Page 53 of Out for Blood
And then the dam breaks. Sobs tear out of him violently, wet and uneven, his entire body curling inward as the pain finally shatters whatever composure he had left.
“Colombia,” I bite out. “Which one?”
Air jerks in and out of him as he clutches his legs to his chest.
“I swear I don’t fucking know.” He pales.
I grab his jaw again, harder this time, my fingers digging in until he winces.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” I forewarn, the words devoid of feeling. “And then I stop asking.”
“They call me,” he relents. “I don’t call them. They reach out when they need supply. High value with very specific requests.”
My grip tightens just enough to make his words stumble.
“Which cartel?”
His eyes squeeze shut like he can hide from it.
“Cartel del Norte,” he admits, shivering from the pain. “I’m their U.S. contact. I source, prep, and hold inventory until transfer. Everything routes through me before it crosses.”
“Of course you are.”
Tyler comes up beside me now. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him on my shoulder. A tether to my sanity.
I don’t look at him.
“You process them here. The doctors do the harvesting. You prep them. Then what?”
Every muscle in his body appears to be failing him, his movements growing increasingly erratic.
“They get cataloged,” he stammers. “High-value ones go to Colombia, and the others get sold locally to private buyers.”
The disgust hits me hard enough to make my stomach lurch.
“After you get what you want, you let your friends come in and tear through what’s left.”
I get my answer from his silence and now everything makes sense.
“Routes.” Not giving him a chance to recover. “Drop points. Every location is tied to you between here and Colombia.”
He nods as soon as I finish and doesn’t stop when I do. “I will tell you everything, addresses, coordinates, contacts, just please stop.” Then he holds up his hand between us, quivering, trying to ward me off, surrendering.
I walk back over to the chair and drag it over to where he’s lying and lean down so I’m directly in his face.
“Good, start talking.”
And he does. It spills out of him in messy pieces, locations,timelines, coded names, ports, airstrips, and handoffs. Every bit he thinks might buy him another second.
I let him think this is survival.
That this is the part where he earns his life.
When he eventually runs out of words, the room lapses into quiet again.
He looks at me like he’s already halfway out of here.
I stand, controlled and leisurely, and I peek at Tyler.
