“You don’t have to do this,” Rhett said, his back to the corner of the van, his arms handcuffed and restrained to the reinforced steel siding while four officers watched. “Anderson, Thompson… you both have wives, kids. What would they say if they saw you—”

“Shut up!” one officer shouted. Then he got up, pulled his sidearm, and put it to Rhett’s head. “Don’t you dare mention my family, not ever again.”

“Calm down, Anderson,” another officer said. “This’ll all be over soon. No matter what he says about our kids.”

The officer—Thompson—was carrying a fully-automatic rifle, although Wolfe wasn’t sure of the brand, as he only really knew pistols. But Thompson’s eyes flickered back and forth between Wolfe and Rhett, and he sat with the easy confidence of someone used to violence—unlike Anderson. Wolfe kept wanting to try and use the key, but he knew if did, he’d be deader than the job of town crier. No way he could finagle unlocking his cuffs and closing the distance to Thompson before Thompson blew him away. He still needed his moment.

Rhett sat up as straight as he could while handcuffed to the wall of the van. “Whatever you’ve done, it can be mitigated if you turn yourself in and stop now. It only gets worse the longer you go.”

Anderson rushed over and grabbed Rhett by his blue police shirt, jerking him as close as the handcuffs allowed. “This didn’t have to happen! It’s your fault we had to do this! If you had let it go, not been such a damned Boy Scout, we could all have gone our merry way.”

“I didn’t force you to do this,” Rhett stated. “You could have just done your job.”

There was a quiet moment where nothing happened, but then Anderson completely lost his shit. He slammed his gun into the side of Rhett’s head, once, twice, three times. The first blow stunned him, the second split his eyebrow open, and the third split his ear. Blood poured over Rhett and even splattered the seat and wall slightly.

The two officers that haven’t been involved in the conversation at all leapt up and yanked Anderson back and away from Rhett. Anderson was breathing heavily, his face red.

Wolfe didn’t want any part of this—foolish last-minute heroics were for when no other option presented itself, and he still had an option. He had an option so long as he didn’t get hit so hard he dropped the damn key. But almost no one was paying him any attention as they wrestled Anderson back.

Thompson, however, was still semi-alert to Wolfe, and too far away. The situation still wasn’t right, and Wolfe almost growled in frustration.

After the two cops got Anderson under control, all three officers moved toward the cab, near Thompson, leaving Rhett and Wolfe semi-alone in the back of the van, with Thompson’s eyes, and the muzzle of his gun, the only thing pointed at them.

The rest of the ride was thick with silence, broken only by the sounds of the van occasionally bouncing and the faint sound of outside traffic. Wolfe could feel each bounce through the metal of the bench he was on, but didn’t complain—he knew what that would get him.

Rhett must have finally learned as well, because he too remained silent.

After about twenty, maybe thirty minutes, the van pulled to a stop. A moment later the back door was thrown wide open, and the unmistakable smell of the river, not that different from last night when Wolfe had dropped Tracy’s corpse in it, flowed into the musty van, clearing out the sweat, anger hormone, and blood smell that had been brewing.

If Wolfe hadn’t known this particular river held a certain attraction to bad guys thanks to the prolific freshwater crab population, he might have found it refreshing.

The officers uncuffed Wolfe and Rhett and moved them out the back of the van. Wolfe was in an old parking lot next to rundown wooden boathouse with a single speedboat in it.

Wolfe glanced across the river at the city skyline, which was pretty familiar, especially lit up at night as it was. This isn’t the warehouse, but we can’t be more than half a mile from it. Ironic if I do end up dying here. Poetic or some shit.

A tall, thin, stick-like man came walking out of the boathouse, trailed by six thugs. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt and jeans, and carried a knife in a sheathe at his waist. Wolfe was vaguely impressed at his cold resistance, but appalled at his lack of taste. His arms were wiry, but not cut enough to justify the wife-beater look—and he had been skipping chest day, it appeared.

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“Castor,” Officer Thompson said, his dislike evident in his voice.

“Charleston got us up to speed,” Castor said. “We can take it from here.”

Anderson pushed Wolfe forward. “You gotta get whatever information they have. And call us afterward with the details. We need to make sure this information dies with these pricks.”

“I said, Charleston got me up to speed. You pigs don’t need to tell me twice. We’re just waiting on the doctor to get here.”

Castor motioned his six buddies to take Wolfe and Rhett. Wolfe didn’t struggle—it still wasn’t the right time. Plus, Castor had inadvertently given Wolfe the information that he still had time.

Rhett didn’t get the memo, however. He struggled, and most of the thugs left to deal with him, restraining him and putting a gun to his spine.

The thugs walked Wolfe closer to the river, pushing the struggling Rhett along behind him.

“They might as well call this the River Styx, so many dead people have tried to ford it,” Wolfe quipped.

One of the thugs laughed. “You’re the funny one, then?”

Wolfe chuckled. “Just more relaxed now that I’m not in the presence of cops.”

“Yeah, you don’t look like one of those fuckers, that’s for sure.”

The thugs turned them to the side of the boathouse and pushed them up a small ramp and into it. It was filled with numerous crates, and the walls were covered in all kinds of miscellaneous boat parts, fishing equipment, old radios, and a ton of similar things. The center had a speedboat in it, partially disassembled, with the blades of its propeller on the boat’s floor. Four metal poles around the outside kept the center from collapsing in on itself, and the thugs led Wolfe and Rhett to the pole closest to the water at the far end.

Probably just the instinct to keep us from the front door on the off chance we escape, although no one seems too worried about that.

They made Wolfe and Rhett sit, backs to each other with a pole between them. Then they tied their handcuffs together, trapping them to the pole.

“This place owned by the Grimm family?” Wolfe asked.

“Yeah,” one of the thugs replies. “You know them?”

“Once.”

“Then you probably know we aren’t going to be the ones beating the information out of you. Damian hired a surgeon, and he’s on his way. Although if you want to just tell me everything now, maybe he won’t be needed.”

Wolfe chuckled darkly. “I might, but I’d rather save something for him so he’ll eventually leave me alone.”

The thug matched Wolfe’s chuckled and stood. “You’re mighty blasé about this, but suit yourself.”

Wolfe was impressed that the thug knew the word blasé. He wasn’t sure he had heard anyone say that say that since he had put his father down.

Might have to upgrade my name for this guy to ‘educated thug.’

Educated thug and his five thug brethren went to the other side of the boathouse. They grabbed a couple slightly-rusted folding chairs and one of the crates, and set up an impromptu poker game they played by phone-light. Castor still hadn’t come inside.

It was dark outside, and extra dim inside. The thugs were distracted.

It was finally time.

But Wolfe’s hands were in an awkward position.

“They’ve hired a surgeon?” Rhett asked under his breath.

Wolfe laughed quietly. “A torturer, a professional one, to get information from us.”

“By cutting into us?”

“Maybe,” Wolfe said. “Most guys break after having their fingernails ripped off, but you’re fairly stubborn. They might get to the part where they start slicing things up that aren’t that important.”

Rhett was quiet for a moment. “You’re fairly calm.”

Wolfe chuckled again, although he was covering for his growing frustration—he couldn’t get his hands to bend right to open the cuffs. “Maybe I should be less calm, like you—then we can both get our asses kicked first.”

“This isn’t a game,” Rhett hissed. “Have you given up on life? Is that it?”

“You really know how to win friends and influence people,” Wolfe growled out. He still couldn’t get the key where it needed to be.

“I can’t believe this—you should be more upset. You’ve put Shel’s life in danger.”

Wolfe almost dropped the key. “What? Why the fuck would Shel’s life be in danger?”

“Because she might know what you know—they can’t chance it. You live together, right? If they were willing to dispose of me, they’ll dispose of her for sure. And if she were tied up here, she would have indignity added to the pain and death.”

Wolfe paused. Fuck. He’s right. I didn’t consider that.

Wolfe took a chance. “I’ve got the key to my cuffs—but I can’t get it in right.” That sounded bad. “If I drop it, can you grab it and free me?”

“You’ve got my keys? Really?”

“No, this is the dumbest ever ‘fooled you’ joke. Of course I do.”

“I can help, yeah.”

Wolfe carefully dropped the key, wincing at the tiny plink.

He felt Rhett moving his hands down.

“What was that?” educated thug asked, and stood from his chair.

“Nothing, just play the damn game.”

“I fold on this one—I’m gonna go check it out.”

Wolfe felt pressure on his handcuffs—Rhett being insanely fast and accurate at undoing them, he sincerely hoped.

Educated thug ambled over to Wolfe’s position. He was smoking, now, although Wolfe hadn’t seen him light up.

Just as he arrived, there was a soft click.

“What the…?” the thug said, his eyes widening as he watched one cuff fall from Wolfe’s wrist.

Then he reached for his gun.