At mid-morning on the third day, my crew was north of the city and back in another section of the Mark Twain Forest. We rounded a sharp bend on an oil and chip country lane. A lone rider stood dismounted while his horse drank from a nearby pool of water.
Vernon immediately drew his assault rifle from the scabbard and sighted on the man thirty feet away. He yelled, "Don't move you son-of-a-bitch or I'll cut you in half."
It was clear from the tone of his voice that we'd hit pay dirt. As Vernon spoke the young man's hand quivered and edged toward a holster on his right leg. I'd drawn my Glock and then fired two rounds into the ground between his feet. "If you touch that gun, I can just as easily put a bullet between your eyes. It's your choice; do you want to live or die?"
He raised both hands over his head and glared at me uncertainly.
Adam was on the ground and held his Glock inches from the young man's head. "You killed my dad and a bunch of my friends. Make a move, and I'll gladly blow your frigging head off."
I dismounted and then cut a length of rope four-feet long. Our prisoner was in his early twenties, pleasant looking with long, blond hair and a short, scruffy beard. His horse was an Appaloosa, I thought
When our prisoner's hands were tied behind his back, Vernon lowered his rifle and shoved it back in the scabbard. He dismounted and strode to our prisoner and spit in his face.
Before I could act, Vernon's right arm cocked back, and he delivered a vicious punch to the man's stomach and followed it with a left to his face as he doubled over and fell. "That's only partial punishment for killing my parents and grandmother and raping my sister and cousin."
Vernon had set the pace for what needed to be done. The dirty but necessary interrogation fell to me. I drew my hunting knife with my left hand as I squatted and placed my right knee across the man's throat. The heavy, eight-inch-long stainless steel blade flashed in the sun as it raised and then plunged down into the outside flesh of my victim's left leg. He screamed loud and long and quivered as the blade tore through flesh. The blade was twisted, and he screamed louder. As his breath ran out, the scream subsided. I hesitated for effect before the blade rose cleanly; blood spurted from the incision.
I asked, "What's your name?"
He summoned enough bravado to say, "Fuck you."
My demeanor was harsh as the blade plunged into the inside flesh of the same leg. The young man screamed even before the blade entered and was again twisted for maximum pain.
"Your real name Mr. You?"
His face paled, and he was more talkative. "Everett."
"Last name?"
"Morrison."
I stared into the young man's eyes and saw indecision mingled with fear. I spoke softly with an edge of coldness, "I'll ask you a question. If I think you're lying, I'll slaughter you like a hog at butchering time. . . . Where's your group's camp?" The knife withdrew and was poised high above the right leg.
Loathing and pain were clearly evident on the man's face; his body quivered and sweat formed on his brow. He summoned enough courage to not speak. The knife fell and the first two inches of sharp, pointed steel punctured his leg. He screamed and his face contorted. "Now, dammit talk to me or I'll keep punching holes in you until you do!"
His vision swiveled between me, Vernon and Adam, as tears flowed. "I didn't want to do it, my dad and the others made me."
I leaned on the knife and forced it down another inch. His eyes widened and I placed my right hand over his mouth as he screamed. "Focus, Everett. I asked you a question, and I want an answer. If you keep screwing around, you're going to bleed out before I can patch you up."
He sweated profusely. "Up this road about three miles to the Plesantdale Church sign."
The blade dug deeper and twisted again. "And then?"
He grimaced and whimpered. "Take a left and turn right at the second road."
"And?"
"The fifth dirt lane on the left."
"And?"
Tears flowed freely down Everett's cheeks. "The cabins are a quarter mile back in the woods."
Five minutes later, I had a head count of the number of people in their gang, how many were currently onsite and the number of buildings in the compound. Everett claimed two men and five women were watching the captive women and tending to the children.
We cut the prisoner's shirt and pants off and used the cloth to slow the blood flowing from three punctures. He was none too clean. He'd live until we got him back to our camp where Carmen could stitch him up. He was only alive because I didn't trust him to tell the truth. Woe be to him if he'd lied to me.
Before we left later that night, I'd explained to Everett in graphic detail what would happen to his testicles if he'd lied to me about the location of their compound. The hammer, nails, and board in my hands gave my threats impetus.
