Chapter 39 Gennadiy
GENNADIY
The storeroom had white lights, mercilessly bright after the red-tinted bar. I could see the sweat on the assassin’s forehead, the rapid movements of his chest. He knew he was in trouble.
He just didn’t know how much.
I pushed him so that he was sitting on a stack of beer crates.
I could feel the rage building inside me.
He tried to kill her. He came with a gun in the night and tried to kill her…
I forced myself to move slowly and carefully as I stripped off my suit jacket and shirt and laid them neatly over a box in the corner. No sense in ruining good clothes.
I turned to the assassin. I’m used to the anger that swirls in my chest. I’ve carried it for over two decades.
But tonight, it felt different. Focused.
I wasn’t used to it feeling so personal.
I wasn’t used to having someone I cared this much about.
“Where is Viktor Grushin?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice level.
The assassin didn’t bother lying. He just shook his head.
Fine. I’d tortured lots of men over the years. I’d never found one I couldn’t break.
I slammed my fist into his jaw, knocking him sideways, then knocked him back the other way. I worked on him for a full minute while the rage spun faster and faster in my chest, and when it was time to stop, it took me another few punches before I managed to hit the brakes and step back.
I’ve always been able to control the anger. Recently, it felt like it was controlling me.
I stood there panting and scowling, looking down at the blood that misted my chest. “Where is Viktor Grushin?” I asked again.
He panted and spat blood, but he wouldn’t answer.
Okay.
I went at him again, letting the anger flood through my veins. I kept imagining her lying there asleep in bed as he crept through her apartment…
This time, when I managed to rein myself in, he was wheezing on the floor, his ribs broken. “Where is Viktor Grushin?!” I roared.
He stared up at me, terrified. But there was a deeper fear in his eyes, a fear of something worse. A slow realization rolled through me: he wasn’t going to talk. Ever.
I growled and punched him a final time, knocking him out. Then I dug through his pockets, found his phone, and pressed his finger to the sensor to unlock it.
I turned to the door...then looked back at the man on the floor, unsettled. Mikhail’s words came back to me. Don’t underestimate Grushin.
Grushin had this guy so scared, he’d rather die than talk. A former spy, a Bratva-hunter.
What if we were out of our depth here?