Griffin #2
Now the blood is his, more than mine. He recoils, but never loses focus.
This is the kind of killer who would rather die than give up the mission.
He knows he’s at a disadvantage, and he keeps fighting like there’s a reason to keep breathing.
When I grab the collar of his jacket and twist my arm, hoping to be able to choke him, he sinks his chin into his chest and swallows his own scream, biting his lip until it becomes a line.
At this point, I respect the son of a bitch as much as I hate him.
The bionic arm finally finds a foothold; I grab his collarbone and pull with all my might.
The tissue tears, the bone gives way. He screams, now without a filter, and hits me with his elbow in the kidneys, but the movement comes out crooked: the power is gone along with his shattered nose.
He tries to grab the gun, I twist the angle of the arm I control—the final impact comes as a short, brutal crack—and the pistol slips from his hands, scraping on the asphalt before disappearing out of my reach.
Blood changes me; I become less human, less rational. I push him, hit his head on the asphalt with the force of someone who doesn’t care about consequences. For a second, he disappears, his eyes turning white.
I take the opportunity and step on the arm that is still his—my whole heel goes in with the weight of my body.
My own momentum comes with it: the leather of my boot tears his skin, the bone cracks with a loud, dry sound, like wood breaking.
His hand loses all function; his fingers become limp, useless.
The scream mixes pain and surprise, and something like a sob sinks into his chest before fading away.
I could end it there. But I don’t. I need answers. I know he still has something to say.
“Who do you work for?” I say, leaning closer with my foot still buried in his arm. “Talk or I’ll break your legs too.”
“I just do what I’m told, I don’t know anything. Just orders!”
I step again. He screams.
“So give me a fucking name,” I say, unintentionally splattering the blood from my own face on him. “Who? Alexei?”
“No! T-The cousin!”
The blood runs down my face, forming a puddle next to the curb. I no longer feel the pain; just the urgency to make sense of what I just heard. Why did Seraphim send me here?
“And whose information did you just hand over?” I ask, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place. The man hesitates, the fear of the right answer fighting against the fear of what I might do.
I don’t give him a chance to choose. I step one more time.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
“Alexei!” he screams. “Alexei’s! V-Vasily said that Ivan needed help to... to watch him.”
And only then do I understand. A dog that barks too much.
The beggar’s phrase. Seraphim’s message.
His message wasn’t for me. Not entirely.
I accused him of seeing Alexei as an enemy, and now he’s talking to the man who is watching me through the fucking bracelet.
This is Seraphim telling Alexei: I am not your enemy. And here is the proof.
He has no loyalty to Vasily.
I drag the wretched rat with me as I approach his car, opening the driver’s door and pulling the keys from the ignition.
“Man, I won’t tell anyone,” he whines. “What do you need—money? We can split it—hey!”
His wrist is a knot of crushed bones, so he offers no resistance when I stick a hand in his coat pocket. I feel a wad of bills and, deeper, the rectangular coolness of a cell phone.
I take it—it’s an old burner, a flip-phone, the kind of thing you use for a single call before throwing it in the river. The contact list has a single contact, saved as “V”.
“Mr. Vasily pays well, we can—“ he keeps trying. I put the phone back in his pocket.
“My boss will like to see this,” I say with a smile, and he grimaces.
“Hold on, man... wait—no—“
I shove him into the trunk of his own car. I leave him locked in there, with both arms useless, and get into the driver’s seat.
I start the car. The engine roars.
I know where to go. I saw it on Alexei’s terminal earlier. His meeting, at the fancy restaurant. The Krestoran.
I smile at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I’m a mess, but Alexei won’t care.
I step on the gas, leaving the East Pier and its ghosts behind.
I can’t see much of what’s on the road, because the glass shards still partially blind me; with every sway of the car, I feel the drop of blood running down my face and turning into a thick trail on my neck, but the pain is no longer the focus. My leg still protests. The adrenaline does more.
The man in the trunk won’t stop screaming.
“Please! I swear, I swear I won’t tell anyone! Let me out!”
The muffled sound makes me want to bang my head on the steering wheel. He’s kicking the trunk.
As I approach the restaurant’s street, the landscape lights up.
The pier was a dark, smelly mass. The city is all light and perfume.
The restaurant, called Krestoran, is a beacon among others.
The facade is all glass, and the light inside is golden, inviting.
I see discreet guards at each entrance, and the security is tight enough to know that Alexei is there.
He said that in public places ambushes are more difficult.
So I step on the accelerator. The engine roars louder. The car flies down the street without an alarm. The man screams, and this time I laugh. He’s not wrong. I would scream too.
I only see part of the tables through the glass facade. This should be safe enough... I think.
The crack of the glass shard on my forehead. The scream of the bastard in the trunk. The explosion of glass. The sound of the car’s bodywork scraping against the metal of the building’s structure.
I close my eyes for a second. When I open them, the scene unfolds in front of me: I’m inside a restaurant, with the car crashed through the side of the waiting counter. There’s glass everywhere, and some waiters are on the floor, terrified.
The security guards, all in expensive suits, draw their weapons, but hesitate. They don’t know what to do. They’re prepared for a shootout, not for an idiot who decided to use a car as a door.
Alexei. He stood up on impact, and yet his suit is impeccable. He didn’t move, except to protect himself from the flying glass. A thin, red cut runs down his cheek, a tiny trail of blood on a perfect face. He doesn’t care about the fucking blood.
He looks at me. His gaze is hard, but there’s no fear. There’s a question. He’s trying to understand.
His guards point their guns at me. I wait. They are terrified. For him.
Alexei raises his hand and says the only words I need to hear, “Don’t shoot.”
They obey him.
I get out of the car. The air is cold, the pain in my body is all back, my clothes are soaked, and the blood starts to feel sticky. I open the trunk and grab the man by the collar, dragging him out. He whimpers something, spitting blood.
I drag him across the white marble. In the center of the room, I throw him onto Alexei’s table.
“A little gift, boss,” I say, spitting blood on the carpet. “This one was selling your routes directly to your brother.”
I kick the burner phone that fell out of the man’s pocket.
For a second, no one moves. The guards still have their guns pointed at me, the waiters are huddled behind the bar, and the rich customers look like terrified wax statues. My ears are ringing. The whole world seems to be in slow motion.
My focus is fixed on Alexei. He doesn’t look at the traitor writhing in pain on top of his ruined table. He doesn’t look at the hole in the wall of the five-star restaurant. He looks at me. That thin cut on his cheek is the only thing out of place, an imperfect detail in a work of art.
He takes a step forward, circling the table. His calmness is the most terrifying thing in the room. He leans down and picks up the disposable phone from the floor, examining it with a casual interest.
Then, he turns to the Japanese investors, who are pale and surrounded by their own security guards.
Alexei offers them a restrained smile, an apology, and says something in Japanese.
His voice is soft, melodic. Surreal. One of the older men, the one who seemed to be the leader, hesitates and then nods his head, a short, stiff bow.
Alexei gestures to one of his lieutenants, who immediately escorts the Japanese to a side exit, away from the mess. Away from me.
He didn’t even sweat.
As the Japanese are discreetly led away, the remaining silence in the room is heavy, dense, broken only by the groans of the bastard I threw on Alexei’s table.
My ears still ring with the sound of shattering glass and twisting metal.
I taste blood in my mouth and the adrenaline burning in my veins, a fire that keeps me on my feet.
Alexei’s gaze sweeps over the chaos I created. The car crashed through the facade, the mahogany table in pieces, the rich customers cowering like rats, and the employees paralyzed with fear behind the bar.
He adjusts his shirt cuff and addresses a short, sweaty man in a suit, probably some assistant manager of the restaurant, who looks like he’s about to faint.
Alexei says something in a low voice, almost a whisper.
I can’t hear it, but the man trembles and nods frantically.
Another of Alexei’s lieutenants approaches, hands the manager a metal card, and guides him to a corner, the conversation continuing in murmurs.
Money, I imagine. A sum that buys silence and pays for a new facade, no questions asked.
Then, he finally turns to the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, soft as velvet, but firm as steel. “I apologize for the interruption. To compensate for the inconvenience, everyone’s dinner tonight is on us. However, we will need your cell phones. It is just a formality to ensure the privacy of our associates.”