Twenty-Seven
Lukas
“That’s fantastic news,” Bastien says over the phone. “I’ll fly down.”
I raise a finger apologetically, signaling I’ll just be another minute, and get a nod of acceptance.
Turning my back, I shift my phone to my other ear. “I’m not expecting you to make the trip. It’s going to be a very simple, quiet affair.”
“Nonsense. My closest friend is getting married. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Well, it would be good to see you. It’s been too long.”
“Life keeps us apart, doesn’t it?” Bastien chuckles, then sobers. “How are you getting on with the Volkovs?”
“Making progress,” I say flatly. “I know who I’m targeting. Reaching him is proving challenging.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, I want to do it myself.” My lip curls in anger. “They made it personal.”
“Oh? What don’t I know?”
“They sent men after Amelia, so let’s say I’m incentivized.”
“They did what?” Bastien growls down the phone. “They think they can come after anyone in my organization? Say the word, I’ll call in the whole of Sentinel and we’ll kick those fuckers back to Russia.”
“Last we spoke, you were trying to avoid a war.”
“That was before they targeted your woman.”
My woman. Yes, that’s what she is.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll manage it for now,” I tell him.
“It’s your call. I won’t get in the way when it’s personal.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Good.” The line clicks dead, Bastien ending the call with his usual disdain for pleasantries.
I slip my phone into my pocket and turn back. “Sorry for the delay.”
“It’s fine,” Oleg Petrov mutters, his voice hoarse.
“No really, my apologies. So unprofessional.” I run my fingers over the options on the steel tray, trying to decide which one to use next. “It’s just I’m getting married in ten days. You know how it is, right? So much to arrange.”
“Congratulations,” he chokes out.
“Thank you.” I pick up the hacksaw, tilting it to reflect the light as I think of how positive I feel these days. And it’s all due to her. “I’m truly looking forward to it. It’s galling that your organization almost took my Amelia from me.”
Petrov swallows hard, the whites of his eyes showing as he stares at my choice. His toes scratch at the floor as he dangles from the meat hook by his bound hands. Two of his fingers jut out at unnatural angles, making him look like a broken puppet.
It’s been a busy hour, and one I’ve very much enjoyed, if I’m honest.
Usually, I don’t—torture isn’t really my thing—but this is the man who ordered the two boyeviki to Amelia’s apartment. Every cut, every scream, every small bone broken is a salve on my rage when I think how close they got to her.
“Nothing to say?” I ask, gesturing aimlessly with the hacksaw. “You weren’t this quiet a few minutes ago.”
No, he was screaming.
His lower lip wobbles uncontrollably as his eyes track my every movement. It seems he doesn’t like the idea of the hacksaw. But on second thought, neither do I. Lots of uses, but it does get very messy. I return it to the tray.
“Amelia was quieter last night too,” I muse, my thoughts never far from my Little Stray.
“Quieter than she usually is, anyway.” Maybe the hammer.
Crude, but effective. “Of course, it could’ve been because I gagged her, but even so, she really gets into it when my fingers are inside her, rubbing that spot… ”
Petrov is looking at me, not at the tool I’m holding, like he’s more focused on my words than what’s about to happen.
The little bastard. How dare he?
I grab his jaw, gripping tight, forcing him to look at me. “Are you thinking about my fiancée?”
“What?” His eyes flick away and back again, wild and crazed. “I wasn’t! I swear!”
“I don’t believe you.” I drop the hammer, grabbing the screwdriver and ramming it into his thigh. He yells, but not loudly enough. “Nobody thinks about her but me,” I growl, pulling it out and stabbing him in the other leg. So long as I don’t hit the femoral artery, I can keep doing this a while.
“I promise!” he gasps through the pain. “I promise I wasn’t! I was barely listening, I swear!”
“That’s a lie too, isn’t it?”
“No!” he whimpers. “Why would I lie to you?”
I pause. “That’s a good point. Why would you?”
He flinches as I pull out the screwdriver and throw it back on the tray, then he sags in relief.
I tilt my head, regarding him. Blood runs freely down his legs. Quite a lot of it. I don’t want him bleeding out before I’m done with him, so now we’re on a clock. I have to move things on. “Do you know, I still don’t believe you. I think you are lying.”
“I swear…” He coughs, jerking against his bindings. “…I swear I’m not.”
“All right. Dmitri Koval, then.” I pick up the long-nose pliers this time, clicking them open and shut before his face. “Where do I find him?”
“I’ve told you everything,” he says quickly. “I don’t know his location.”
“You can’t have told me everything,” I point out reasonably. “We’ve barely been at it an hour.”
Taking a fistful of his hair, I hold him still, then use the long nose of the pliers to clamp down on his eyelid.
“Please, no,” he whimpers. “Please.”
I pull slowly. Gradual is best; anticipation lets the mind do as much work as the pain.
Sure enough, he screams sooner than I would expect.
“I’m just a boyevik!” he garbles.
That’s a disappointing answer, and I don’t let up.
“Once!” he squeals. “I met him once!”
Slowly, his eyelid stretches and tears, the pliers slipping in the blood.
“Do better, or it’s going to be a long day,” I tell him, as I switch to his other eye, preparing to begin again. “I have plans this evening.”
“No! Please!” He clenches his eye tight, but that only makes it easier.
I ignore him, poking the eyelid out and twisting the pliers as I pull.
“Pavel Makarov!” he screams.
“Another boyevik,” I reply, “and I’ve met him already.” Serranto put me onto him, and he wasn’t at all helpful, save for some low-ranking names. “Last chance.”
“Don’t you understand?” he gasps. “If I tell you the names of Koval’s brigadiry, I’m as good as dead!”
I sigh. “Why do you all insist on using that excuse? Don’t you understand I’m going to kill you anyway?”
He stares at me, sobbing. “Then… then… why should I tell you anything?”
“A good question,” I concede, dropping the bloody pliers onto the tray and picking up the corkscrew instead. “If you want an incentive, I hear a quick death is preferable to a slow one.”
“Get me the fuck down, or I swear I’ll break every bone in your body before I put a bullet in your skull.”
Vadim Sorokin is a tall, dangerous man. Less dangerous dangling from a girder with a chain around his neck and his hands bound.
“You recruited Serranto,” I say, using the tip of my karambit to remove a fleck of dried blood from beneath my nail. No matter how much I scrub, I always seem to miss bits, and I want to keep myself clean for Amelia. “You’re the brigadir he worked beneath.”
Sorokin scowls. “Since you know so much, you’ll know what happens to stupid fucks like you. I’ll find out where you live. I’ll find out who you work for. I’ll fucking rip—”
“Enough.” I hold my karambit before his face to emphasize the point.
“You don’t have the balls,” he sneers. “You wouldn’t dare touch me. I’m not going to tell you a goddamn thing, and your only choice will be to run.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” I say, bored. “Which one of us is chained up? Which one of us is bleeding? Now, we’re going to have a nice chat about Dmitri Koval, and you’re going to—”
“Don’t you know who I am?” Sorokin grinds out. “I’m not telling you shit. Your only option is to run.”
I sigh and shake my head. “I’m getting married in four days,” I tell him. “I don’t really want to be doing this right now. I’d much rather be spending the time with my beautiful fiancée.”
“You’re a dead man!” he yells, spit flying from his lips. “You’re fucking dead, you hear me? Not just you, but everyone you know!”
“Charming, but there are rules. Even scum like you have a sense of honor.”
“I don’t give a fuck about honor or rules!
And now I know you have a fiancée.” His eyes narrow, boring into me.
“My men will find her. They’re going to take turns with her.
Are you still going to marry her when you come back home and find out what they’ve done?
Or do you want to get me the fuck down!”
I grab his ear, pulling it away from the side of his head, and then cut it off.
Cartilage is tough and even though my knife is sharp, it still takes a minute.
I’m not careful, and the result isn’t a clean slice but a jagged tear.
Sorokin curses in Russian the whole time, his voice going surprisingly high for such a big man.
I drop it on the floor and wait for him to stop gibbering. “Of all the things you could’ve said, threatening Amelia was the most foolish.”
He laughs through his pain, blood running down the side of his neck. “You shouldn’t have shared her name, you mudak. My men will enjoy your shlyukha—”
“I don’t speak Russian,” I say coldly, my rage building past the point of control.
“Whore-slut!” He spits at me. “That’s all she’ll be when we’re done with her! Married or not, we’re going to find her! We’ll leave her begging for more Russian cock, and—”
He gurgles, eyes going wide, staring down at his chest at the blood streaming down it. His throat gapes in a red crescent, like a macabre smile, but it’s not enough to sate my rage. I bury my blade in his eyeball, and keep going until the hilt jams against his socket.
He twitches in his chains, then goes still.
Only then does my fury abate.
Shit.
I step back, taking in a long, shuddering breath.
Sorokin is about as dead as it’s possible to be, and I didn’t get a single thing out of him.
It’s my own damn fault. I’m Lukas Van Wyk. I don’t lose control.
But the way he was talking about Amelia… the images he left in my mind.
I scowl at his corpse. I’d fucking kill him again if I could. Would Haynes consider me truly insane if I had him look into necromancy?
I sigh, and turn away. Now I have a body to clean up, traces to eliminate, blood to get out of my clothes. And for what?