1
ROLAN
The man in the chair is crying.
Not whimpering. Crying.
Excellent.
Snot and spit spill from his ruddy, contorted face. The heaving sobs make his whole body shudder against the restraints.
The metal chair he’s tied to scrapes against the concrete floor with each convulsion. He’s been at it for eleven minutes.
Impressive. Somewhat.
Not impressive enough to save his pathetic life, though.
The warehouse is cold. It’s November in Chicago, and there’s no heating in this building. Hell, on paper this place doesn’t even exist.
Soon enough, neither will this coward.
“Viktor,” I address him calmly.
The crying gets louder. He’s shaking his head. A wet, desperate motion that sprays tears across the collar of the shirt I had Alexei cut open twenty minutes ago.
His chest is bare now. The skin is pale, mottled with goosebumps and bruises.
Viktor Mazur. Forty-three. Married, with two sons, one in university. He’s been running logistics for me at the northern port for six years.
Reliable. Invisible. A man who’s not supposed to appear on anyone’s radar, let alone mine.
Until three weeks ago, when a shipment worth four million dollars was intercepted at the dock by Customs.
Not a random inspection. A targeted operation. Someone gave them the manifest, the route, and the timing. The precision of the information narrowed the list of people who could have provided it down to four.
I’ve eliminated two already. The third is in a hospital bed, cleared by evidence I trust. That leaves only Viktor.
I take a seat across from him. The table between us is made of industrial steel and contains all the necessities for an amiable interrogation: a glass of water, untouched. A file folder, closed. A pair of pliers that Alexei produced thirty minutes ago.
The pliers are just a prop. I’ve found that the suggestion of pain is often more effective than pain itself. People’s imaginations are crueler than any tool I could use.
Usually.
“Look at me.”
When he finally does, his eyes are red and swollen. The capillaries of the left one have burst from the force of his own sobbing.
“You moved the Kuznetsov manifest to a personal server on October ninth,” I remind him. “You accessed it from a device registered to an IP address in Oak Park. Your wife’s sister lives in Oak Park. The transfer was encrypted, but not well. My people broke it in four hours.”
“Mr. Belov, please, I can explain?—”
“You can.” I fold my hands on the table. “That’s what we’re doing here. You’re explaining.”
“They threatened my family.” The words come out in arush, tumbling over each other. “My boys — they showed me pictures of my boys at school, at their apartments — they said if I didn’t?—”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I swear to God, I don’t know their names. It was a phone call. Blocked number. They knew everything. My schedule, my access level, the routes. They already had the information. They needed someone inside to confirm the timing.”
