25. Cupid #2
“Put on gloves,” Scalpel says, handing me a pair. “You don’t know where his dick has been. Better to be safe.”
“Ah, fuck!” Oaks groans, turning his head to face the wall. “I hate castration almost as much as skinning.”
“It could be worse,” Ruger says, shrugging. “Cupid could flay the skin off his penis instead. That’s always a fun one. What’s that technique called again, Scalpel?”
“Penile degloving,” Scalpel answers, disinfecting his medical equipment like he knows he may need to intervene at some point to keep our prisoner alive long enough to get answers.
Artem swallows loudly, his eyes shifting between me and the castration tool in my hand.
I give him a minute to inspect his future before I tell my crew, “Strip him.”
Our captive panics when Crypt moves forward, taking hold of his pants. He flails his body from the hook he’s restrained to, cursing and yelling at us to stay away from him.
Crypt grunts when Artem kicks him, but it doesn’t stop him from yanking our prisoner’s pants and boxers down his legs. When Artem is naked from the waist down, Crypt steps back.
Ruger cocks his head, squinting. “I didn’t know they came that small. No wonder he’s an angry prick. Cupid, you may want tail-docking scissors instead. The emasculator may be too big for this job.”
We all laugh, even the Mercy Ravens.
“Can we just cut off his dick already?” Oaks asks, doing his best not to get sick. “I want to get home to Muscles at a decent hour.”
“Fine by me. Grab his legs,” I say, stepping forward.
Ruger and Crypt each grab one of his legs, anchoring Artem in place. He struggles to break free, but cannot.
I’ve got the emasculator’s jaws around his pathetic cock when Artem cries, “Wait. Wait. Wait. I’ll tell you everything. Please, don’t hurt me.”
Scalpel snickers. “Wow. He broke fast.”
Agreed. It’s amazing how swiftly a man will flip on his people when you threaten to castrate him.
“Start talking,” I say, keeping the tool in place.
“His name is Kirill Volkov,” Artem says, licking his lips nervously. “He’s in charge of the Northern Rocky Mountain Region to the border of Wyoming.”
There’s typing sounds coming through the laptop as Chase works.
“Got him. Kirill Volkov. Age fifty-eight. From Saint Petersburg, Russia. Did time in Black Dolphin Prison for a plethora of horrendous crimes similar to what the Black Market Railroad is known for. No mention of him after he left prison, meaning he’s been able to avoid authorities. ”
My hand tightens around the emasculator. “Where is he?”
Sweat builds at Artem’s temples. “He moves—a lot—preferring to stay in his van to handle most of the business.”
“He’s not telling the whole truth,” Gauge says through the laptop. “Most traffickers have a holding area or an unfamiliar vehicle they use for moving the people they take. It’s too risky to use the same vehicle they use for abducting the women to transport them to a new location.”
“You heard him. Where does he hold the women he abducts?”
Artem trembles with fear, a tear tracking down his cheek. “Please don’t hurt my brother.”
Too late. His brother is a dead man walking, much like himself.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I growl in warning.
“The older industrial park in Fort Collins. Trucks roll into a pole building to pick up the women before transporting them to buyers or slave dens.”
“Which building?”
“An old one on the outskirts, right near the highway. Looks dilapidated from the outside.”
“There are dozens of abandoned warehouses and pole buildings in that area,” Atlas says. “We need a better idea of the location for my men to go in without alerting them of our presence. We can’t give them an opportunity to escape.”
“Give more details or I’ll start snipping.”
“The red one!” he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth as he breaks down into harsh sobs. “It has a rusted roof. Please! Don’t cut me.”
I look over my shoulder at Atlas and his men on the laptop. “Is that enough?”
Atlas nods, giving me the green light.
Looking back at Artem, my fingers twitch on the handle of the tool.
“Wait!” Artem says quickly, sensing he’s about to lose his third leg—micro as it is. “Your girl, she wasn’t our usual target or on a client’s wish list, but she was suggested to Kirill.”
That gets everyone’s attention—even Oaks comes out of hiding from the corner to stand beside me.
I bare my teeth at Artem. “What do you mean she was suggested? Who suggested her?”
“And why was she suggested?” Oaks asks.
“I don’t know who or why. All I know is that one of Kirill’s scouts recommended her. He never shared the details, he rarely does. Mikhail and I do the grunt work—Kirill runs the operation for this region.”
Some sick fuck put a target on my woman’s back.
My vision turns red. “Which scout? How many are there?”
“Hard to say. There’s several of them and the lineup is always changing.”
“What do you mean the lineup changes? They get canned?” Oaks asks.
“нет, worse. Scouts serve one purpose—to find the perfect girl that fits a client’s wish list. They’re given a limited time to fill the order and bring Kirill a profile.
If they don’t fill an order, they wind up being marked as inventory or as game for Kirill’s men to have fun with until he or she is dead.
Positions are always open. For all I know, the scout may no longer be alive. ”
Fuck. How the hell am I going to figure out who’s behind this?
“I don’t get it,” Ruger says, scratching his head. “Why become a scout with such high risks?”
“Money,” Artem says simply. “Kirill pays well. He looks for desperate people eager to make a quick buck. They agree, not realizing there’s no out unless Kirill grants it. Some who aged out of the slave dens and show potential are used as scouts as well, like Kirill’s favorite—Riley.”
Cipher scoffs. “Squeezing everything you can out of a victim, aren’t you?”
“Is not my way, but Kirill’s. He calls the shots—I obey them. The alternative is not good.”
My mind is running wild with this new knowledge, but I ask, “Who’s Riley?”
“She’s Kirill’s girl. He preferred her when he’d visit the slave dens and took her as his own. Riley’s job is to find new scouts and is the point of contact to reach Kirill—they can’t contact him directly.”
Smart. Kirill knows exactly what to do to make him harder to catch.
“How is she recruiting new scouts?” Atlas asks.
“Riley’s an attractive woman. Men are naturally drawn to her, but stupid young college kids are tripping over themselves to please her. She finds those who are broke and tells them she knows a way they can make a lot of cash. If they’re interested, she brings them to Kirill.”
Atlas presses for more. “How is she meeting these college kids? Does she hang out at the college bars? Work on campus?”
“нет. She’s enrolled at CSU.”
Bingo!
“Atlas? Did you hear that?”
“Sure did.”
Cipher cracks his knuckles before his fingers dance across the keyboard of his laptop. “On it.”
Chase snorts through the speaker of the other laptop. “You’re on it? Please. I’m already in the campus database, searching for her.”
“Should we make things interesting, Chase?” Cipher grins, his eyes never leaving his laptop. “First to identify the scout wins a bottle of Jack.”
Chase makes a sour face. “It’s bourbon or nothing.”
“Deal.” The two hackers get to work, their excessive tapping echoing around the stone walls.
“Anything else?” I ask Artem.
“No,” Artem pants, possibly realizing his end is near. “Please, no torture. If I am to die, just kill me.”
I get right in his face, giving him no other place to look but at me. “Did you give the people you abducted a choice?”
He sobs, knowing he has no defense or way out.
“That’s what I thought.” My hand clamps down on the handle.
Artem’s screams fill the room, echoing off the stone walls as he slowly and painfully bleeds out.