“Is he with you?” Antifa One asked. “I mean, is he with you?”
“I already told you he was,” Geronimo said. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Do any of you know Axel Soledad?” Nate asked quietly. He could tell by the way the four shuffled and looked around that they knew something.
“Speak up,” Nate said. “Don’t be shy. I need answers and I’m in a hurry.”
Finally, Antifa Two said, “Hey, man. We don’t talk about him.”
“Until now,” Nate said.
“We’re just gonna back out of here now,” Antifa Two said. Then: “Right, Tristan?”
Tristan was apparently Antifa One.
“Shut up, Robbie,” Tristan said.
“Tristan and Robbie,” Nate echoed. “Couple of country-club names. Why am I not surprised? Shouldn’t you boys be playing video games in your parents’ basement?”
Nate was on them before they could react or go for their weapons. He kneed Robbie hard and doubled him over while smashing Tristan in the throat with his left elbow. As both men went down, he drew his heavy revolver and hit Antifa Three so hard on the side of his helmet that it cracked open like an egg. Antifa Four jumped back and cocked his skateboard over his shoulder like a baseball bat.
As the first three writhed in the gravel, Nate raised the gun and placed the front sight squarely in the middle of the man’s face shield. He cocked it.
“Don’t you know better than to bring a skateboard to a gunfight?” Nate asked.
Antifa Four wheeled and dropped his skateboard. He ran down the alley in a panic and into the street without looking, narrowly avoiding being hit by a yellow taxi that slammed on its brakes. Then he was gone.
Nate returned to the squirming pile of antifa and chose Antifa Three, whose face had been revealed when his helmet was split open. Nate kneeled down and pressed the huge muzzle of his revolver into the soft skin of the man’s cheek. He reached down with his other hand and gripped his left ear.
Antifa Three had a pudgy white face with the texture of tapioca pudding, a wispy blond mustache, bright green eyes, and an antifa A symbol tattooed on the side of his neck. He looked terrified.
“So we’ve got Tristan and Robbie,” Nate hissed. “What’s your name?”
“Please, I don’t wanna—”
Nate twisted hard on the ear and the man screamed out.
“No screaming,” Nate said. “Someone might hear you. I asked your name.”
“Cole.”
“Cole. That’s precious. Where do you live, Cole?”
“Cherry Creek.”
Even Nate knew Cherry Creek was an exclusive Denver neighborhood.
“So, Cole of Cherry Creek, where is Axel Soledad?”
As he asked, Tristan moaned at the mention of the name. It was a warning to Cole not to talk. Nate shifted his weight so he could swing his revolver and smash Tristan in the helmet. Tristan went quiet.
“Where is he?” Nate asked again, putting more pressure on Cole’s ear. “I’ve twisted off a ton of these. I wear them as a necklace. Do you want me to add yours?”
“He’s gone,” Cole spat out. “Axel left tonight.”
“To where?”
Cole told him.
“Prove to me that you saw him,” Nate said. “What was he driving?”
“This big truck,” Cole said, his words rushing out. “It was like a, you know, delivery truck. Or repair truck. Shit, I don’t know. But it was big.”
“What was inside of it?”
“Cages. A whole bunch of cages.”
“What was in the cages, Cole?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cole . . .” He gave the ear a quarter twist.
“Birds! Eagles or something like that.”
Nate looked up at Geronimo. “Do you believe him?”
“I think I do.”
Nate turned back. He released Cole’s ear and dug a wallet out of the man’s tactical pants. There was a Colorado driver’s license in a sleeve and Nate removed it and held it up to Geronimo.
“Take a photo,” Nate said. Geronimo did.
Nate tossed both the wallet and the ID aside and leaned down and said, “Cole of Cherry Creek, I know where you live. I’ve got your parents’ address. If you’re lying to me, I’ll come back for you. I’ll find you and tear you apart piece by piece until you’re begging me to end it all. Got that?”
“Got it,” Cole said. His face was ashen.