Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unrelenting, casting no shadows to hide in. No windows. No clock. Time is a blur… it could be hours since the ambush, could be days. My head throbs in rhythm with my pulse, vision blurry around the edges from the blows.
“Tough guy,eh?” one thug shouts, his voice barely audible.
The music is something else. Goddamn aggressive techno—pounding bass that vibrates through the floor, up the chair legs, into my bones. Synth stabs like knives, relentless drum machines hammering faster than my heartbeat.
It's not just noise… it's a weapon. Designed to disorient, to wear down the mind before the body breaks completely.
Two thugs—big, meaty types in black tactical gear, faces hidden behind balaclavas—take turns on me like I’m a punching bag.
One steps forward, winds up, and drives a fist into my stomach. Air explodes from my lungs in a wet grunt.
I double over as much as the ropes allow, abs contracting against the impact.
Bile rises, sharp and bitter.
The second thug follows up—uppercut to the jaw. My head snaps back, teeth clacking, fresh blood flooding my mouth from a split lip or loose tooth.
I taste copper, swallow it down.
I grit my teeth, lock my jaw. No scream. No plea. No sign of weakness. They want me broken, softened up for whoever's pulling the strings.
I know the game—interrogation 101. I’ve been there, done that. It’s not pretty but it usually works. And if it doesn’t, there’s always a bullet…
But beat the body, and typically you shatter the will. I've been here before. Worse places. I focus on the pain, let it sharpen me instead of dulling. Each punch is a reminder: survive, wait, strike back.
The first thug laughs—muffled through the mask—as he shakes out his hand. Knuckles probably bruised from my ribs. Good. "So tough, Mr. Pakhan. Well it won't last. Never fucking does."
His partner steps in—haymaker to the face. Cheekbone absorbs it, skin splitting. Warm trickle down my jaw. My brain is spinning. I spit blood onto the floor, a red splatter on white tile. The techno drowns out the sound, but they see it…
They see my defiance.
They switch again. Stomach. Face. Stomach. I lose count after ten. My left eye is swelling shut, vision halving. Ribs feel cracked, breathing shallow fire. But I don't break. I think of Eddie—his smile in the art room, his trust last night.
Caulfield. It has to be him. The property play, the political climb. Hitting me clears his path. Ambitious prick. If I get free... no,whenI get free.
The door at the far end opens—heavy, metal, scraping on hinges. The thugs pause mid-swing, fists hovering. The music continues its assault, but a new figure steps in… tailored suit, polished shoes, smug grin.
Harry Caulfield.
He waves a hand. "Turn that shit off. And stop hitting him. For now."
One thug kills the stereo. Silence crashes in, ringing in my ears. The sudden quiet is almost worse—my ragged breathing fills the room, wet and labored.
Caulfield approaches, hands in pockets, like he's strolling through a park. Mid-forties, groomed hair, politician's tan. Eyes cold as a shark.
"Viktor Volkov. The Devil of Downtown,” Caulfield says, all slime. “Not looking so devilish now, are you?"
I lift my head, meet his gaze with my good eye. Blood drips from my chin.
"Caulfield,” I say. “Knew it was you. Sloppy work, though. Mercs? Thought you'd have better. Couldn’t you get a couple of rogue FBI agents on your side?"
He laughs—smooth, practiced. The sound echoes off the high ceilings. "Right. You're the one tied to a chair. But I’m the sloppy one? But I admire the bravado. Always have. That's why I'm here… totalk."
I shift, testing the ropes. Tight. No give. "Talk? Or gloat?"
"A bit of both." He pulls a chair from the corner, sets it in front of me, sits backward like we're old pals. "See, I've got plans.Bigones. Governor's mansion first, then who knows? Senate? White House? But to get there, I need foundation. Power. Money. The untouchable kind."
"Property empire," I say, voice rough. "The galleries. My other buildings."
