And I think of Gabriella. I imagine her face gripped with fear as she hid, worried not just for her own life, but the life growing inside her.
I imagine a version where I protect her, fire back at the assassins, drive them off like the cowards they are. But I also imagine a version in which I don’t reach her in time, a version in which I’m greeted by the sight of her still form lying among glass and blood.
I push it from my thoughts as best I can, staring out at the city in the far distance.
Bogdan speaks again. “Alright, I can’t keep it to myself any longer. I caught one.”
“Caught one what?”
“From the shooting. Tracked down the car. Two drivers. One’s long gone, fled the country. The other…”
“Alive?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in the rearview mirror. “For now.”
“Good. I’m in the mood for a conversation.”
We turn off the paved road onto gravel. The chain-link fence ahead is open. Past it, the lot is dotted with dirty puddles. The warehouse is at the edge of the Calumet River, an old freight depot covered in rust, most of it tagged with fadedgraffiti.
Bogdan kills the lights, the engine clicking as it cools. We step out into the chilly air, the sky a gray overcast.
Inside is all concrete and dampness. Bogdan leads me through the halls to a door at the very end.
“He’s inside,” Bogdan says. “And all yours.”
He nods to the door, and I push it open. In the center of the dingy room is a chair with a single bulb dangling overhead. A man is zip-tied to it—his wrist, ankles, and chest lashed to the slats. His lip is split, a purple bruise blooming on his cheek. One eye is nearly swollen shut.
I step closer. The man is barely able to lift his head to look at me.
“Seems like you had a little fun with him before I got here.”
Bogdan shrugs. “Wanted to soften him up a bit. Asshole had a real mouth on him.”
Bogdan flips the light switch near the door. The bulb stutters, then hums, casting a sickly white light over the man.
“He was in the passenger seat,” Bogdan says. “So he’s the one who fired the shots. Like I said, driver’s long gone. Car was found torched. Plates stolen.”
I circle the man once slowly. My hands are clasped behind my back. The man’s boots scrape the concrete as he shifts in some pathetic attempt to escape.
He’s not going anywhere.
“He talk?” I ask.
“Nothing I didn’t already know. Plenty of insults. I think he’s learned his lesson about speaking out of turn, however.”
I crouch in front of him. “You shot at the wrong woman, asshole.”
He licks his lips, then coughs a bit. He’s choosing his next words very, very carefully. “I didn’t know who was inside. It wasn’t personal. Just business.”
“It’s personal now,” I say.
His eyes flash with fear. He’s not stupid—he can sense he’s in over his head.
“Who hired you?” I ask.
He doesn’t say anything, instead looking away. I’ve done enough of these kinds of interrogations to know this means he’s trying to think up a plausible lie.
Bogdan senses the same thing, stepping in without instruction and driving a fist into his ribs—nice and precise. The sound is a dull thud, the chair skidding back a bit. Air rushes out of the man’s lungs, and I give him a few moments to catch his wheezing breath.
