Chapter 44
Alexei
Stanislav looks worse than when I left him.
Two days in a windowless room stripped away his remaining composure.
He stares up with bloodshot eyes and cracked lips.
The heavy metal restraints leave his wrists raw and bleeding.
Pulling a metal chair across the concrete, I sit across him, positioned close enough that our knees touch.
"Good morning, Stanislav," I say in a soft tone. "Did you sleep well?"
He flinches at the sound of my voice, yet keeps his mouth shut.
"I need a few more details from you," I continue.
"Some things just don't add up." I unbutton my suit jacket and fold it over the back of my chair.
Next, I roll my shirt sleeves up to my elbows, taking my time so he watches my hands.
"You mentioned twelve men on rotation at the Maryino warehouse.
My scouts counted eighteen. Tell me why. "
"I might have been wrong," he stammers. "I wasn't always present for every shift…"
"We also have the keypad code," I interrupt. "Seven-nine-four-two-one-one. My men tested it on the door. It failed."
All the color drains from his face. "Maybe Dato changed the numbers after I left…"
"That's a possibility," I agree, tilting my head. "Or perhaps you gave me a fake code on purpose."
"I didn't do that," he pleads. "I swear to you. I gave you everything I know."
"We'll come back to that issue in a minute." I pull my phone from my pocket. "First, I want to show you something interesting."
I dial Dato’s private number and put the device on speaker, setting the phone on the metal table resting between us. The line rings twice before connecting. "Who is this?" Dato demands. His voice sounds tense and suspicious.
"I'm calling about your brother," I answer.
Heavy silence fills the line. "What about him?" Dato finally asks.
"He's still alive. For now, at least. I thought you might want to speak with him." I turn the screen toward Stanislav and give him a nod to proceed.
"Dato," Stanislav chokes out. "Dato, it's me. I'm so…"
"You stupid, weak little shit," Dato hisses through the speaker.
Stanislav’s mouth hangs open in shock. No words come out.
"You let them take you." Dato goes on in a rampage. "You are a helpless child; a fucking lamb meant for the slaughterhouse. I should have known you'd be useless to my operation. I should have left you back in Tbilisi with the women and the old men where you belong."
"Dato, please listen to me, I didn't mean to…"
"Did you talk to them?" Dato interrupts. "Did you give them any of my secrets?"
Stanislav shifts his panicked gaze to me. I raise an eyebrow to challenge him.
"No," Stanislav whispers into the microphone. "I didn't say a word."
"You'd better keep your mouth shut. If I find out you talked, I'll gut you myself.
Do you hear me? I don't care if we share the same blood.
You should have died before you let them capture you.
A real man would take his own life. You are just sitting there pissing your pants while waiting for a rescue. "
Silent tears spill down Stanislav’s bruised cheeks.
"You're a massive embarrassment to me. You shame our entire family, and you shame Levan. You have always been soft and useless. I should let Romanov keep you in his basement. I'd have one less mouth to feed and one less weakness to protect."
I reach over and end the call. The concrete room falls silent. The only sound left is Stanislav’s ragged, wet breathing.
"Well," I say, sliding the phone back into my pocket. "That was quite a touching family reunion, don’t you think?"
Stanislav starts shaking. His entire body convulses with deep sobs, and I’m certain as fuck that he isn’t shivering from the cold air. "He's just scared," Stanislav weeps. "He didn't mean those awful things…"
"He meant every single word, and you know it," I say, leaning forward to crowd his space. "But his insults don't interest me right now. I'm much more interested in what you just told your brother over the phone."
His red eyes widen in panic.
"You told him you didn't give us any information," I offer, producing a dark smile. "That means you're still trying to protect his operation. You lied for a man who just called you weak and useless. You covered for a brother who wished you were dead."
"I was only trying to…"
"If you're still protecting him, then some of the details you gave me were false." I push my chair back, getting on my feet. "Let's figure out which parts."
I walk over to a small metal table resting against the far wall. Viktor left a silver tray there for me. It holds a short blade, a ceramic bowl filled with coarse rock salt, and a clean white towel. Stanislav stares at the tray, his breath hitching in his throat.
"Was the Maryino warehouse code real?" I ask with a false calm.
"Yes, I swear that one was real!"
"What about the weapons cache hidden in Lyublino? Unit two-fourteen. Is that real?"
"Yes, I promise."
"The restaurant in Taganka," I continue. "Suliko. You claimed the guns were stashed in the wine cellar."
He hesitates for a fraction of a second. I pick up the knife from the tray. The short blade holds an edge sharp enough to shave skin.
"Stanislav," I warn.
"There are weapons hidden in that building," he blurts out, the words spilling from his mouth in a frantic rush.
"They aren't in the wine cellar. There's a cold storage room located behind the main kitchen.
The false wall is in there. I gave you the wrong room to make your men waste their time searching. It would give Dato a chance to…"
He pauses.
"It would give him a chance to do what?" I press. "Move the weapons out the back door? Warn his guards about the raid?"
He gives a miserable nod.
"Tell me what else you lied about."
"The money courier," Stanislav confesses. "Zurab. I told you his route begins at Maryino at seven in the morning. He actually starts at the Butovo apartment complex. He doesn't ride a motorcycle. He drives a plain white van."
"Keep going."
"Levan’s private compound. I said he kept twenty guards on the property. The real number is closer to forty."
I set the sharp knife back onto the silver tray, drumming my fingers against the metal edge. "You lied about the security count at Levan’s compound. If I sent a strike team based on your bad information, my men would walk straight into an ambush. Half of my soldiers would end up dead in the dirt."
"I only wanted to protect…."
"You wanted to protect the same man who just wished for your death," I state.
Stanislav clamps his mouth shut.
I grab the knife from the tray. "Give me your arm."
"Please, don't do this," he begs. "I gave you the truth this time. I corrected all my lies…"
"Give me your arm right now. Or I will cut off something you can't grow back."
He extends his trembling arm, his muscles shaking with so much force I have to wrap my hand around his wrist to hold the limb steady in the air.
Pressing the cold blade against the soft inside of his forearm, I drag the steel across his flesh to draw a shallow line.
The skin parts open, and dark blood wells up in a long red stripe.
He hisses in pain through his clenched teeth. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks.
"That cut is for the fake warehouse code," I tell him, slicing his skin a second time. The new wound runs parallel to the first mark. I use the exact same pressure and length. "That one is for the restaurant lie."
Carving a third line into his arm, I murmur. "That is for lying about the courier." I drag the blade down a fourth time. "That is for Levan's compound."
Four clean lines mark his pale skin. Thick blood runs down his forearm and drips off his elbow to puddle on the concrete floor. I toss the bloody knife onto the tray, then grab the heavy ceramic bowl. "Now we need to clean out those fresh wounds."
His panicked eyes lock onto the white crystals. "No, please don't do that…"
"I am putting salt in your wounds, Stanislav," I say, meeting his gaze. "I need you to understand my punishments are always literal."
Grabbing a handful of coarse rock salt. I press the sharp crystals deep into the first bleeding cut.
The terrible sound escaping his mouth goes far beyond a normal scream.
A high and broken screech tears from the back of his throat, his body thrashing in the metal chair.
But the heavy restraints hold him firm. His boots kick at the concrete floor, his free hand clawing at the metal armrest.
I grind the salt deeper into the muscle with my thumb. The rough crystals bite into his raw flesh. "The warehouse code," I yell over his screams. "Did you lie about anything else there?"
"No!" he shrieks, "I told you the truth! I swear to God…"
I shove another handful of salt into the second cut. His throat goes hoarse from the screaming. Spit flies from his open mouth, and snot runs down his flushed face in thick lines.
"The restaurant," I demand. "Are there any other hidden details you kept from me?"
"No, that was everything! The weapons are in the cold storage room! That is the only lie I told…"
I pack a healthy amount of salt into the third cut. Stanislav belts into loud, heaving sobs that rattle the heavy chair against the floor. "The courier," I press. "What else?"
"He keeps a gun hidden under the driver's seat," Stanislav gasps out. "I left that part out. Please stop hurting me. I'm telling you every single thing in my head."
I move to the fourth cut, pressing the final handful of salt into the wound with agonizing slowness.
I let him feel every sharp grain settling deep into the torn muscle.
His loud screams eventually die down to pathetic whimpers, his exhausted head dropping forward toward his chest. A messy mixture of drool, tears, and blood drips down onto his lap.