He snaps his head to the side, playing along, and spits blood that was already in his mouth.
“Who sent you?” I ask loudly, for the cameras.
He stays silent.
I lift the pliers back to my own arm this time, gripping a strip of skin near my elbow. The pain is easier to manage when I’m expecting it, but it still makes my vision swim as I tear. More blood. More flesh hitting the floor.
The second prisoner, the one I thought was unconscious, starts to retch, which works well for the cameras as it looks like I’m doing it to his friend, who’s thrashing hard to get away from me as my blood spurts all over the place.
“Jesus Christ.” He gasps, fully awake now, his eyes fixed on my arm. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You’d think he’d be a little more grateful. It’s me or him.
“Talk.” I growl, loud enough for the microphones. Then, quieter, “Give me something. Names. Locations. Anything.”
The first one breaks. Maybe it’s the sight of a man tearing off his own skin without flinching. Maybe it’s the realization that I’m his only way out of this basement alive, and that I might just be crazy enough to be telling the truth. Either way, the words come fast.
“We got a tip,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “Someone working undercover at the fights. Said Kozlov was trafficking women through his operation.”
I grunt and throw another fake punch, making sure to hit the meat of his shoulder where it’ll bruise but won’t do real damage.
“We guessed that much. But who told you where to go?”
His lips remain firmly shut, that is, until I grip his friend’s throat in my hand and start to squeeze.
“Keep talking.”
His friend’s arms flail, hands tugging at mine, but he may as well be trying to bend a tree. As his face turns a deep puce color, he claws at my hand, nails digging in, trying in vain to pry open my grip.
“There’s a barmaid at the club. The one on Fifth.”
Once he starts speaking, I loosen my hold a little and allow his friend to breathe, but I don’t let go. Merely wait.
“She owed us a favour from way back. We had her keeping an eye out for anything that might be connected, and then a couple of days ago, she spotted someone. A missing person.”
I frown at him. “Then why not come in, lights and sirens, if this is about rescuing a missing person?”
The two men look at each other, a flicker of guilt in their eyes.
“Some rich guy’s been offering serious reward money to anyone who can find her.”
And cops get medals, maybe, but not bonuses. That’s why they’re here off the books. They wanted to cash in.
“So, you decided to skip the official channels, grab the girl, and collect the reward.”
His jaw tightens. “We thought we could do it faster, get the reward and be heroes. We didn’t have enough for a warrant, and if we went after Kozlov officially and fucked it up...” He shakes his head. “They’ve been after him for years. Our careers would be over.”
They.
There are probably multiple agencies keeping an eye on him, looking for a slip-up big enough that they can pounce and take down his entire operation. A report of a missing girl in his bar isn’t serious enough for them to risk spooking him.
“But you didn’t.”
I hate to point out the obvious. They didn’t save anyone, and they’re lucky to still be alive.
“Yeah.” He spits blood onto the concrete. “You fucked it up for us.”
Amused, I lean in closer, pretending to examine his wounds. “And now, I’m your only way out of here.”
