Chapter 17 – BODHI
BODHI
The pliers are cold in my hand.
Taking my time approaching the conscious prisoner, I let my boots echo on the concrete floor, allowing the anticipation to build.
The guards along the walls shift restlessly, eager for blood. Kozlov studies my every move, seemingly curious to see if my father’s penchant for gratuitous violence was passed down through the family. Dimitri folds his thick tattooed arms, black shirt sleeves rolled up, across his barrel chest.
Any sign of hesitation, and I’ll look like an amateur, like a newbie to the game, or a potential rat who might have let the intruders in.
It’s a good thing I’m no stranger to hurt and pain.
I stop in front of the man and study him. Mid-thirties, military build, cropped hair. His eyes meet mine, defiant despite the blood trickling down his face. There’s something in that gaze, a steadiness that doesn’t belong to a thug for hire who’s only here to make a quick buck.
I’ve seen that look before, in soldiers, in alphas, in men who’ve been trained to resist interrogation and endure suffering.
Fuck.
These aren’t your average hired guns. They’re private security, ex-military, or they could even be undercover law enforcement. Not men that I have any desire to kill or maim in Kozlov’s dirty basement.
I swing my fist into his gut, pulling back my strength but still striking him hard enough to double him over, hard enough to look convincing.
He grunts, his body curling around the blow, and I lean in close under the pretence of grabbing his hair and yanking his head back.
“Give me something.” I breathe against his ear, barely louder than an exhale. “And I’ll get you out of here alive.”
His eyes flicker. Just for a second, but it’s enough. He heard me. He just doesn’t understand what I’m doing.
I release him and step back, rolling my shoulders, making a show of warming up by intimidating them with my sheer size.
“This is going to take a while. These aren’t guys dragged in off the street.”
Kozlov’s eager expression falters slightly as he realises this wasn’t an amateur job. Someone serious about what they do came to steal what’s his. Anger and concern war on his features before he grits out, “How long?”
I shrug, glancing down at my watch for show.
“Depends on how stubborn they are.” I flex my fingers around the pliers as an idea forms. A terrible, painful idea, but one that might just work. “You might want to get comfortable. Or take care of other business. I’ll send for you when I have something.”
There are cameras in here. I remember seeing this room on the bank of screens in the security office. Without making it obvious, I angle my body, my back shielding the men from view.
“I want to hear what they have to say.” Kozlov’s tone brooks no argument.
Another shrug. Fine. Plan B.
“Suit yourself.” Making a show of unbuttoning my shirt and folding it before setting it down on the steel table that sits to one side, I give Dimitri a wink, knowing he’ll hate it. He sneers at me, but I don’t miss how he takes in my muscular form.
“Jesus,”’ one of the guards whispers, staring wide-eyed at my ripped torso. All shifters are muscular, but I’m even bigger than most, meant to be the alpha of my clan one day, designed to protect the bear cubs and females under my watch.
“Who sent you?” I press closer to the man who swallows hard, looking at my scarred body, the result of regular battles with my father as a teen before he finally drove me out.
Finally, he remembers I asked him something and meets my eye defiantly. No shake of his head. No reply. Just a mutinous glare that tells me we won’t get any information from these men.
“Fine,” I mutter, reaching out to grab his shirt and pull him closer, pliers in my right hand.
Kozlov’s brow furrows in confusion. The prisoner’s eyes widen, and he digs his toes into the ground, attempting to stay away from me.
“What are you doing?” Dimitri asks, but soon he’s averting his eyes and looking at the wall instead, a grim look on his shocked face.
With the prisoner trying to thrash from my grip, I bring the pliers down between us, but instead of gripping his skin, I clamp it down on my own side, catching a fold just above my hip, and tear.
The prisoner watches with horror as the skin peels away before looking at me like I’m completely deranged.
white hotis white-hot, searing, and exactly as bad as I expected.
Blood wells immediately, running down my side in dark rivulets, with a strip of my own flesh dangling from the pliers, raw and glistening.
I toss the torn skin onto the floor at Kozlov’s feet.
“That’s what I’m going to do to you,” I say calmly, even as my body screams. “Piece by piece. Until you talk.”
Kozlov has gone green. He stares at the bloody strip of skin on the concrete and the wound on my side that, unbeknownst to him, is already starting to knit closed beneath the blood, and swallows hard. “I’ll... be in my office.”
He turns on his heel and walks out, one hand pressed to his mouth.
“That’s fucked up.” Dimitri lingers, his expression caught between disgust and grudging respect. “You’re insane.”
Behind me, the prisoner’s heart is thumping, and I can scent his fear. He wasn’t worried about a beat down but being left alone with a man willing to pull lumps of his own skin off is enough to have tipped him over the edge.
“I’m effective.” I meet his gaze steadily. He considers me for a long moment, then nods sharply. “I’ll be upstairs. Radio when you have something.”
The door clangs shut behind him, and I wait, listening to his footsteps fade upstairs.
Then I move.
I’m acutely aware of the guards watching my every move, and of the cameras I remembered from my tour with Igor.
“Can you hear me?” I keep my voice low and my back to the main camera.
The conscious one nods, just barely, his entire focus on the deep gash on my side.
“Good. Tell me who you are. Cops, feds, something official, right? I’m not going to kill you, but I need information, and I need you to make this look real.”
Yanking his head back hard, I look him in the eye and he nods, imperceptibly, but it’s there. Bouncing on my toes in front of him like I’m really enjoying myself, I swing again, pulling the punch at the last second so it grazes his jaw instead of breaking it.
He snaps his head to the side, playing along, and spits blood that was already in his mouth.
“Who sent you?” I ask loudly, for the cameras.
He stays silent.
I lift the pliers back to my own arm this time, gripping a strip of skin near my elbow. The pain is easier to manage when I’m expecting it, but it still makes my vision swim as I tear. More blood. More flesh hitting the floor.
The second prisoner, the one I thought was unconscious, starts to retch, which works well for the cameras as it looks like I’m doing it to his friend, who’s thrashing hard to get away from me as my blood spurts all over the place.
“Jesus Christ.” He gasps, fully awake now, his eyes fixed on my arm. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You’d think he’d be a little more grateful. It’s me or him.
“Talk.” I growl, loud enough for the microphones. Then, quieter, “Give me something. Names. Locations. Anything.”
The first one breaks. Maybe it’s the sight of a man tearing off his own skin without flinching. Maybe it’s the realization that I’m his only way out of this basement alive, and that I might just be crazy enough to be telling the truth. Either way, the words come fast.
“We got a tip,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “Someone working undercover at the fights. Said Kozlov was trafficking women through his operation.”
I grunt and throw another fake punch, making sure to hit the meat of his shoulder where it’ll bruise but won’t do real damage.
“We guessed that much. But who told you where to go?”
His lips remain firmly shut, that is, until I grip his friend’s throat in my hand and start to squeeze.
“Keep talking.”
His friend’s arms flail, hands tugging at mine, but he may as well be trying to bend a tree. As his face turns a deep puce color, he claws at my hand, nails digging in, trying in vain to pry open my grip.
“There’s a barmaid at the club. The one on Fifth.”
Once he starts speaking, I loosen my hold a little and allow his friend to breathe, but I don’t let go. Merely wait.
“She owed us a favour from way back. We had her keeping an eye out for anything that might be connected, and then a couple of days ago, she spotted someone. A missing person.”
I frown at him. “Then why not come in, lights and sirens, if this is about rescuing a missing person?”
The two men look at each other, a flicker of guilt in their eyes.
“Some rich guy’s been offering serious reward money to anyone who can find her.”
And cops get medals, maybe, but not bonuses. That’s why they’re here off the books. They wanted to cash in.
“So, you decided to skip the official channels, grab the girl, and collect the reward.”
His jaw tightens. “We thought we could do it faster, get the reward and be heroes. We didn’t have enough for a warrant, and if we went after Kozlov officially and fucked it up...” He shakes his head. “They’ve been after him for years. Our careers would be over.”
They.
There are probably multiple agencies keeping an eye on him, looking for a slip-up big enough that they can pounce and take down his entire operation. A report of a missing girl in his bar isn’t serious enough for them to risk spooking him.
“But you didn’t.”
I hate to point out the obvious. They didn’t save anyone, and they’re lucky to still be alive.
“Yeah.” He spits blood onto the concrete. “You fucked it up for us.”
Amused, I lean in closer, pretending to examine his wounds. “And now, I’m your only way out of here.”
Standing to my full height again, I watch the two men, trying to decide whether they’re telling the truth or not. Blood drips down one arm, falling onto the ground beneath my feet in a steady rhythm.
“Who’s running this operation? Kozlov’s not at the top. Who’s above him?”