"I told you," the man says belligerently, "I don't know--"

Mike hits him. It's with the butt of the gun, a smooth and easy and calculated motion, and it knocks two of the man's front teeth out, which is what it had been intended to do. He yelps sharply, the sound echoing off the concrete, and spits them onto the pavement. He lifts his hands to his wounded mouth and before they cover it, blood is running down his chin.

"'Ou bashterdsh," he whimpers, muffled through the pain and his fingers. "Ou fucking bashterdsh."

"Sticks and stones," Mike says, swinging the gun back around. "Tell us about the vans and maybe you'll still be able to chew."