2
VIKTOR
“Please… please, Viktor. Don’t do this…” His begging is interrupted by coughing and spurts of blood splatter his lips and dribble down his chin.
I’m looking down at him, crumpled into a shaky mess on the dirty warehouse floor. The knuckles on my fists are throbbing and covered with blood, but the adrenaline has kicked in hard. If I thought he’d last another hour, I’d happily continue beating him. The beast in me is enjoying every minute of the carnage.
I think this has always been part of my functional disfunction. The monster inside me would always rather be fucking or fighting. Right now, I’d rather beat this son of a bitch for at least an hour more.
But looking at what’s left of his face, his smashed nose, his swollen eyes, the broken fingers on his right hand, all twisted in different directions, the dirt and blood all over his T-shirt and jeans… I think one well-placed kick to the head would probably do the trick and end the night. Too bad slow torture isn’t my thing.
I snicker and say, “You really want your last words on earth to be begging? Shame.”
He lifts his head and peers up at me through his swollen lids. His fat and bloodied bottom lip quivers. “You have to believe me. I… I was forced. Th–they were going to send me to prison. Brother,please.” He speaks the last words in Russian, trying to appeal to my sense of brotherhood.
“When I report back to Nikolai,” I tell him, “I’m going to have to tell him that you died begging and sniveling. I doubt he’ll be surprised. Men without the backbone to stand up to the enemy when they come calling don’t deserve a seat at our table.”
His swollen face scrunches and he starts to sob. “Please… Viktor… Mercy. Have mercy on me.”
I reach into my waistband and pull out my gun. “I am. This is me at my most merciful, Pavel.Do svidaniya.”
The second I say my final goodbye to him, he starts to wail. The sound echoes around me like an agonized banshee. I pull the trigger.
His head jerks back violently as the bullet enters his forehead. What I could see of the shine of life in his eyes dulls and he falls back into a slump on the floor.
I stand and watch for a few moments as blood pools under him, the thought of putting another bullet in him crossing my mind, if for no other reason than to give myself a little more satisfaction. Nikolai asked for a single bullet to the head after beating the shit out of him. But my distaste for his whining and begging makes me want to kill him again.
I turn and holster my weapon, taking some breaths as I walk out of the warehouse. Breathing centers me after a job. It’s like a switch needs to be thrown inside my mind to stop the animal from raging.
Outside, it’s already getting cold. The weather’s starting to turn, and I can almost feel the coming of ice and snow in the breeze. It’s still months before the winter comes through in earnest, but some years it comes a little early. I hope people behave through the winter. Doing this sort of job when it’s cold out is a kind of torture that I’ve never looked forward to.
Time to call Nikolai. I dial his number and put the phone up to my ear, my eyes drifting toward the chain link fence surrounding the property. This building is due to be demolished in the morning. A perfect burial for a rat.
“Yes?” he answers.
“It’s done,” I tell him and start to hang up.
“Good,” he responds. “Come to my place. I have something to discuss with you.”
I hesitate, but only because I have plans. “Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight. Is that a problem?”
“No, sir. I’m on my way.”
I hang up and walk the rest of the way to my car. Tonight of all nights. I hope whatever’s on his mind is short.
It probably will be, what with it being the anniversary of Nikita’s death. Maybe this conversation he wants to have has something to do with that?
I get in my car and grab an old rag that’s been sitting on my floor for a while to wipe the blood from my knuckles. I’ll have to wash my hands when I get to his house. Nikita used to joke about leaving provisions in the car for nights like this—baby wipes, hand sanitizer, etc. I’ve always been opposed to that. At the time, I thought it sounded weak to have a wash-up kit waiting for you in the car after beating someone’s ass.
Now, as I peer down at the tiny red crevices in my knuckles, I wonder a little about that logic.“It’s not weak to be smart,”he used to say. It was something that he got from Teddy or one of their ilk, I think.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, so I pull it out. Speak of the devil. I put it on speaker and set it on the passenger’s seat.
“Teddy,” I say. “What’s the word for tonight?”
“We’re a go,” he says, his gravelly voice filling my car. “Just like I said it would be. Unanimous vote. Nicki was one of ours, too.”
