Page 49 of Challenge Me

Breathing, however, would become increasingly difficult.

Haines dragged in a thin, rasping breath.

“You have about four minutes before your diaphragm stops responding,” I warned him. “Perhaps five. Significantly less if you struggle.”

Panic filled his eyes. His mouth moved, but only a weak clicking sound emerged.

I leaned closer, smoothing one hand over his rough, pockmarked cheek.

“All I require are names,” I assured him. “You give me names, I give you the antidote.”

His jaw strained as he tried to answer.

“Nod if you understand.”

He nodded desperately.

“Good boy.”

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

“I need the names of the people operating a car theft ring in west Houston; they specialize in classics, like the white 1970s Dodge Challenger that was stolen from John Bell’s property last year.”

Recognition flashed across his face; that was better than I’d dared hope for. Judge Haines had overturned quite a few criminal convictions that had roots in gang activity, and I’d expected the list I was demanding from him to be full of dead ends.

“You remember,” I whispered. “That simplifies matters.”

Haines made another strangled noise.

I took his phone from his pocket and unlocked it using his resisting thumb; the poison hadn’t stolen all of the strength from his hands yet, which was also good news for me. I opened a blank text message and placed the phone in his hand, guiding his thumb toward the screen.

Haines’s breathing deteriorated while he worked, each inhale rattling higher in his throat. Sweat ran down his temples, but he continued typing until I had everything, all in the desperate hope that I had a cure for him in my back pocket. When he finished, his thumb fell away from the screen.

I read the message twice. “You did very well,” I assured him as I erased the text and placed his phone beside him, the information already memorized. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Your Honor.”

◆◆◆

By the time I returned to the main floor, Al’s performance had devolved into something between an auction and an exorcism.

The bouncer he’d flirted with earlier had acquired a leash, holding the loop of it lazily as Al knelt at the edge of the stage, the leather wrapped around his throat. His torn shirt was gone, and red marks crossed his chest, back, and thighs, while champagne glistened on his bare skin and dripped between his thighs, his pants a distant memory. He looked wasted, flushed, and giddy, but he caught sight of me near the exit and for a fraction of a second, the depraved expression on his face vanished. His brow lifted in a silent question.

I nodded.

Done.

I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the performance; I trusted he could wrap the number up on his own.

I had just reached the carpark when the metal door burst open behind me, and Al was escorted outside. He took three exaggerated, staggering steps, spun around, and bowed deeply to the bouncer who shared the stage with him earlier. The man chuckled and tucked a piece of paper into Al’s hand. Al tried to stuff it into his pocket, but to no avail; his pants were straining under wads of cash. He had managed to recover his jacket too, and he winced as he put it on over fresh whip marks before sliding the note into the jacket’s pocket instead.

The door closed firmly behind him, and all traces of drunkenness vanished. His eyes were clear, his balance perfect. “You owe me.” He winked, strutting toward me. Cash crackled inside his trousers as he moved.

“You appear to have been adequately compensated,” I commented coolly, trying not to show my own amusement.

Al shoved both hands into his pockets and began pulling out crumpled notes. There were thousands upon thousands of dollars folded and rolled into every available space. More spilled from his waistband and fluttered onto the pavement. He turned to his car with a wide grin. “Looks like someone’s getting their supercharger!” He beamed. Fox’s headlights flashed with excitement, his shadow appearing on the Mustang’s hood; he studied Al’s torn shirt, visible scratches, and banknotes still dropping from his trousers, clearly not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth but aching with curiosity.

“What happened in there?” Fox asked.

“Community theatre,” Al answered. A hundred-dollar note slipped from his waistband and landed beside his boot.