𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝙾𝚏 𝚅𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚃. 𝙾𝚝𝚝𝚘 𐂃

Chapter 15

Cristine checked Ben's truck. The vehicle was still in tiptop shape and it'd be a shame not to take it. The engine shocked to life, a scratchy sound of someone suffering from bronchitis filling the air. Satisfied, she twisted the keys and leaned back into the leather seat. The padding allowed her beating body to slacken and Cristine shut her eyes - the hum of the leaves a relaxing tune. Even for a brief moment; a few seconds of relaxation did her good. The silence a welcome to her psyche. Unfortunately, that moment of peace didn't last and Cristine reopened her eyes when hearing someone draw close.

"It's a nice ride," Blake popped from the driver's side, examining the wine colored truck. He whistled out a low impressionable tune and drummed his fingers against the railing of the open window.

"I guess," a stained red tugged her gaze towards Blake's stretched knuckles. The skin was ripped and every so often he rubbed at it. It wasn't hard to put two and two together after Troy's decision. They needed to extract information from Ben, despite his weakened and feverish state. Coupled with a few frustrated men who needed to exert their pheromones every so often, and the arduous task of tracking him down for days also part of their frustration. Cristine couldn't help but pity Ben. When Blake covered his bruised hand with the other, she unabashedly met with sheepish blue eyes.

"I don't think he'll talk. Kind of feels like a waste after all our effort."

"Well," Cristine arched a brow and made it a point to emphasize her opinion about dealing with Ben. But Troy shut that down in front of the others. "He's either going to die from that untreated hand, you guys taking turns beating him to death, or the infection spreading."

Blake tilted his head, puzzled "you were pretty confident he wouldn't when you cut off his hand."

"Doesn't mean it can't still be one of the possibilities." Cristine shrugged. "It's a waste if you ask me. Someone who's only outcome is death won't be useful, but that's just my opinion. Hell, if I were in his place, I'd let all of you choke on your anger."

"We wouldn't have it any other way Gerrard," Blake couldn't help but chuckle, amused by her continuous vocalization of disdain. He believed it just came natural to her. Cristine was a spitfire, but she did right. Her sharp jabs were part of her personality, but she really cared about the Ranch and to Blake, Cristine earned her keep some time ago. It was mostly through Troy's silent approval that unanimously sealed the deal.

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Troy's shadow stood in front of the shivering and spasming body of a half conscious, but still living Ben. Flexing his fingers between the holes of the knuckle duster with a grip slick with blood. Breathing out from his lips, Troy tasted the metal on his tongue. Some spatters even dotted his neck and chin from the vigorous beating. Chilly blue eyes ogle the bandage. A dark liquid seeped through, it wasn't the usual healthy bright red color. Troy thought of the argument him and Cristine had about treating his wounds.

Troy inwardly cussed, partially towards himself and his men unable to get anything from him. He was tougher than he let on. Ben wasn't spilling the beans and they were due to leave for the Ranch in a few hours. His eyes darted up to the frail rise and fall of Ben and dropping his head, Troy palmed his neck to rub at the nick in his muscles. He couldn't let the bastard bleed to death or die from an infected wound. Not when they had nothing to show for it. It was the thought of what these people could do and a very ugly premonition lingered in Troy's gut. In an instant it turned into 'what could' and 'what if' scenarios for home. Troy's mind went blank. He stared at his boots digging into the earth, standing still like a statue. Troy continued to stare, unperturbed and placid as he came to a decision.

"Seems like you still have some of that luck left." Troy muttered at the out cold Ben before he left to find Cristine.

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