Unseen (Will Trent / Atlanta Series)

inches—not long, but sharp, with a wicked curved tip. He slowly folded the blade back into the handle, his eyes on Will the entire time. “You gotta problem?”
    Will shook his head.
    “We gonna have a problem?”
    Will shook his head again.
    The redneck stood up, groaning from the effort. He was a big guy, not muscular like the matching refrigerators but fat around the middle.
    He walked over to the desk. His gait was slow, cumbersome. He picked up a file folder from the desk. “William Joseph Black.”
    Will waited.
    The redneck picked up a pair of reading glasses. He didn’t put them on. Instead, he used them like a magnifying glass on the file.
    He read, “Born in Milledgeville, Georgia. Sealed juvie record. Joined up at twenty-two. Got kicked out at twenty-five. Couple of assaults on some women. Beat down a mall cop. Served time in the Atlanta jail. Pissed off some feds in Kentucky. Wanted forquestioning on a stickup and a couple break-ins.” The redneck waited. “That about sum it up?”
    Will didn’t answer.
    He tossed the file back on the desk. “You’re renting a room at the Star-Gazer Motel off the interstate. Number fifteen. You park your midnight-blue Triumph motorcycle in the space two doors down. You eat at the RaceTrac. You work at the hospital. You come here to get your dick hard. Your mother died while you were serving in Iraq. Your father is unknown. You have no siblings and no family to speak of.”
    Will let his lips open a slit to take in some air. The only reason he’d chosen to ride a bike was to make sure no one followed him to Atlanta. To Sara. Will’s heart thumped as he waited for the redneck to tell him her address.
    Instead, the redneck asked, “Zeb-deeks?”
    This time, Will didn’t respond because he didn’t know what the hell the man was talking about.
    “Zeb-deeks?” the redneck repeated. “You know him?”
    It was a name. A man.
    The redneck waited. His patience seemed in endless supply.
    Will stumbled through Bill Black’s life. There was no high school or college, just Air Force and jail. The name sounded foreign, but his military file wouldn’t have those kinds of details. Zeb-deeks was probably a nickname, which normally wouldn’t help Will except that there was only one guy in Bill Black’s life whose name started with a
Z
.
    Zebulon Deacon had been knifed at the Atlanta jail for ratting out his crew. Bill Black had been in the same cell block. He would know of the guy. He would certainly know the nickname.
    More importantly, Black would also know you didn’t rat out anybody without a fight.
    Instead of answering the redneck, Will shrugged.
    “You don’t know him?”
    Again, Will shrugged.
    The redneck said, “Junior?”
    One of the henchmen lumbered up from the couch. Junior was as big as his boss, but younger. Undoubtedly stronger.
    There was no preamble. Junior punched Will so hard in the face that he saw flashes of light. His head snapped back. His neck cracked. The bridge of his nose felt like a hatchet had struck bone.
    “Zeb Deeks,” the redneck said.
    Will shook his head—not to disagree, but to get his senses back. He’d been punched in the nose more times than he could count. The worst part came when you sniffed and the chunk of blood sitting in the back rolled down your throat. Will struggled not to vomit as he swallowed it down.
    For the fourth time, the redneck said the name. “Zeb Deeks?”
    Junior pulled back his fist.
    “All right,” Will said. “Yeah, I know him. Snitch got what he deserved.”
    “Where’d he get it?”
    “Quad.”
    “Where’d he get it?”
    “In the junk,” Will said. “They stabbed him with a broken toothbrush. He bled out in the yard.”
    Tony chuckled. “Bet that hurt.”
    The redneck’s chest rose and fell. He studied Will for a moment, then nodded toward the last henchman on the couch. The third man stood up just as slowly as the others, his knees popping, his gut bulging. Contrary to physics, he and Junior worked fast. Before Will knew what was happening, his arms were pinned behind his back.
    The redneck walked over to Will. He smelled of pizza and alcohol. He was a smoker. He breathed like a steam engine. He was big and he was white, but Tony had made it clear the redneck wasn’t Big Whitey. Will doubted he would ever meet the man who was in charge of this gang of violent hillbillies. He doubted hewould see anything other than the moldy back room of this club for what little time he had