Standing to my full height again, I watch the two men, trying to decide whether they’re telling the truth or not. Blood drips down one arm, falling onto the ground beneath my feet in a steady rhythm.
“Who’s running this operation? Kozlov’s not at the top. Who’s above him?”
That’s why the police haven’t moved against him, even if they do know about the underground boxing and gambling, and potential step up into sex-trafficking.
“We don’t know.” The second prisoner speaks now, his voice hoarse. “Just a name. Mr. Black.”
Mr. Black. I file that away.
“The barmaid. Is she safe?” I’m going to have to give Kozlov something. I need a name, or a place, something concrete to convince him this problem has gone away.
They exchange a glance.
“She’s already in protection,” the first one says. “The moment we went dark, our handler pulled her out. She’s gone.”
Thank fuck. Because if Kozlov got his hands on her, she’d be a dead woman.
“Name.”
A pause.
“Natasha. But it won’t do you any good. She’s in wit sec. You’ll never find her.”
I hope they’re right.
“This is going to hurt,” I say quietly. “I’ll do my best to get you out of here.”
But I can’t promise. Not with Emma’s life on the line. Then I punch them both, hard enough to knock them out cold.
Their heads loll forward, crimson liquid falling from their cut and swollen faces, dripping onto the concrete, and I step back to survey my work. They look in worse shape than they are. To anyone watching by camera, you might even think they’re already dead.
The room looks like a slaughterhouse. Blood is everywhere, though most of it’s mine, strips of my own flesh scattered across the floor that hopefully, to the cameras, look like they were torn from the bodies of our prisoners.
My wounds are already healing, the skin knitting back together with unnatural speed, but there’s enough gore to sell the story.
I wipe my hands on the front of my jeans, put my shirt back on, then head for the door.
Kozlov is waiting inside his office, a glass of amber whiskey clutched in his hand. He’s regained some color, but his eyes are still haunted when they land on me. I have no doubt he’s been watching the feed from the room. If I were in his shoes, I would have.
“Well?”
Dimitri could easily go in and check on them, finishing them off before I can stop it. But any sign that I’m overly concerned about their welfare would be a massive red flag.
I keep my voice professional, even as my healing flesh itches beneath the drying blood. “Took some convincing, but they talked.”
The metallic stench of blood coats my hands, and my bear is furious because washing it off means washing off the scent of Emma’s arousal. He demands we return to her once we’re clean and find a way to coat ourselves in her scent again.
“And?”
Pursing my lips, pretending I don’t want to be the one to deliver bad news, I give him the barest of information.
“They had a contact working at your club. She spotted the woman you’ve been keeping in the east wing. Apparently, someone’s paying big money to get her back, and they’re here for the cash. Nothing more.”
Kozlov goes very still. “Who?”
I pause, pretending to be reluctant about sharing the intel, and sigh as Dimitri rounds the corner.
“Some barmaid named Natasha.”
