30. Vadim
30
VADIM
The automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss as I enter the police station with Aleksey at my side. The familiar stench of bureaucracy hits my nose. A few officers look up from their desks, their hands instinctively moving closer to their weapons when they see me.
"This is a terrible idea, Vadim Petrovich," Aleksey mutters under his breath. "Rutledge would love nothing more than to slap cuffs on you the moment you walk in."
I keep my face neutral as we approach the front desk. "I'm well aware of the captain's feelings toward me."
"Then why are we here?" Aleksey adjusts his tie—a nervous tell I've noticed over the years.
"Because this is part of Lacey's plans," I reply quietly. "And it's a good plan. We need Rutledge, even if I don't like it."
"Your wife's influence is making you soft," Aleksey says with a slight edge to his voice. "The old Vadim would never walk willingly into a police station."
I turn to face him, letting just enough of the pakhan show in my eyes to make him take a small step back. "The old Vadim didn't have as much to protect."
The desk sergeant recognizes Aleksey and picks up his phone without prompting. Within moments, Rutledge emerges from his office, his weathered face hardening when he spots me.
"Mr. Stravinsky," he says, voice dripping with barely concealed contempt. "To what do I owe the... pleasure?"
I reach into my jacket, noting how every officer in view tenses, and pull out my phone. "I have some information about one of your officers that might interest you, Captain."
Rutledge's jaw tightens. "Information about one of my officers?"
I pull up the video on my phone and hit play. Mackland's bruised face fills the screen, blood trickling from his split lip. His eyes dart frantically back and forth like a cornered animal.
"Jesus Christ," Rutledge mutters, leaning in closer. "What the fuck did you do to him, Stravinsky?"
"Officer Mackland was... reluctant to accept my invitation for a polite conversation." I keep my voice steady, neutral. "Some persuasion was required."
"Persuasion?" Rutledge drums his fingers on his desk. "That looks like assault and kidnapping of a police officer to me."
"If I may, Captain." Aleksey interjects. "My client acted in self-defense when Officer Mackland drew his weapon—while off duty, mind you—during what was intended to be a peaceful discussion about certain irregularities at local establishments."
"Self-defense?" Rutledge scoffs. "You call this self-defense?"
"Would you like to see the rest of the video where he explains exactly how many bribes he's taken from Kirsan Kuular over the years?" I say quietly. "Or would you prefer that this piece of shit continue dishonoring the badge that you so proudly wear?"
Rutledge's face flushes red. "Show me."
I press play.
"State your name and rank," my voice commands from off-screen.
"Brian Mackland. Police Sergeant with the Seattle PD." His voice trembles.
Rutledge's hands curl into fists on his desk. I notice a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"How long have you worked for Kirsan Kuular?"
"Six years now, give and take." Mackland swallows hard. "Started small, just looking the other way. Then... more."
"What kind of work do you do for him?"
"Security. Mainly at his casino." Mackland's eyes dart around frantically. "Sometimes the clubs too."
Rutledge's face has gone from red to ashen. His knuckles are white where they grip the edge of his desk.
"Tell me about the clubs," my voice demands.
"I mean, what do you want to know?"
"Whatever comes to mind."
Mackland takes a deep breath, hesitating as he mulls over the words. "Usual shit. Legitimate clubs upstairs, but if you know somebody, you can go one floor below."
"What happens when you go below?"
"I mean shit," Mackland shakes his head, blinking fiercely. "I've only been down there a couple of times. But it's pretty much the same thing. Bottles and girls. You pay for a table, and girls will sit down with you, talk with you."
"Is that all that happens?"
"No," Mackland admits. "I mean, usually, yeah, that's all that happens. But if you're willing to shell out the big bucks. Well, then you can ask the girls to show you one floor deeper."
"What happens there?"
"Whatever the fuck you want, man. You fucking paid for them."
A sound escapes Rutledge's throat. His whole body is rigid with fury.
"Tell me about the girls."
"They're…" Mackland hesitates. "They got no names. You're not supposed to ask them about names. Hell, I don't think half of them even speak English. Real young too. I know for sure that a couple of them are sixteen. Some sick bastards specifically request the young ones."
I pause the video. "Would you like to see more, Captain? Or is this convincing enough for you?"
Rutledge holds up his hand, his voice hoarse. "Stop. That's... that's enough."
"Are you sure, Captain? Officer Mackland becomes quite detailed about his activities. And about his own kickbacks within the clubs as part of his performance bonus."
Silence falls between us, and Captain Rutledge ponders the gravity of what I just said.
"What do you want from me, Stravinsky?" His eyes bore into mine, decades of police work etched into the lines of his face.
"I believe my wife was very clear to you about what I wanted." I lean forward. "Your assistance in bringing a legitimate face forward to help take down a dangerous human trafficker. One that the police have not only overlooked, but many of you have actively aided over the years."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then in exactly twenty-four hours, this video will go live online. Once it's out there..." I spread my hands. "Well, then you'll be put before the court of public opinion."
Rutledge's face darkens as understanding dawns. "That's blackmail, Stravinsky."
"It's only blackmail if you have no choice." I check my watch. "And from how I see it, you very much still have a choice, Captain. You can either wait for this to explode in your face, or you can get ahead of it. Break the story yourself. That way, you'll maintain at least a little bit of control over the narrative."
His laugh is bitter. "You've got this all figured out, don't you?"
"My wife does." I stand, straightening my jacket. "Because despite everything that has happened, she still believes in you, Captain. I'd hate for her belief to be proven wrong in the worst possible way."
"It's not every day a bratva boss walks into my office so willingly," Rutledge says, leaning back in his chair. "Making demands. That's bold of you, Stravinsky."
"Whoa, whoa!" Aleksey starts. "Bratva boss! I'll have you know, Captain, that you are making a very serious accusation!"
"Save the act for a judge, counselor." Rutledge waves him off. "We both know what your client is."
I remain silent, studying the way Rutledge's fingers drum against his desk. His entire demeanor has shifted since watching the video.
"Let's speak frankly," Rutledge continues. "No more bullshit about legitimate businesses or plausible deniability." He gestures at my phone. "Or what we both recognize as very clear blackmail. Everything from this point on is off the record. I swear it."
"As you wish, Captain." I keep my voice neutral, though inside I feel a surge of satisfaction. The threat to his department's legitimacy has hit home harder than any concern about Kirsan's activities.
"I could arrest you right now." His eyes narrow. "This video is more than enough evidence."
"You could," I agree. "But you won't, will you?"
Rutledge's jaw tightens as he shakes his head. We both know the real threat isn't Kirsan's operation. It's the rot that's spread through the entirety of the police force.
The kind of corruption that makes good cops question every badge they see.
"How many others?" he asks quietly.
"I don't know." I meet his gaze steadily. "But I know it's a number that you're going to be dangerously uncomfortable with."
"And what about you?" Rutledge asks, his voice crunching like gravel. "How many officers are on your payroll?"
I lean back, letting the silence stretch between us. "That's not relevant to our discussion, Captain."
"The hell it isn't!" His fists slam against the desk. "If we're being frank here, then be frank. How many of my men work for you?"
"I can assure you of one thing," I say carefully. "None of them engage in the kind of activities you just witnessed in that video."
"That's not an answer, Stravinsky."
"It's not." I admit. "But it's the only one you're getting. What matters is that any officer who might hypothetically be on my payroll has never been asked to overlook or participate in human trafficking."
"Just other crimes," he spits.
"If you want to chase ghosts about theoretical corruption, be my guest." I gesture at my phone. "But right now, you have very real monsters on the force. The choice is yours. Waste time investigating me, or focus on the evidence I just handed you."
Rutledge's jaw works as he processes my words. I can see the battle playing out behind his eyes. His desire to nail me to the wall is warring with the reality of what Mackland's confession means.
"Let's cut the bullshit, Stravinsky." Rutledge's weathered face hardens. "This isn't about justice or cleaning up the force. You're just using me as a weapon in your own vendetta."
I let his accusation hang in the air, neither confirming nor denying it. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire.
"Tell me, Captain," I finally say, leaning forward. "When was the last time you looked at your badge and felt pride. Real pride?"
His eyes flick down to the shield on his desk. Something flickers across his face.
"Every morning, I see good officers walk through those doors," I continue. "Men and women who joined the force believing they could make a difference. And every day, they're forced to work alongside pieces of shit like Mackland."
"Don't pretend you care about my officers," he growls.
"I don't. I haven't believed in you people for decades." I meet his gaze steadily. "But like I said: my wife does. And she believes that there are still good cops who deserve to wear that badge with a shred of honor."
"What happens after?" Rutledge's eyes narrow. "After I clean house, what then? You just disappear into the shadows like none of this happened?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "You know better than that, Captain."
"Exactly my point." His fingers drum against the desk. "You're not going to just pack up your operations and leave Seattle."
"There will always be shadow businesses in the system." I keep my voice measured, controlled. "You know this as well as I do. If anything, the system often requires these shadow businesses to thrive. But there are certain baselines that everyone should adhere to." I pause. "Even those you consider criminals."
"And trafficking is where you draw the line?" His tone carries equal parts skepticism and curiosity.
"Children being sold like cattle?" My jaw tightens at the memory of what I've seen. "Young girls being used by monsters who claim to be family men? Yes, Captain. That's my line. It should be everyone's fucking line."
Rutledge studies me for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable. Finally, he nods slowly. "I can agree with that."
"I'm not na?ve, Captain." I lean back in my chair, feeling the weight of what I'm about to say. "When this is over, you'll come after me. After Svoboda. After everything I've built."
A ghost of a smile plays across Rutledge's face. "You sound almost resigned to it."
"Only a fool wouldn't be." I shrug. "That's a game I'm very comfortable with playing. But right now, I need you to be something else. Something more important than just another cop trying to take down the bratvas."
"And what's that?"
"The face of justice." The words come out more resolute than I intend. "These traffickers, their buyers, and the enablers like Mackland. Every one of them needs to feel the squeeze from both sides. The law and the shadows."
"You want me to be the stick you beat them with?" His voice carries an edge.
"I want you to be exactly what that represents." I gesture to the badge on his chest. "A symbol that makes monsters think twice before buying a human being. Because right now? They don't fear the law. And why should they? So many of the people who profess to enforce it are too busy breaking it while they indulge in this monstrous trade."
Rutledge's eyes narrow as understanding dawns. "So what are we? Good cop bad cop?"
I shake my head, smiling, and tap my chest. "The devil they know."
I point at his badge. "And the law they thought they could ignore."
Silence fills Rutledge's office as he looks down and processes everything I've said. His fingers drum against his desk, faster and faster. I can practically see the gears turning in his head.
Finally, he looks up at me, determination etched into the lines of his face.
"I'll do it." He shakes his head and his face looks like he'd just been asked to drink piss. "Not because you asked. But because I can't sleep at night knowing the badge is being used by pieces of shit like Kirsan." His eyes narrow. "And you."
"That's all my wife wanted to hear." I keep my voice neutral, careful not to let my satisfaction show.
"Let me be clear about something else, Stravinsky." Rutledge leans forward, his voice hardening. "You're absolutely right about one thing. Once this is done? Once we've cleaned up this trafficking mess? I'm coming for you next. I will use every resource at my disposal to bring you and your organization down. And I won't stop until I cuff you myself."
"Of course, Captain" I stand and extend my hand towards him. "I expected nothing less from a true believer."
He follows me to his feet, and grips my hand firmly, calloused palm rough against mine.
As we shake, a hint of grudging respect crosses his face.
"Your wife is an extraordinary woman, Stravinsky," he says. "Hard to believe she'd marry a real piece of shit like you."