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We reached Warthog’s pickup location and scanned the spot for any sign of him. After one pass around the block, I spotted him in an alley, next to a bike shop. He was slumped on the ground, leaning against the building. Clutch pulled over, we jumped out, and helped the badly battered Warthog into the van. He could barely stand and looked far worse in person than he did on the video. Both of his eyes were almost swollen shut, his right arm appeared to be broken, and he reeked of gasoline. Someone had spent some time on him. I saw brand marks and bruises and his hair was matted with blood.
“Easy now, careful,” Cutter said, his voice trembling with concern, as we lay Warthog down in the back of the van. “What happened, man?”
“I took the Lincoln in to get detailed,” Warthog rasped.
“
