and a pair of jeans that could probably stand on their own without his help.

He was armed, too—well, almost armed. There was a gun about four inches outside of his immediate reach, on a couch cushion that was a sponge for bodily fluids V would just as soon not have to culture. To be sure there weren’t any more bullets flying into soft tissue that wasn’t going to grow back, V confiscated the weapon, took out the clip, and pocketed the components.

Rhage leaned down and tapped the man’s shoulder. “Hello?”

“I don’t think he’s being shy.” V took out a hand-rolled and made sure the wrapper was still tight. “And that’s an observation unrelated to my medical training, given that he’s leaking like a busted fuel pan.”

“We only want to ask you a couple of questions.” Rhage raised his voice as he held a little plastic baggie marked with a cross symbol in front of that going-gray face. “You’re selling this on the streets—hey, don’t worry. We’re not pissed and we’re not your law enforcement. We just want to know where you got it.”

As V patted around for his lighter, dust floated up from his leather jacket. And yeah, there was a hint of rat-vacuation to it.

Right on cue, Rhage sneezed and startled the dying man, but the revival didn’t last long.

“We’re out of time for talk therapy,” V muttered. “I’m going in.”

After he lit his cigarette, he exhaled in a stream and burrowed into the man’s mind—

V cursed. “Damn, son. You gotta chill with the pipe.”

Even on the lip edge of death, the guy’s neurons were so overstimulated, it was impossible to isolate the memory areas, either short-or long-term. And then it didn’t matter. The man gritted his teeth, reared back, and stiffened into a seizure.

V jumped out of that brain quick. “I got nothing. And he’s too far gone for CPR.”

“Dammit.” Rhage looked over at a ragged table strewn with baggies marked with that iron cross malarkey—as well as a lappy and a phone. “I guess we take everything over there and ghost out.”

In the center of the stained wooden square, there was a blue plastic-wrapped block, the corner of which was torn open, like a mouse had eaten into cheese. White powder, fine as the shit you’d brush onto a model’s face, had spilled onto the table.