Chapter 43 Bastian
BASTIAN
carcass: /?kɑ?r.k?s/: noun
I study the photo on the ID one more time. Petya Egorov, it says. The name means nothing to me, but the face does. This is the piece of shit who tried to shove Eliana into his trunk.
I tuck the license back in my pocket and approach the entrance. The doorman, a pimply kid who can’t be older than twenty-two, looks up from his phone.
“Help ya?” he asks lazily.
I pull out my wallet and extract five crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Take a walk. Thirty minutes.”
His eyes go wide. “I can’t just—”
“Here.” I add another hundred. “Now, it’s your choice whether you spend the next half-hour on a smoke break or unconscious in the closet.”
He snatches the cash and sprints for the door.
I head for the elevators, knife still pressed against my thigh. I ride up to the ninth floor and emerge into a silent corridor.
I walk down to stand outside #906 and press my palm over the peephole. Then I knock.
Footsteps approach from inside. A shadow crosses the gap beneath the door. “Who is it?”
I don’t answer. Just knock again.
“Fuck off, man.”
I pound my fist against the door.
“You fuckin’ serious…?” The lock clicks. The door cracks open.
I slam my shoulder into it before he can react. The chain rips from the wall with a metallic shriek. Petya trips backward, and I’m on him in half a second. I kick the door shut behind me and throw the deadbolt.
He tries to scramble away, but I grab him by the collar and slam him against the wall. The knife finds his throat before he can scream. I press the flat of the blade against his windpipe. Not cutting, not yet.
Simply promising.
“Make a sound without permission,” I growl, “and it’ll be your last.”
His eyes bulge in abject terror.
I lean in close enough to smell the fear-sweat on him. “Let’s have a conversation about what happens when you put your hands on things that don’t belong to you.”
“What—what the fuck, man?!” he cries out.
“Didn’t I just tell you not to fucking talk yet?” I push the knife in hard enough to bite through the first layer of skin. A drop of ruby-red blood leaks out and trickles down the blade. “Who sent you?”
He wheezes, eyes watering. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wrong answer.” I press harder. More drops of blood join the first. “Try again.”
“I was just—just supposed to bring her in. That’s all!”
“Bring her where?”
His eyes dart to from side to side. “I don’t know, man. I swear! They just gave me an address and told me to—”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
Silence. He gulps.
I ease the pressure on his throat just enough for him to breathe. “Last chance, Petya. Who. Sent. You?”
He coughs, sputtering. “Aleksei, okay? He said to bring the girl to him. Didn’t say why. I don’t ask questions.”
Of course. Of fucking course it’s Aleksei. Just like I suspected.
“What else did he tell you?”
“Nothing! I swear to God, nothing else. Just an address and a photo of the girl. That’s it.”
I study his face, looking for the lie. But all I see is fear. Undeniable, piss-your-pants terror. He’s telling the truth. Or at least, the truth as he knows it.
Which makes him useless.
I could press further. That’s what the old me would’ve done. The twelve-year-old kid who watched his brother learn the ropes of this dark business would’ve julienned this man alive until he gave up every last piece of information.
But I’m not that kid anymore. Haven’t been for sixteen years.
And I’m already too close to becoming him again.
I step back, lowering the knife. Petya sags against the wall, gasping for air.
“Listen carefully,” I say. “You’re going to disappear. Tonight. You’re going to pack a bag, get on the first bus out of Chicago, and you’re never coming back. You don’t call Aleksei. You don’t tell him what happened here. You just fucking vanish.”
He nods frantically. “Yeah. Yes. I can do that.”
“Good.” I grab his right hand and force it flat against the wall. “But first, a reminder.”
“Wait, what are you—”
I take his pinky with the knife. One swift, downward chop, just below the first knuckle. He screams, and I clamp my other hand over his mouth.
Then I drop the knife, grab his ring finger, and twist.
The snap is audible. He tries to scream again, but my hand muffles it. I break the next finger. Then the next. By the time I’m done with his right hand, he’s sobbing, snot running down his face.
I release him and he crumples to the floor, cradling his ruined, bleeding hand against his chest.
“Remember,” I say as I wipe the knife on my jeans, “you never saw me. You never touched her. And if I ever see your face again, I’ll do a lot worse than break your fingers.”
I leave him there, whimpering on the floor of his apartment, and walk out into the hallway.
The knife goes in a dumpster two blocks away.
My hands don’t stop shaking until the sun is up.