CHAPTER 7 #2
We move away from the noise and the thumping bass.
The heavy steel door thuds shut behind us, changing the air pressure.
This hallway is clinical. Brushed steel, bright white lights, soundproofing that swallows the noise of our footsteps.
It smells like sterile bleach and cleaning agents.
It feels like the bowels of a high-tech prison.
The soft whirr of security cameras follows us.
I watch my own reflection in the steel walls as we walk, my expression dead, absolutely devoid of humanity.
"Is this where you keep your secrets, Arthur?" I ask, my voice echoing slightly.
"Just the inventory," he replies, tapping a code into a keypad with manic energy.
"The air in here smells like bleach," I note.
"Cleanliness is next to godliness, Andrei."
"You’ve spent a lot of money on this cage." I note the thickness of the walls. Three feet of reinforced concrete. Nobody gets out of here unless he allows it.
We reach a final door. Hemlock scans his retina, and the lock disengages with a heavy hydraulic hiss.
"After you, Mr. Ignatov," he says, stepping back. "Behold the main attraction. The glass is soundproofed. You can say whatever you like."
I step into a pitch-black room. The only light comes from a massive pane of one-way glass taking up the entire front wall.
The sudden silence is absolute. I instinctively reach for my holster, my fingers brushing the cold metal of my gun just to ground myself against the sick voyeurism of this setup.
My heart starts beating a little faster, and I fucking hate it.
Beyond the glass is a stark, blindingly white square room.
It's completely empty, the light bouncing off the tiles so hard it physically hurts my eyes.
Hemlock walks over to a small console in the dark and starts flicking switches.
The leather of his shoes creaks. I cross my arms tightly across my chest, feeling my muscles bulge against the fabric of my suit.
"Bring them out," I demand.
"Patience."
"I'm not here to look at tiles, Hemlock. What's the criteria for your... acquisitions?"
Hemlock presses a button on the intercom. His voice comes out distorted in the white room. "Bring in the selection." He turns to me in the dark. "I’ve chosen the ones with the most... potential. New blood, fresh to the system. Most of them still think they’re going home."
My skin crawls. I kill for a reason. This guy breaks people for a hobby. I narrow my eyes, my pupils dilating in the dark until my vision sharpens.
"Potential for what? Dying?" I ask.
"For entertainment."
"Don't give me the sales pitch. I just want a quiet room and a body to break." I'm looking for a spark. Something to match the fire I saw in that cafe, just to exorcise it from my system.
A door at the back of the blinding white room slides open. Two guards in heavy tactical gear march in, dragging a massive metal chain. The rattle echoes loudly through the intercom speakers into our dark room. I stand perfectly still. I don't breathe. I don't move a muscle.
"Here they come," Hemlock whispers.
I lick my dry lips, tasting salt and the copper tang of adrenaline. "Keep the lights high."
"Of course."
"They look like ghosts," I mutter.
Five women are yanked into the room. They’re dressed in these thin, cheap translucent white slips that leave nothing to the imagination.
The guards force them to stand in a line facing the one-way glass.
The harsh, unflattering light exposes every bruise, every scratch on their trembling skin.
Some of them are sobbing openly, their shoulders shaking violently.
One is just staring at the floor, her hair hanging down to hide her face.
My hand twitches at my side, my fingers curling into a tight fist as I watch a guard shove one of the girls by the back of the neck to straighten her out.
"Line them up!" the guard barks through the intercom. "Faces toward the glass!" A girl on the end whimpers. "Stop crying, or I'll give you something to cry about."
I expect the fear. I want to see the terror so I can dismiss it as boring and leave.
I step closer to the glass. From my angle, they’re mostly just silhouettes against the blinding white tiles.
I can't make out their distinct features clearly, just the way they hold themselves.
I see the weakness radiating off the first two.
Slumped shoulders, bowed heads, broken spirits.
I lean my forehead against the cold glass for a second, my breath fogging the surface before fading.
"They look half-dead already," I say, irritated.
Hemlock chuckles. "Number two is too thin, I grant you, but—"
"Number four won't last an hour," I interrupt.
Hemlock starts pointing at the women anyway, rambling about their 'pedigree', where his snatchers grabbed them from, talking like he's selling thoroughbred horses. The sound of his voice becomes a dull, buzzing background hum because my eyes suddenly lock onto the figure standing dead center.
I hold up a hand, completely silencing him without looking away from the glass.
"Shut up, Arthur," I command.
He stops mid-sentence.
"I'm looking," I say softly. "Which one is the most troublesome?"
The woman in the middle. Number Two. I realize I was looking at the wrong one before.
This one isn't looking at the floor. She isn't crying. She isn't shrinking away from the tactical guards. She’s standing with her chin tilted up, staring directly at the one-way glass. It feels like she’s looking right through the mirror and burning a hole into my fucking soul.
Her posture is rigid, an iron rod in a room full of bending reeds.
My eyes track the sharp line of her jaw, the defiant curve of her neck. My pulse starts pounding heavily in my throat. It's an echo. A perfect fucking echo of the cafe.
"She’s not crying," I say, my voice dropping an octave.
"Ah. Yes. She—"
"Look at her. She’s staring right at me." I can't look away. "Blyad, she has a spine."
I don't hesitate. The obsession flares up hot and violent. I raise a single, heavy finger and point it directly at her chest through the glass, leaving a small, oily smudge on the perfect surface.
"That one," I growl.
"Number Two?"
"Number Two. I want her delivered to my suite. Now." I feel this massive surge of dark triumph. I'm either going to break that iron spine, or I'm going to worship it. I don't give a fuck which.
Hemlock chuckles, that dry, rattling, disgusting sound. "An excellent choice, Andrei. She was... difficult during processing. I think you'll find her quite entertaining." He hits the intercom button. "Prepare Number Two for Mr. Ignatov's private quarters. Use the silk restraints."
I turn away from the glass so suddenly and violently that Hemlock actually jumps back a step, startled. The red light on the console blinks as the guards in the white room move to grab her.
"No restraints," I snap. "Just the girl."
"Andrei, she's volatile—"
"I'll handle her myself. The deal is done, Hemlock. Don't touch her again. Have your men drop her in the room and lock the door." I already feel entirely possessive. The idea of his guards putting hands on her makes me want to put a bullet in someone's kneecap.
I walk straight out of the viewing room without looking back at the glass.
I stride down the clinical steel corridor with a completely different energy.
The boredom is entirely gone. I don't give a fuck about the weapons pipeline right now.
I don't give a fuck about the masquerade in the lobby.
I only care about the defiant woman waiting for me in the dark.
I adjust my cufflinks one last time, the sharp metal click sounding exactly like a gun being cocked in the quiet hallway.
"Tell Yuri to wait at the suite door," I tell Hemlock over my shoulder. "I don't want to be disturbed."
"Understood."
"Send up the strongest whiskey you have."
I push through the heavy doors, letting the corridor seal shut behind me. I don't know who she is under the harsh lights, but I know what she is. Let's see if she's as unimpressed in the dark.