“Where’s your information coming from?” Hart says, picking up the questioning. “And you’re out of kneecaps, so you might want to think before you answer.” “You’re going to pay for this,” Reeves threatens, tears and snot rolling down his face. “Wrong answer,” Van aims again. “Wait!” Reeves yells. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.” Van gestures with his Glock. “Start talking.” “My brother used to work for the Poletti’s. He was killed last year in the raid of Victor Orlov’s house.” Fucking hell.
