CHAPTER 2
Zinovy Bayev
“You have your orders. Find him. Make an example of him. Gleb Kuzmin is a betrayer. On your watch, Avtorityet. I remind you of that only one time.” Anatoly Balakin, my Pakhan, speaks so softly the words are almost unhearable.
I am not a man prone to being intimidated, but were any man alive capable of doing so, it is him.
“Understood, Pakhan.” I say no more, and no more would be accepted. Still, I make no move to leave the home office of the man who runs the Vor for the entire Americas. He will tell me when he’s ready for me to go, and a lifetime of allegiance and service to him demands I show him deference.
“Then go. And Zinovy?” He pauses, his frozen blue eyes cataloguing every twitch and flex of my muscles beneath the bespoke suit I wear. I chew the inside of my cheek and stand still as stone. Awaiting his directive.
“Bleed the traitor. Until even his vocal chords become so drained he can no longer cry for mercy.” Anatoly takes his seat behind the massive oak desk, a throne despite the American insistence they have no king.
The command to show no leniency wasn’t needed, but I take it for the dismissal it’s meant to be.
There’s a clock now ticking above me. One that demands swift results or my head will be next on the chopping block. Gleb was hand-selected by a boyevik who reports directly to me. Unfortunately, that means his mistakes are mine. I do not care for mistakes.
The door of Anatoly’s office feels heavier than ever as I take my leave, the weight of what I have to do hardening my resolve.
One of only two avtorityets in Balakin’s Vor, I’m no stranger to violence or following orders.
It could be said I’m actually more comfortable elbows deep in gore than any other situation.
It’s not the impending torture and demise of a man I’ve known for years that bothers me.
It’s reflecting on the fact that I did know him for years and failed to see this coming. What else am I missing?
“What do you have on Kuzmin?” I ask the greatest tech man I know the moment my car door closes behind me.
Rurik Tarasov is more than just tech, though.
He’s the Pakhan’s second. Though I’d never say it to Anatoly’s face, I think Rurik knows more about what goes on in the Vor than even the Pakhan.
He’s probably been tracking Gleb’s every step already.
It says everything of how Anatoly feels about my fuck up allowing Gleb enough leeway to become a problem that he’s tasking me and not allowing Rurik to handle it.
Because that bloodthirsty motherfucker is a certifiable lunatic.
I’ll just drain Gleb’s blood, but it wouldn’t shock me in the slightest to learn Rurik had drained it, painted it over his naked body, and pulled the bones from the carcass to build a skin tent.
And not only would the Pakhan allow it, but he’d likely pat Rurik on the head like a spoiled hunting hound and pad his bank account with a fresh stack.
This is the world I live in, the one I was born into and the one I wouldn’t know how to exist outside of.
“Cell’s dead. Last ping was close to tower 13829304 a little after two this morning.” Rurik relays the information as if I have a fuckin’ clue what tower number number number is.
“English. Not math, Rurik.” I swear the man’s half robot, all monster.
“Downtown district. Close to the shelter and food kitchen off Haverford Street. Traffic cams are for shit after dark and homeless shelters aren’t exactly located in hot spots for high tech surveillance.
You’ll have to earn your keep on this one, asshole.
” Rurik hangs up, his displeasure at having to help me obvious.
I point my car toward the downtown area, hoping for a bit of luck.
Gleb’s a fucking moron whose only value has ever been to obey orders and collect debts.
He’ll surface soon. I’m sure of it. He’s too stupid not to.
And when he does, he’ll pay for selling Vor secrets to our enemies, and I’ll be there to ensure if.
Midday traffic takes far too long to navigate the handful of miles between the Pakhan’s estate and downtown, but the time is well spent regardless.
One by one, my boyeviks check in, including the motherfucker, Sergei, who brought Gleb Kuzmin into the fold. None have more information than I do as to where Gleb has gone to ground, but all know heads will be removed from necks if I don’t get answers soon. Starting with Sergei’s.
Hours are wasted as I prowl the downtown area, my nondescript gray sedan drawing no attention.
I’m on my dozenth pass through the blocks bracketing the soup kitchen when the growing line of people waiting their turn to get inside for a meager meal catches my attention.
It looks as if they’re prepared to wait hours for the dinner period when the facility opens its doors.
Looking at myself in the rearview mirror, it’s obvious I will stand out like a bruise if I attempt to join them.
Instead, I quickly thumb out a text message to Sergei, ordering him to have one of the many shestyorka boys, who run errands and and generally prove their usefulness in any task, join the line and watch for Gleb.
I’m sure any of them would be less noticeable than me in my suit and hundred dollar haircut.
Being a high ranking member of the criminal underworld carries risks beyond measure, sure, but it also brings the financial spoils that come from enduring those risks.
Even my work clothes, the ones I wear to carrying out the Pakhan’s bloodiest commands, are too fine to fit in with this crowd.
Besides, I’ve got plans to make and a kill room to prepare.
Gleb Kuzmin may be in the wind right now, but he won’t be for long.
Soon, he’ll be in my chains and under my blade.