Chapter Thirty-Five
In which no one is safe in the dark.
Andrey…
The sky is its blackest black tonight. The new moon is only faintly visible.
Even on brightly lit streets, there are shadows everywhere. I move in them getting closer to Fadeyev's place. Trofim is next to me, frowning. He is not a fan of this mission.
"Are you sure about this, boss? We're in Moscow. It's very different from New York."
"I need you at that warehouse," I say, not taking my eyes off Fadeyev's home. He passes by one of his lower windows, shouting on his phone. Two guards make rotations outside. They're crisp and disciplined, but easily taken care of.
Ilya, who is Kolya's tech twin here in our Russian operations, has already briefed me. Two more guards inside, and a never-ending stream of young, frightened girls that are taken back to the warehouse afterward.
Trofim groans. "Boss…"
"Stop complaining. You're coordinating the rescue. When those girls are out safely. I want it burned to the ground, nothing but ash. Leave the guards inside it."
"Harsh, but fair," Trofim says. "I'll leave you to it. But I feel like I am remiss in my duties."
"You're following my orders," I say. "Go."
I screw a silencer on my Magnum, feeling the heat run along my skin, muscle tensing, needing to move. This particular form of judgment will always be more satisfying to me than the other side of the law, it always brings justice.
Fadeyev has been found guilty.
His outside guards are good, but their rotation is too reliable.
They're both neutralized within two minutes, pushed under the elaborate bushes that surround his house.
My pulse is thrumming, I clench my fist, eager to establish a level of suffering that will only begin to make up for what he's done to these girls.
I've murdered dozens of men. I've tortured countless others. I am not a good man.
But the thing that the Morozov Bratva abhors above all others is the Red Trade. Only gutter filth preys on the weakest.
A cloud passes over the bit of the moon shining in the sky, turning everything black.
I grin in the darkness, pressing my electronic device against a side window, disarming the alarm.
Lifting it, I hop inside. I stand for a moment, remembering the layout of the house.
There's the faint sound of a TV, the steady steps of the guards, one circling the first floor, the other is on the second.
Pulling up my balaclava, I lope up the servant stairs, a narrow stairway built by the kitchen in these old houses.
The guard is talking.
"When he's finished, he shares," he says. "You're going to be passed around a lot. You'd better accept it now. Some of us enjoy it even more when you cry."
I hear it, the faintest whimper, a sob strangled in the throat from someone too terrified to make a sound.
Pressing flat against the wall, I get a glimpse through a crack in the bedroom door. There's a mirror against the wall. In the reflection, I see a girl shaking on the bed, wearing flimsy underwear and a chain around her ankle.
The burly fuck is standing at the foot of the bed, grinning at her. If I shoot him, she might scream. That would derail everything. I can't risk...
He unbuckles his belt. “I’m sure he won’t mind if I have a taste.”
No. He's dying now.
Leaning in a bit more, I catch the girl's eye in the mirror. She sees me, her mouth open to scream. I place my finger to my lips quickly. Nodding at her. Willing her to understand that I won't hurt her.
This could fuck up everything but I can't wait.
He follows her gaze to the mirror, spinning around almost instantly. I shoot him in the mouth, the bullet traveling up, blowing out the back of his head. I take three huge steps into the room and grab him just before he falls, not wanting them to hear his body dropping to the floor downstairs.
The girl is shuddering. "Vy ponimayete menya?
Do you understand me?" I ask. She nods shakily.
"I'm here to help you. There will be other people coming.
" I eye the chain around her ankle before looking around the room.
The heartless fuck has left the key dangling just out of reach where she could see it, taunting her.
While I'm unlocking the cuff, she's still straining away from me, terrified. But she doesn't move. She doesn't speak.
"I must go downstairs now and finish this," I say slowly, precisely.
"If you scream, if you make any sound, you will endanger us both.” She nods rapidly, her watery eyes never moving from mine.
"If you are quiet, you'll be taken out of here to safety.
You'll be cared for. You will be free. I swear it.
" She nods again. "Go into the bathroom now.
Shut the door and lock it. Don't come out. "
She gets off the bed, creaky, like she hasn't been allowed to walk for a while, wobbling into the bathroom, looking at me one last time before she shuts the door. I hear the light click of the lock.
I head back down the servant's staircase, the last guard is passing the kitchen, I inch down the remaining two steps, my booted feet light.
The old wood steps creak too easily. He's making his way back, zipping up his fly.
I shoot him in the back. I'm not quick enough this time.
He's too far away, and he falls with a comical look of surprise, thudding face down on the carpet.
Fadeyev's sharp voice calls out. "Yurik? What are you doing?" He walks out of the great room wearing tight red bikini underwear and a silk robe, flapping open. He has a gun in one hand and his phone in the other.
I'm close enough that this time I don't shoot.
I just charge him. He watches, stunned, for a second before he gets his gun up.
I break his wrist before he can get a shot off, kicking the gun out of his reach.
He slams his elbow into the back of my neck and I fall flat.
Fadeyev's wiry, but he's got a lot of strength.
He kicks me viciously, and I roll over, slamming my fist into his knee, cracking it inwards, he drops with a howl.
Now, for the moment I live for. I'm on top of him, pulling out my knife.
I’m too eager, sloppy. He’s got a knife too, driving it up toward my chest. I grab the blade, it slices into my palm as I twist his wrist, breaking it.
Holding up my KA-BAR, I show him his horrified reflection, blood streaming down my arm. He bucks violently upwards, nearly unseating me before I slam my elbow against his throat.
The hall fills with his croaks and gurgles as I work on him. The stuff of nightmares. Things that cause inexpressible agony.
I enjoy every second.
Allowing myself a bit longer this time, I take an hour.
He is conscious through all of it.
Eventually, the only thing left in front of me is a pile of steaming guts and flesh. Even with him dead, I can't stop, I slash the curtains and the furniture. I drive my KA-BAR into the TV, shattering it. I kick his head into the corner like a soccer ball, then hold it up on my knife, observing it.
I call Trofim. "I'm finished. There's a girl here, rescue her first before setting fire to the house." There must be something wrong with my voice, because there's a moment of silence.
"Are you all right, boss?"
"Yes." It comes out in a low sibilant hiss, which can’t reassure him.
Melina is next. "Yes, Mr. Morozov?"
"In fifteen minutes, bring Iris out to the back of the house. Wait outside the gates. I'll contact you then."
Melina is silent for a moment. "Are you… certain, Sir?"
"Are you refusing to follow my orders?"
"No, Mr. Morozov. Not at all."
Hanging up and cocking my head, I eye the severed lump of what was once Fadeyev.
"I always wish I could make it last longer," I tell the head. "There’s never enough time." Flicking the head off my knife, it flies across the room, rolling to a stop by the sofa. My shirt was ripped during the fight, I pull it off, wrapping it around the wound on my palm.
This is a part of the city the police tend to avoid.
Still, it's madness to be running through it, half naked, covered in blood.
But I make it to the car without incident then back to the house, parking behind it in a narrow access road.
Right on time, an uneasy Melina brings out Iris, who doesn't look confused, as I'd expected.
She looks anticipatory.
This stubborn erection is painful, rubbing against the zipper of my jeans. My wife understands what happened tonight. She understands me.
Melina escorts Iris across the street to the mouth of the access road, her head snaps in my direction and she frowns. She doesn't see me, but she knows I’m here. She forces a respectful nod before crossing the street again and taking her position by the gate.
My wife moves quickly. She's not scared, she’s reckless, but she knows I'm here. Stepping into the narrow road, she looks around. Away from the mansions, it's poorly maintained with garbage bulging out of dumpsters and pools of stagnant water.
She hugs herself, nervous now, searching for me. "I know you're here, Andrey," she whispers. I step out into the alley, and she jumps half a foot, slapping her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. It is so deliciously reminiscent of that first night when she saw me, fresh from another kill.
I'm on her in three steps, holding up my blade and tapping it under her chin, forcing her to look at me. "Are you afraid?" My voice sounds different under the balaclava, more of a growl. Her eyes stay on mine, searching for sanity.
"Yes," she says honestly. Sliding my knife down between her breasts, I slice the waistband of her skirt. It drops to the ground, then her panties. I rip open her blouse and push her roughly against the brick wall. A breath whooshes out of her as she hits the wall. She’s examining me, seeing the blood spray, my tattoos gleaming wetly in the weak light.
Then, her hands move tentatively to my belt.
I slam them up over her head, whipping my belt off and wrapping it around her wrists.
There's nails and hooks pounded haphazardly into the brick. I find one and lift her onto it, her tiptoes barely balancing her on the cobblestone road. After shoving down my jeans, my fingers slide between her legs, she’s gorgeously, shamelessly wet.
I cleaned my hands before I came here, even if the rest of me is soaked in blood and sin, but the cut on my hand is bleeding again.
"I knew you would be slick." I hiss into her ear. "So fucking dirty, aren't you? You want to be smeared with blood. Coated in my filth. Coming hard on my cock."
“Yes,” she gasps. “I want it.” My wife's breath is faster now, her bound wrists flex against my belt. It holds steady. Her eyes narrow, and her head darts forward, biting my chin through the balaclava, her teeth digging in hard.
Growling like a madman, like an animal, I slide my forearms under her thighs, yanking her up, onto my cock.
"You're wet," I breathe in her ear, "you're ready.
" It's still a shock. I can see it. She draws in a breath of air so fast, she chokes.
I slam into her anyway. Harder, crueler than usual.
Loving the tight grip of her, all heat, and silk. I'm pounding her hard against the wall.
"Take your balaclava down." Her voice hitches on a hard thrust.
Running my nose along her cheekbone, I whisper, "No. You're tied, pinned against a dirty brick wall. Being fucked. Begging for it. What kind of woman begs to be fucked by a man covered in blood? A man with a knife. A man who's only half sane."
My wife's long legs wrap around my waist tightly, digging her heels into my ass. "Fuck. You," she whispers. But she's panting desperately, her legs squeezing me tighter as I shove into her, mindless and greedy.
I'm half insane. She's wildly reckless.
She struggles and moans as I fuck her, squeezing her ass, slapping it. My bloody handprints are all over her. I grab her chin with my cut hand, marking her perfect skin, smearing my blood over her cheek.
“It’s time to come. Obey me or I will drag it out of you.”
My orgasm is surging up my spine, making my cock swell but she comes first, her cunt clenching down. Throwing back my head, I grit my teeth, holding back a roar. Her cunt's got a grip on me, milking my cock, squeezing the come from me. I slam my fist against the brick.
I slump against her, catching my breath before I unwrap the belt, helping her down and massaging the red marks on her wrists. Throwing her filthy skirt in my backpack, I pull out a pair of her leggings, helping her into them.
She eyes me accusingly. “You planned this all along?”
“Of course.”
My wife sways, leaning against me. "Come on, you blood covered psycho," she whispers. "I'm going to wash all the crazy off you in the shower. Along with…" Her nose wrinkles slightly. "Whoever's blood this is."