Chapter 15 #2
“Ay, just so you know, I’on want no problems, no labor disputes.
But I plan to get us guys together—a few hitmen, maybe a couple other drivers, y’all tech support—and get us a labor union.
See if we can do something about these unreasonable work hours.
I’m supposed to be in bed hyping some little baddie up,” Juvie complained.
I looked over at him. “Do self-respecting men say ‘baddie?’” I asked.
He slowed, like he was thinking. “Hottie?”
“Kinda dated.”
“Dime?”
“That’s old, too.”
He exhaled loudly. “Don’t think I don’t see you getting me off subject. That’s what you bougie niggas do. But we in the pola- prola- pro-”
“Proletariat,” Mikhail supplied, eyes trained forward.
He must’ve felt my scowl because he shrugged. “Working-class solidarity, sir,” he rumbled before holding out a fist for Juvie to bump.
“My nigga! I know that’s right, Mike,” Juvie crowed.
Mikhail’s head turned toward him, eyes narrowed. He shook his head once.
“Too soon for me to give you nicknames?” Juvie inquired.
“It will always be too soon, Julien Reed,” Mikhail said.
I shook my head. “Weak ass solidarity,” I taunted as I typed in a code to one of the many doors.
I smiled at what lay in the brightly-lit room before us.
Timur stood in one corner, his posture deceptively casual as he nodded at us.
Grigor stood between two long, ladder-looking contraptions set on steep inclines.
Strapped to one was the blond man whom I had found out was named Oleg.
Cold wasn’t the only thing causing his shivers this time.
On the other lay a much less confident Igor.
His eyes narrowed on me as Grigor waited for me to slide on a thin pair of gloves before handing me a device that amounted to a special kind of remote control.
I could almost see the sweat bead on his pasty skin as he realized what I held.
He tried to discreetly pull at the chains that held his arms above his head.
They wouldn’t move, of course. Not yet. My smile widened.
“You know, all them times I listened to my GiGi singing about a stairway to heaven, I didn’t know the shit was real,” Juvie quipped, following me deeper into the room, plastic crackling beneath our feet.
I shook my head as I turned toward him. “Nah, not exactly. This is a cool little device known as a rack,” I explained.
Oleg let out a squeak before raggedy little pleas began falling from his lips. Juvie frowned at him before glancing at me. “Fuck wrong with him?”
“From what my brother says, Oleg has a little hand problem. Hits people he shouldn’t. Touches people he shouldn’t. Steals from people he shouldn’t,” I began.
“Gah damn. This nigga got more than a ‘little’ problem,” Juvie muttered.
“Especially since he was dumb enough to try to steal from Maxim.”
Juvie chuckled. “So, he got a ‘little’ hand problem and a ‘big’ death wish.”
“Maxim was generous enough to allow me to use him for practice. It’s not every day I get to break in a modern version of a medieval torture device. Might need to do a lil’ trial run,” I said, my mouth twisting into a half smile as I met Oleg’s terrified gaze.
“Sir, please. You must… please listen. I never try to steal from your brother. It was all great misunderstanding. I will explain. I—”
“So, as you can see, your unfortunate subject lies on the table of the rack. You tie his arms above him and his feet below him, usually with chains,” I interrupted that damn begging.
“Those chains are attached to rollers. The rack is an interesting interrogation device. You ask a question, like, ‘Why would you steal from the most powerful Russian in Texas?’” I continued, eyes boring into Oleg’s.
“I… I-I-I-”
“And when you get a bullshit answer such as this, you let the rollers move,” I told Juvie as I flipped a switch then gently nudged one of the sliding buttons on the remote.
Slowly, the rollers eased into motion, pulling the chains at Oleg’s wrists and ankles.
This was not the hand-cranked device of centuries ago.
Nah, this worked more smoothly, almost silently—except for the eventual noise from its unfortunate victim—but the outcome was still the same.
Juvie’s eyes widened as Oleg began yowling.
The pressure exerted by the rack was devastating on human muscles and joints.
Stretching became dislocation, which soon gave way to excruciating separation.
I smiled as I saw the moment Juvie recognized exactly what the end game would look like.
I didn’t realize a brown-skinned nigga could turn green like that—not because of the way Oleg was now screaming.
Juvie didn’t give a damn about that. It was the promise of what was to come.
“Do not pull that nigga apart right now. You ain’t gave me no warning or nothing. You know I'm a young man of delicate sensibilities,” Juvie protested.
It wasn’t Juvie’s or even Oleg’s responses that had my lips curving into an evil smile. It was the horrified, wide-eyed gaze and rapid breathing of Igor Petrov.
“Juvie, look,” I directed.
He recovered quickly enough to play along. “I’on know, OG. This nigga looking pretty emotional and reactionary to me right now,” he mocked.
I dialed up the stress on Oleg’s body, slightly amused by the unexpected symphony of his crying mixed with the unnatural creaks and pops coming from his body.
Finally, his screaming faded into the silence of unconsciousness.
I nodded at Timur who immediately carried a chair to my location.
I sat, making a production of toggling the remote so that any slight movement would begin Igor’s introduction to the treatment Oleg had just received.
“We meet again,” I greeted calmly.
“There is no need for this. Even if I had not been contracted, someone would have taken the job—” Igor immediately jumped to trying to reason with me. I was long past that point.
“But someone didn't. You did. I just need to know the name of that contractor,” I cut in.
His mouth tightened. “You know that I cannot.”
I set the rollers on their lowest setting, knowing the gradual pull would loosen his tongue as it loosened his body.
His stubborn quiet gave way to soft whimpers then hasty, mumbled pleas. The strain of the procedure was evident from the purple blooming under his skin as his muscles stretched and tendons tore. He bit back a scream as I asked again, “Who contracted you?”
His mouth tightened as he diverted his gaze. Oh. That's how he wanted to play this? I relaxed into the chair and nudged the control. He tried to stay unaffected.
He failed.
“Fucking mudak,” Igor wept as his knees dislocated.
My finger stopped, moved again, this time on the other side. The pull woke Oleg abruptly.
“Please, please—” he began.
“I'm tired of all this damn whining,” I announced, accelerating the rollers.
Oleg's disintegration was rapid but brutal.
It wasn't the dislocated shoulders, knees, and ankles, the strained muscles, the tendons and hamstrings pulled past what their maker had intended.
Nah, it was the agonizingly slow separation of his spinal cord.
This time, I wasn't even sure he was dead when his eyes closed.
I did know that he'd never move voluntarily again.
I looked at Igor. He gulped, tried to put on a game face.
“Fine, I did it. But you are conceited, no? So sure this is about you, about the blessing of your Russian heritage. But that melkaya suchka had problems before you. She has enemies, enemies who want to finish a job that was unfortunately not—”
“Unfortunately, huh?” I asked before chuckling softly. “Remember that. But let's say it was enemies from her past. Her enemies don't get to hire Russian intelligence like you. Who were they working with?”
His eyes widened. Bingo. He thought he'd fed me just enough; he wasn't prepared to answer the real question.
“I am a man with a price. Anyone could pay it. What makes you think there is someone else?” he evaded.
But the fear in his eyes betrayed him.
I pushed the button and listened to cartilage and tissue tear. Blood sprayed the plastic-covered walls and floors that held his tortured screams.
I stopped before his limbs were torn completely off, smiling at his ragged breathing.
“T, he was prolly about to give us what you wanted,” Juvie argued.
“I do not think so, Julien Reed,” Mikhail countered calmly, his eyes trained on his phone, no doubt calling for help for Grigor and Timur during the clean-up process.
Turning my head slightly I eyed Juvie, “He was about to waste our fucking time. I know that's not who did it, at least not alone, because he wouldn’t have been afraid. He was scared. That wasn’t about some crime family from Mississippi, even if they are considered powerful. This shit is about something else.”
Reaching behind me, I pulled out my Ruger.
“Besides... he shouldn't have called her a bitch,” I said before my index finger curled around the trigger and pulled.
Igor's head shattered.
Satisfaction uncurled inside me. But it wasn't complete. It wouldn't be until I had the pleasure of annihilating whoever dared to come for her.
Her tear-streaked face materialized in my memory suddenly. That image troubled me more than eradicating Oleg and Igor had. My shorty had been too sad for too long. I was going to fix that, with or without her permission.