“You promised you’d keep her safe, son.” Mort patted his cheek. “You lied.”
“I intended to keep her safe, but I didn’t know what to look for.” Radcliffe cringed and seemed to shrink. “Please! I-I mean I’d never do anything to intentionally jeopardize Mr. Caldwell or any of you.”
“What happened to the fucking guard you should’ve had posted at the door?” Digger questioned.
“I don’t know. I promise I’ll look into it. Just don’t…give me a chance to fix this mess.”
“You have twenty-four hours, Radcliffe,” Johnnie said in a hard voice. “Get me the fucking footage and shut the fuck up if any detectives come around.”
He nodded bleakly. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Who was that?” Stretch asked, the moment the man walked out.
“The hospital’s CEO,” Johnnie answered. “One of Christopher’s many contacts.”
Christopher lit another smoke, aware of the cameras in the room. The two badges interrogating him had left him alone for the third time, after bringing him yet another cigarette in a show of helping him.
They’d kept him in this fucking room for fourteen goddamn hours, throwing question after question at him. He was so fucking tired, hungry, and thirsty, he could barely fucking focus.
Years ago, when Big Joe finally allowed him Probate status, he’d put Christopher on gate duty. It hadn’t been the high-tech shit the club had now. Sometimes, Christopher would be on guard for thirty straight hours. However, he was allowed food and drinks. Water. Alcohol. Juice. Whatever.
He’d learned to adapt, even looked forward to it after a while. That, compared to this, was child’s play. That had been to toughen him up. This was designed to break him.
Puffing out smoke and putting the cigarette in the ashtray, he tipped his head back. Where the fuck was Brooks? Christopher had made his phone call hours ago. The motherfucker still hadn’t brought his ass to the station.
The door opened and Christopher straightened, scowling at the fuckhead detective who’d taken the role of his friend. This motherfucker was worse than the assfuck who was demanding he talk.
“How’re you doing, Mr. Caldwell?” Detective Tracoli asked, a sympathetic smile on his face.
Christopher glared at him.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Tracoli released a long-suffering sigh. “My colleague said your friend told him everything. All the murders the club has been involved in. The drug business. Today’s…yesterday’s incident. Let’s hear your side. We want to help you.”
“Fuck off. You must fuckin’ think my ass born yesterday. I ain’t talkin’ without my goddamn attorney.” He snatched his nearly-burned out cigarette up and puffed on it. Even if Cash had talked—which Christopher didn’t believe—they weren’t fucking tricking him into being a bitch ass snitch. “Get the fuck outta my face.”
Tracoli sat, his expression transforming from friendly and caring, to the motherfucker he’d hidden. “I hear your gang has made a lot of enemies over the years. You don’t cooperate, we’ll see to it you’re in general pop.”
General population, with all the other motherfuckers, some who had a grudge against Christopher or the club. The fucking place where motherfuckers in his position were shanked and left to bleed out.
He didn’t hesitate with his response. “Fuck you.”
“Tracoli,” the other badge called, walking in without knocking.
The scent of onions hit Christopher even before the detective motherfucker handed Tracoli the wrapped sandwich. Grinning, Tracoli revealed the hamburger and bit into it. Christopher’s mouth watered and his stomach hurt. Hunger hit him hard, nauseating him with ferocious intensity.
He clenched his jaw, longing for a small bite, wanting to kill Tracoli so badly, he balled his hands to keep from lunging. The motherfucker wanted to provoke him into either talking or fucking him up.
Not only was Christopher at risk, but his entire club. Fuck, but he should’ve been smarter than to chase after that Torp motherfucker. To see a motherfucker walk into the hospital room of his injured sister pissed Christopher the fuck off. No one but motherfucking Noah Carson Counts sent that motherfucker to Fee’s room.
“Did you know McCall is the brother-in-law of Sloane Mason?” Chomp, chomp, chew, chew. Tracoli shifted in his seat and sighed, holding up the small bit of hamburger he still had. “Best sandwich ever. I should’ve asked if you were hungry. It slipped my mind. I was rather star struck when I heard the news.” He belched. “I guess that’s why McCall talked. He didn’t want to humiliate his famous family member.”