“Here.” I add another hundred. “Now, it’s your choice whether you spend the next half-hour on a smoke break or unconscious in the closet.”
He snatches the cash and sprints for the door.
I head for the elevators, knife still pressed against my thigh. I ride up to the ninth floor and emerge into a silent corridor.
I walk down to stand outside #906 and press my palm over the peephole. Then I knock.
Footsteps approach from inside. A shadow crosses the gap beneath the door. “Who is it?”
I don’t answer. Just knock again.
“Fuck off, man.”
I pound my fist against the door.
“You fuckin’ serious…?” The lock clicks. The door cracks open.
I slam my shoulder into it before he can react. The chain rips from the wall with a metallic shriek. Petya trips backward, and I’m on him in half a second. I kick the door shut behind me and throw the deadbolt.
He tries to scramble away, but I grab him by the collar and slam him against the wall. The knife finds his throat before he can scream. I press the flat of the blade against his windpipe. Not cutting, not yet.
Simply promising.
“Make a sound without permission,” I growl, “and it’ll be your last.”
His eyes bulge in abject terror.
I lean in close enough to smell the fear-sweat on him. “Let’s have a conversation about what happens when you put your hands on things that don’t belong to you.”
“What—what the fuck, man?!” he cries out.
“Didn’t I just tell you not to fucking talk yet?” I push the knife in hard enough to bite through the first layer of skin. A drop of ruby-red blood leaks out and trickles down the blade. “Who sent you?”
He wheezes, eyes watering. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wrong answer.” I press harder. More drops of blood join the first. “Try again.”
“I was just—just supposed to bring her in. That’s all!”
“Bring her where?”
His eyes dart to from side to side. “I don’t know, man. I swear! They just gave me an address and told me to?—”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
Silence. He gulps.
I ease the pressure on his throat just enough for him to breathe. “Last chance, Petya. Who. Sent. You?”
He coughs, sputtering. “Aleksei, okay? He said to bring the girl to him. Didn’t say why. I don’t ask questions.”
Of course. Of fucking course it’s Aleksei. Just like I suspected.
“What else did he tell you?”
“Nothing! I swear to God, nothing else. Just an address and a photo of the girl. That’s it.”
I study his face, looking for the lie. But all I see is fear. Undeniable, piss-your-pants terror. He’s telling the truth. Or at least, the truth as he knows it.
