“What are you? Cops?” The dude spits. “No. Worse,” Velle seethes. “We work for him, too. Now, tell me how long you’ve been selling to Tammy Chevelle.” The dude swallows visibly. “I ain’t telling you shit.” Rook comes in with a swift punch to the dude’s gut and he keels over in the chair, grumbling out all kinds of curses. “Answer the fucking question, prick,” Rook snarls. “Jesus, that’s hot.” Velle bites his lip. “Focus,” I scold him. “Right. Okay, why don’t we just use this then.” Velle holds up the dude’s phone, which he’d taken out of his pants, along with a forty-five caliber pistol.
