The Hill - BLACKBIRD book 5

14. some ride

The Portland jail guards escorted the prisoner to the transport truck under the freezing drizzle. The man walked with quick short steps, his ankles and wrists in shackles, linked by a chain in the most uncomfortable way possible. The guards made him climb into the back and sit on one of the side benches. They locked his chain to it and got out. Nobody had told the man where they were taking him. His lawyer hadn't even mentioned a relocation. Neither the date of their preliminary hearing, but he thought this might be it, and he was on the way to the courthouse.

"Hey! Close the damn truck!" he yelled out. "It's frigging cold!"

He heard steps and smirked. Those fatheads, they only moved their asses when told to. A uniform showed up and his smirk faltered: a state trooper—and a black scum too! The trooper flashed a nice smile at him as he closed the doors. The man trembled from head to toes at the dry snap of the locks.

Troopers! That couldn't be any good, forget about safe. Six of them had died before the battle—the first casualties. So he knew every trooper over the whole damned state would love to get some quality time with him and his brothers. They'd been kept in a county jail, so the local police was in charge of them. Which should also include moving them around. Then what the hell...?

The man breathed deep when the transport drove out of the prison yard. Chances were he would never make it out of that truck alive. He tried to wrap his mind around it. He wasn't about to give any satisfaction to those bastards.

They drove for what felt like forever. Then the bumps told the man they'd turned into a dirt road. That couldn't be anywhere near a populated area, let alone a courthouse or another prison.

The transport truck stopped a moment later. So the time had come to show them what a real soldier was. He heard the troopers get out and walk toward the back. Voices. Too many. Those faggots needed to bunch up to dare to face him. Maybe he stood a chance. He'd never been deployed to the hot zone, but he'd had his share of Taliban guerilla back in the days. Those were tough sons of bitches. Nothing like these pansies.

They opened the back of the truck and the man's mouth shaped a silent, "Oh..." when two women climbed in with him. Old for his taste, but definitely hot. Both of them. So he got back his cool at the speed of light and smirked again when he looked up at them.

"Hey, sugar. Need a real man?"

Something hit his jaw. Hard. His face lashed to his shoulder while the troopers closed the transport with a mocking chuckle. A firm claw clutched at his hair, sharp nails hurting his scalp in the process. His face was yanked up roughly, to meet the glaring blue eyes of one of the women, a brunette.

"We ask, you answer. Else, it's gonna hurt."

Her voice was a threat of jagged steel, but no chick was bossing him around. So he wore his smirk again. This time, he did see what hit him: the butt of a shotgun. His face got smashed against the wall of the transport. Who the hell were these bitches? Did they get off on this?

He was hardly done seeing funny stars when the other woman—a slim blonde—grabbed his arm and ripped open his sleeve. He didn't move. Her knife felt big and nasty between the fabric and his skin.

"Corporal," she said. She grabbed the chest of his jumpsuit and pulled, twisting it in a way that made him gasp for air.

"Where are the others?" the blue-eyed bitch asked, not in a nice way.

"In your ass, bitch," he snarled.

He saw the butt of her shotgun come down and held his breath, expecting the blow to his belly. A heartbeat later, the funny sparks turned into flaring flames of pain throbbing from his groin. He tried to take his hands down and bend over, but the bitches pinned him back.

"Where!"

He shook his head, air hissing through clenched teeth as the pain grew worse.

They pushed him forward and he fell off the bench on his knees, grateful for the chance to bend over.

"Where are they?"

He managed to growl, "Screw you."

The blonde bitch grabbed the chain and pulled his hands away from his crotch. The blue-eyed brunette landed the butt of her shotgun on his back. He was hardly able to keep from hitting the floor with his face. The blonde bitch rested her boot on the back of his neck to keep his head down. He squirmed when he felt the cold hard barrel pushing between the back of his thighs up to his jewels. A hoarse cry escaped his lips when the blue-eyed bitch cocked the shotgun.

"Come again?" she said. "Where can I find the others?"

"I-I don't know!"

The other bitch pulled his hands further as she stepped back. The heel of her boot landed on his fingers. "Oops, sorry."

He cried out.

"C'mon, not like it hurt, huh?" said the blue-eyed bitch, moving the barrel between his legs.

"Bitch! You broke my finger!" he howled.

The blonde bitch grabbed his hair again and forced him to face her. "Thought you liked it. You enjoyed breaking my man's fingers."

He gawked up at her in fear. Feds! The big shot nigger! He'd heard one of these bitches had killed General Balken with a single shot between his eyes!

They pushed him to roll over on his side and allowed him to curl up, his eyes still wide open, breathing heavily as he processed his situation. Now he knew for sure he would never make it alive. It was lose-lose for him. Because he couldn't sell his brothers off—General Kreuz would have him killed even in solitary confinement. And these bitches wouldn't take no for an answer.

As if she read his mind, the blue-eyed bitch rested the mouth of her shotgun against his lips and crouched down before him. "You know we ain't killing you, right?" Shit, her smile was frigging evil. "So how about you loosen your tongue and keep some of your teeth?"

Shit, shit, shit. "Never, bitch!"

Something hard hit his face. The butt of a gun, a boot, he didn't know. But he felt the crack of his nose and the sharp pain piercing through his skull.

The voice of the blue-eyed bitch almost made him pee in his pants. "Mind your manners."