Milo
Two months later.
My fist connects with his face again.
And again.
And again.
I feel nothing.
I keep hitting a body that’s long dead, because he was too weak. He deserved more, and the motherfucker couldn’t take it. He died before I was finished.
My phone keeps ringing.
I ignore it.
I hit the cadaver again, my knuckles splitting further.
How is it possible that I keep killing men, over and over again, and the one fucker I need is still out of my reach?
Every time we think we have a lead, the person dies.
Or chooses death.
I used the best methods. Every extraction technique I know. Things that break people in minutes.
But not them it seems.
These men have more to lose than their lives if they speak. This one, for instance, was more afraid of that ghost of a man than he was of me. More afraid of what would happen to his wife and daughters than of what I was doing to him.
He didn’t say a word.
They always break once you push them far enough. There is always a threshold. Pain has a language, and eventually it makes them talk.
I nudge the body aside with my foot and finally still. Blood coats my hands. It has dried across my knuckles, streaked beneath my nails. It is probably on my face and my clothes are heavy with it.
I don’t bother wiping any of it away when I pick up the phone.
I don’t even check who’s calling.
“Speak,” I say, flatly.
Isaak exhales on the other end of the line. “I’m here with Ido. We have someone. He’s waiting for you.”
I give him nothing.
“Where are you?” he asks after a second.
I remain silent.
“I’ll send the address,” he says at last.
The line goes dead.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and begin moving without a conscious thought. I do what needs to be done.
I exist simply for revenge, but I don’t live. You might as well say I died with her, because in truth, I did.
I step out of the building and get into my car.
The message comes through. It isn’t far from where I am, a small town outside London.
I enter the address and start the engine.
A few miles down the road, I press the button.
In the rear view mirror, the explosion blooms. The building collapses in on itself as fire rips through it.
I disappear into the night.
I don’t sleep.
I don’t eat.
I don’t stop.
I need the bastard found and dead.
And then I will reunite with my girl, because I know she’s waiting for me.
Alone.
Just as I am now.
I grit my teeth and press the accelerator harder.
Once I arrive at the address, I park and step inside. I scan the room once and immediately recognise one of ours. Isaak is already here.
The man jerks his chin toward the basement, and I head straight down.
The door opens, and the stench of blood reaches me before the room fully comes into view.
A man is strapped to a chair, his head hanging forward, chin nearly to his chest. Isaak stands in front of him with his arms crossed. Ido leans against the wall, silent and observing.
“Why did you bring him to one of our houses?” I ask Isaak evenly. “I don’t do clean ups anymore. I burn things. I don’t have the patience to work around your decor.”
Isaak studies me for a moment.
“You’re deteriorating,” he says calmly.
“Didn’t ask for your diagnosis.”
He exhales, annoyed but calm. “I’ll handle the cleanup. Extract what you need. Don’t worry about the rest.”
There’s something in his eyes. It isn’t sympathy, he doesn’t have that, it’s something close to understanding.
Pity, perhaps.
It’s absurd. No one understands this.
You don’t understand until you’ve lost the reason you get out of bed. The reason you bother breathing. The one person who kept you human.
Every day since she died is torture.
Not metaphorical.
Actual, grinding torture.
The only thing keeping me upright is revenge.
I step forward and take the axe from the table. The man is unconscious, his head hanging loosely against his chest.
I bring it down on his arm.
“Wakey, wakey,” I say.
He jerks awake with a scream as blood spills across the floor. He loses control of his bladder. I look at him without a trace of sympathy.
“How did you find him,” I ask evenly, “and what does he have to do with what I’m looking for?”
I expect Isaak to answer.
It’s Ido.
“I have contacts,” he says. “And they owed me.”
I glance at him. “How do you know they’re telling the truth? We already scraped the market. It was all bullshit.”
“They wouldn’t dare lie.” Ido says flatly.
That’s enough. I don’t care how this man connects.
He does and that’s all I need.
I crouch in front of him. “What’s your name?”
He sobs, choking on blood. Something comes out of his mouth, barely a sound.
“I can’t hear you.”
I bring the axe down into his leg.
“Andrew,” he gasps.
“Do you know why you’re here, Andrew?”
He nods weakly. “I… I can guess.”
Good.
That almost makes me hopeful.
For the first time in months, I feel something like anticipation.
Four hours pass.
Four hours of pain.
He doesn’t say a word.
Not one of consequence.
And now I understand the pattern without doubt.
These men are monsters, yes, but they love their families. Their daughters. Their wives. Whoever is behind this knows exactly how to exploit that.
He doesn’t recruit men with nothing to lose. He selects men with everything at stake.
And this reminds me of someone… but who?
I straighten slowly, blood dripping from my hands, and look down at Andrew as he whimpers in the chair.
He starts coughing.
Deep and wet. His head jerks forward and for a second I think he says something, but it’s swallowed by the sound.
I’m on him instantly. I fist my hand in his hair and snap his head up.
“What did you say?”
His lips barely move. His breath is shallow and broken.
“Russia.”
My heart slams so hard it fucking hurts.
Did he just give me a lead?
“What Russia?” I snap.
Andrew’s head slumps forward.
“Get me a doctor,” I bark.
Isaak is already moving, the phone in his hand.
I press my fingers to Andrew’s throat, searching for a pulse.
Nothing.
“No,” I snarl.
I shove the chair back and drag him to the floor, dropping to my knees. My hands slam onto his chest and I start CPR.
“You don’t get to die,” I grind out. “You don’t get to say one word and fucking leave.”
I keep going. My arms burn, but I don’t stop.
“Finish what you were about to say!” I roar.
I don’t know how much time passes. It hardly matters.
“You need to stop,” someone says.
I look up, my stare empty. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
“You’ve been doing CPR for over an hour,” Ido says, his voice devoid of emotion. “He’s not coming back.”
“Shut up,” I roar. “You don’t know that.”
I keep going until hands seize me and drag me off him.
That’s when I lose it.
I swing at Ido. He takes the blows without flinching.
“Enough,” Isaak snaps.
A doctor finally rushes in, too fucking late. He kneels beside Andrew and examines him briefly.
“Time of death was over an hour ago,” the doctor says evenly. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
I stare at the body on the floor.
Russia.
That damned word echoes in my skull.
I straighten slowly, my chest heaves, as the blood dries on my hands.
“Russia,” I say again, staring down at him. “Do you think he meant the person is hiding there… or that he is Russian?”
Isaak exhales. “We’ll find out.”
I nod once.
“He’s dead. We move forward with what we have,” he adds.
I clench my jaw. “We should have had more. He was just starting to talk.”
Isaak looks at one of the men. “Make sure this is untraceable.”
The man nods.
I turn toward the door.
Russia.
The country I hate more than any other.
And the place I’m going back to, whether it wants me there or not.