"I'm sorry." The words come out slurred, distorted by his swelling lip. "God, Misha, I'm sorry. I never meant for it to gothis far. I thought I could control it, limit the damage, but once I was in—"
"Where is she?"
"I don't know. Sergei never told me where he was taking her. He compartmentalized everything—I only knew what I needed to know to do my part."
I study his face, looking for signs of deception. But all I see is fear and pain and the desperate hope that his confession might buy him mercy.
It won't.
"What else do you know? Safe houses, contacts, anything about his operation in Los Angeles."
"He has a compound. Industrial district, south side. That's where he runs most of his operations from. I don't know the exact address, but I can—"
"You'll give Alexei everything you know. Every conversation, every piece of information, every detail you can remember." I move to the table in the corner, where a selection of tools has been laid out. Pliers. A hammer. A knife with a serrated edge. "And then you're going to answer for what you've done."
Lenkov's eyes widen as he sees the tools. "Misha, please. I told you everything. I cooperated. You don't have to—"
"Twenty-two years." I pick up the knife, turning it over in my hands. "Twenty-two years you worked for my family. You were here when my parents died. You helped me rebuild everything after. And all that time, you were just waiting for the right offer."
"It wasn't like that. I was loyal—"
"You were bought." I cross back to him, the knife glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. "The only question was the price."
"Please." Tears are streaming down his face now, mixing with the blood. "Please, Misha. I have a daughter. Grandchildren. They don't know anything about this. They're innocent."
"So was Bianca."
I grab his cuffed hands and force them flat against his thigh. He struggles, but he's an old man and I'm in the prime of my strength, fueled by rage that has been building since I found that ruined safe room.
"This is for Petrov," I say, and I drive the knife through his left hand, pinning it to his leg.
His scream echoes off the concrete walls, raw and animal. Blood wells up around the blade, dark and thick.
"This is for Anna." I twist the knife, and he screams again, his whole body convulsing against the restraints.
"And this—" I pull the knife free, ignoring his sobs of agony. "This is for Bianca."
I draw the blade across his throat in one clean motion.
The blood comes in a rush, hot and dark, spraying across the concrete floor. Lenkov makes a gurgling sound, his eyes wide with shock and terror, his hands clutching uselessly at his neck. The light fades from his eyes in seconds—faster than he deserves, really, but I don't have time for a prolonged execution.
I have a woman to rescue.
I wipe the knife clean on his shirt and set it back on the table. Then I key my radio.
"Alexei. Lenkov is dealt with. Pull whatever information you got from him before I arrived and start mapping Sergei's compound in Los Angeles."
"Already working on it. Dmitri just arrived—he's ready to mobilize."
"Good. We move as soon as we have a plan."
I hang up and look down at Lenkov's body, slumped in the chair, his blood pooling around the drain in the floor. Twenty-two years. All those years of service, of trust, of loyalty I thought was real.
All of it a lie.
I feel nothing. Not satisfaction, not regret, not even the grim pleasure I usually take in eliminating enemies. Just a cold, hollow emptiness where emotion should be.
Bianca is still out there. Sergei still has her. And until I get her back, nothing else matters.
