“Where?”
“You’ll find out.”
The third uniform produces handcuffs. Real ones, not zip ties. They secure my wrists behind my back and give me a good shove.
“Sasha,” I try again. “Where is she?”
Boris’s face doesn’t change. “She’s safe. That’s all you need to know.”
They march me outside to a black SUV idling at the curb. One of the uniforms shoves me into the back seat. Boris climbs in beside me while the other three take the front and the row behind us.
Nobody speaks.
The drive takes forty minutes. We head away from central Moscow, past the industrial district, and into an area where the buildings sit abandoned, and nobody asks questions. Classic interrogation location. Off the books. No witnesses.
I’ve been in places like this. Usually, on the other side of the equation.
My hands are going numb in the cuffs. I roll my shoulders, trying to get circulation back. Boris notices but doesn’t offer to loosen them.
“Did Sasha send you?” I ask after a while.
“She’s more than you deserve,” he barks out. “Hopefully, she’s finally figured that out.”
So, she knows. Whatever she’s uncovered, she brought it to Dmitri, and now I’m about to disappear to a black-site for questioning. Standard protocol when you discover a threat inside your organization.
The SUV pulls up to a gray concrete warehouse with high windows and roll-up doors. Perfect for privacy. We park near a side entrance.
“Out,” Boris orders.
They haul me from the vehicle and march me inside. The interior makes my heart stutter.
Empty space. A concrete floor. Work lights on stands that create harsh pools of illumination. A single chair bolted to the floor in the center.
Dmitri Kozlov sits behind a folding table, looking every inch the Pakhan.
The items on the table make me understand how serious this is going to get.
Restraints in various grades. Leather straps. Zip ties. Chains. A selection of tools that could be used for construction or torture. Pliers. Hammer. Bolt cutters. Things designed to break fingers and extract truth through pain.
“Sit,” Dmitri prompts in English.
Boris shoves me toward the chair, and I do as I’m told. My hands are still cuffed behind my back, leaving me vulnerable. One of the officers produces more restraints and secures my ankles to the chair legs.
I couldn’t run even if I wanted to.
Dmitri stands and stalks around the table. He’s dressed for business in an expensive suit. The contrast between his tailored appearance and the brutal setup makes him more dangerous.
“You know why you’re here,” he says.
“I can guess.”
“Then save us time. Who hired you?”
I look at the tools on the table and work out how long I can hold out under questioning. Maybe a few hours if they go easy on me. Less if they’re creative.
But the thing about torture is that everyone breaks. The human body has limits. Pain overrides loyalty, fear, and training. I’ve seen men with twice my experience give up everything after thirty minutes with someone who knows what they’re doing.
And Boris knows what he’s doing.
