“Yes, sir,” he says, then, “The biker’s in the very back.” He tips his chin toward the room where we brought Alina just a few nights ago. Petrov stands outside the door, rolling his shoulders like he’s been straining them.
“You sure you want to do this now?” he asks. “His mouth is still running. If you take your time, he might decide to say more important things.”
“I don’t have time to wait,” I tell him and slide the bolt.
Inside, the steel chair is bolted to the slab under a cone of white light, same as every other confession I’ve taken down here. The kid in the chair is trying to figure out how to look older and braver than he is. Mid-twenties if I had to guess. His leather jacket has been cut off him. It hangs on a nail by the door. The patch that bought him this chair is partially stickingout of Petrov’s front pants pocket, a worthless symbol now that it’s been stripped. The kid’s face is already a mess with his cheek split, lip busted, and one eye darkening. I can smell the fear on him right away.
“Name?” I demand.
His throat works. “Kyle.”
“I assume you know who we are,” I say.
He nods. The nod stutters. “Russians. Morozov.”
“That’s right.” I step into the light with him and watch his pupils try to shrink. “Since you know who we are, then you know we can be efficient. You say something that helps me, I check it out, and you keep breathing. Or we can go the other route. You talk about loyalty to men who I’m guessing would sell your bike for parts if it bought them a night of safety and I take pieces off you until your tune changes.”
“I don’t know?—”
“Stop,” I say. It’s a quiet word he listens to because there are still reflexes left in young men that tell them when the person in front of them will make them hurt. I pick up a wrench from the tray. Tools are a universal language, and I’m fluent in them all. I let the weight adjust in my hand. The kid’s gaze is glued to it the whole time.
“Where did our other guns go?” I ask. “Who took them out and to where? How many pallets moved and when?”
Kyle licks blood off his lip. “Another warehouse,” he says. “Near the water. After the…” He swallows. “After the mess, Popeye said he wanted to consolidate. Two pallets went out last night under a tarp in the van going somewhere to the south. I’m a new patch. I don’t see the list.”
“South,” I repeat, unimpressed. “South where?”
He shakes his head along with his greasy blond hair. He thinks he can protect something if he pretends not to know itsname. I crouch down so that my eyes are level with his. The wound in my side claws at my restraint. I ignore it.
“Look at me,” I say. He does even though he doesn’t want to. “You think your brothers are coming to open this door behind me? You think they’ll hear the story you tell yourself about loyalty and decide you’re worth dying for? They won’t. They’ll spend your dues on a new carburetor and tell your girl and your mother that you were a traitor, so they’ll forgive them for leaving you behind. You need to talk now because the only thing in this room that is gentle is the time I’m giving you to make a better decision.”
“I can’t,” Kyle whispers. It’s the words of a boy too stupid to realize all that’s left now is to try to save himself.
“You can,” I say, and swing the wrench into the chair just beside his knee.
The sound is a metal scream that dies fast. The kid jolts like I sent electricity through him. That’ll come later if I need it. I hope I won’t.
“Your radio words,” I say as I brush my thumb once against the wrench handle. “River. Smoke. Tell me what they mean.”
He swallows. “River is move. Smoke is… disappear.”
“Good,” I say, and this time the wrench lands on the hard meat above his kneecap with the unpleasant thunk of bone because pain sharpens memory.
He screams. Men always sound younger the first time they break. His veins rise in his neck like ropes. The chains clink and don’t let him leave the chair his body wants to escape. I let the noise fill the room then settle.
“You have ten seconds,” I tell him when he finally runs out of air. “Use them to say something that convinces me not to take a piece you’ll miss.”
“Please—”
“One.”
“Please!”
“Two.”
“Okay!” he sobs. “Bayonne. The other guns are in a moving and storage warehouse in Bayonne! Trucks with vegetables come in and out. They move them a few at a time from there to a cold storage place down the road on First Street.” He’s not making any sense at first, but I think we may be getting somewhere.
“Clarify your nonsense quickly.”
