“Fuck!” he snarled when the call clicked over to voicemail. He waited for the recorded message to finish before yelling into the receiver. “Dale! I hope you’re just taking a shower or something, man. If you get this message, get Sissy and get out of the house. Once you’re hell and gone,callme on this number. I’ll explain everything.” He hung up and immediately tried the call again.
“Do you know where he lives?” Grace asked as the line rang and rang. She’d already slipped back into her borrowed T-shirt and jeans and was in the process of pulling on socks.
“Yeah.” He nodded, slamming shut the burner when the call to Dale clicked over to voicemail again. “But it’s possible the Feds beat Orpheus there. And then what? If we show up and it’s the FBI questioning Dale and Sissy and not the Russian, do we just turn you over to them?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Because the alternative is that Orpheus has beaten my colleagues there and your friends are sitting ducks. We can’t take that chance. We can’t risk them. So, how far is it?”
He wasn’t surprised she was willing to throw away her own freedom and safety for two people she’d never met. But that didn’t make it any easier to say, “We can be there in five minutes.”
26
56 Crimson Valley Ave,
Traverse City, Michigan
In interrogation, there was an old saying.Violence perceived is violence achieved.
While Pavel appreciated the sentiment, hefarpreferredactualviolence to the perception of it. It was so incredibly satisfying to look into a man’s eyes—or a woman’s—and watch pain squeeze their pupils down to pinpoints.
Such a visceral experience. Primal even.
Nothing else compared.
Perhaps sex, he thought.If it’s with the right woman. One who understands pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin.
But I digress…
Turned out Dale Carlson was married. A boon since the old goat had been tough-as-nails so far, unwilling to give up Major Jackson and Agent Beacham’s whereabouts even though Pavel had broken his nose, busted his lip, and clipped him in the eye hard enough to open up a gash near his eyebrow.
If pain doesn’t make the grizzled old bastard talk,he thought as he walked toward the opposite end of the kitchen table,then I’ll have to find another way.
The phone lying atop the table jangled with life once again. And the sound had Mrs. Carlson grunting and screaming against the duct tape Pavel had slapped over her mouth. Tears trekked down her reddened face. And the wooden dining chair he’d tied her to scraped against the tile floor as she rocked forward in a bid to bring her useless mouth closer to the ringing phone.
What did she think? That the person on the other end of the call would hear her pig-like squeals?
Funny how people lost the ability to reason when they were desperate. When the life of the person they loved best was on the line. And he had no doubt Mrs. Carlson loved her husband best. The way she’d wailed against the duct tape every time he’d cracked his fist into Mr. Carlson’s wrinkled face told him everything he needed to know about the married couple.
Of course, there wasalsothat sepia-toned picture hanging in the hallway. The one showing the two of them in their wedding attire, so fresh-faced and dewy looking. He’d guess they’d been little more than teenagers when they’d tied the knot and had since spent their entire lives together.
Now they will die together. It’s poetic when you stop to think about it.
Whistling, he made a show of flipping the knife he’d taken from the block on the counter and then neatly catching it by the tip of the blade. Over and over he tossed it and caught it. Tossed it and caught it. Watching the yellow glow of the overhead light glint menacingly against the metal. And smiling at Mr. Carlson who, bound as tightly as his wife to a chair, sat stoically, his bloodshot eyes taking in every revolution even as blood from the cut on his brow dripped from his stubby eyelashes.
Stopping behind Mrs. Carlson’s chair, Pavel grabbed her forehead and wrenched back her head. Her weepy eyes were cornflower blue and filled with terror when she stared up at him. Her whimper sounded like a kitten being kicked when he pressed the blade to her throat.
“No!” Dale roared that one word so loudly it reminded Pavel of a canon shot. The old man struggled against his restraints until he made his chair hop. “Don’t you touch her, you sorry sonofabitch!”
“Ah.” Pavel chuckled. “So youdopossess vocal cords. That’s good.” He pressed the knife tighter against Mrs. Carlson’s wrinkled throat and watched, fascinated, as a line of bright red blood oozed from her flesh onto the blade.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Bishop, of course, probably looking for an update.Always so impatient.He ignored the call and kept his tone conversational as he cocked his head at Dale. “You will tell me where I can find Hunter Jackson. And you will do that because you honor your wife more than you honor your own life. Or the life of Major Jackson.”
Dale’s ruined face crumpled as tears joined the blood on his cheeks. “Yes.” He nodded vehemently, his thin, white hair fluttering. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just…let Sissy go.”
“Give me the address of where I will find the major,” Pavel countered. “And I promise to remove the knife from your wife’s delicate throat.”
Dale rattled off an address. Pavel easily committed it to memory. “It’s very close,” Dale added. “South of here.”
“Good.” Pavel nodded. “Thank you. Now, for my end of the bargain.”
