Page 153 of Sins of Innocence

I nod. Wasn't intentional. Wasn't not intentional either. I hit him to stop him, to protect Áine, and his anatomy made the decision for us.

"McLaren?"

"Already in there." A pause. "She's in a mood."

That's an understatement. I could hear it in her voice when she called to confirm she was on her way. Someone pointed a gun at her sister-by-choice tonight and she's hella pissed.

Interrogation 2 is pretty much identical to Interrogation 1. Metal lined walls with no discernable seams for DNA and blood evidence to get caught in, a floor of the same industrial grade material with a drain so the room can be completely sanitized after every use.

The full spectrum LED light strips on the ceiling are as bright as daylight. Turning on the extra bank turns the room into its own form of torture cell only tolerable while wearing darkening goggles.

Which we sure as hell don't offer our reluctant guests.

There are currently three men secured to steel chairs designed to bolt to the floor. The chairs are removable but when bolted can withstand more pressure than even I can bring to bear on their occupant.

The three gangbangers aren't going anywhere.

McLaren is standing in front of the one in the middle when I walk in. She's got lead lined fingerless gloves on and the man's swollen right eye attests to the fact she's been using them to effect.

"I didn't break his jaw. He can still talk," she says, not looking at me.

So, she figured out he's the one that held a gun on Áine. It wouldn't be hard. She asked for his description in the text thread I had going with my team during the movie with Áine and the girls.

"Good." I roll my sleeves up, eyeing our captives.

Do they realize they are all going to die tonight?

The guy on the left is sweating through his shirt. The one on the right watches me with the flat assessment of someone unafraid of violence and the pain that comes with it.

The one in the middle, the focus of McLaren's ire, isn't cowering away from her despite the hits he already took.

Right.

Pain isn't going to be the primary motivator for getting information out of these assholes. Not at first, anyway. They need to be primed.

I choose the aerosol administration of the talk juice compound Mick used on me once upon a time.

I don't give them enough to knock them out for long, but just enough to put them under for a few minutes. They'll wake disoriented and unsure how long they were out, their inhibitions lowered.

I administer slightly more to the guys in the middle and on the right. They'll wake up about fifteen minutes after the guy on the left, if they respond to the drug according to bodyweight.

If they use, that number could go up or down. Depending on their drug of choice, the talk juice will react differently. Uppers in their systems will make it less relaxing and take longer to take effect, but the combination can also cause hallucinations.

Which can aid in interrogation, depending on what their imaginations conjure up for them.

Downers will make them sleep longer and can enhance the effect of the talk juice significantly. They can also cause an OD depending on how much is in their system.

"What about giving them a shot of this?" McLaren holds up a vial of the compound we source from the Greek mafia in Portland.

Administered directly to the blood stream, it causes hypersensitivity in pain receptors and higher doses induce paranoia and hallucinations.

"If they already took something, that stuff can kill them, even at its lowest dose," Noah says doubtfully.

Which is why we rarely administer it to a guest of our fine facility until they have been in holding at least twenty-four hours.

"We can test it on him." McLaren nods toward the asshole who wanted to shoot my woman. "If he dies, we still have two of his friends to get answers out of."

"It would save time," I acknowledge.