“Sir, please. You must… please listen. I never try to steal from your brother. It was all great misunderstanding. I will explain. I?—”
“So, as you can see, your unfortunate subject lies on the table of the rack. You tie his arms above him and his feet below him, usually with chains,” I interrupted that damn begging. “Those chains are attached to rollers. The rack is an interesting interrogation device. You ask a question, like, ‘Why would you steal from the most powerful Russian in Texas?’” I continued, eyes boring into Oleg’s.
“I… I-I-I-”
“And when you get a bullshit answer such as this, you let the rollers move,” I told Juvie as I flipped a switch then gently nudged one of the sliding buttons on the remote.
Slowly, the rollers eased into motion, pulling the chains at Oleg’s wrists and ankles. This was not the hand-cranked device of centuries ago. Nah, this worked more smoothly, almost silently—except for the eventual noise from its unfortunate victim—but the outcome was still the same. Juvie’s eyes widened as Oleg began yowling. The pressure exerted by the rack was devastating on human muscles and joints. Stretching became dislocation, which soon gave way to excruciating separation. I smiled as I saw the moment Juvie recognized exactly what the end game would look like. I didn’t realize a brown-skinned nigga could turn green like that—not because of the way Oleg was now screaming. Juvie didn’t give a damn about that. It was the promise of what was to come.
“Donotpull that nigga apart right now. You ain’t gave me no warning or nothing. You know I'm a young man of delicate sensibilities,” Juvie protested.
It wasn’t Juvie’s or even Oleg’s responses that had my lips curving into an evil smile. It was the horrified, wide-eyed gaze and rapid breathing of Igor Petrov.
“Juvie, look,” I directed.
He recovered quickly enough to play along. “I’on know, OG. This nigga looking pretty emotional and reactionary to me right now,” he mocked.
I dialed up the stress on Oleg’s body, slightly amused by the unexpected symphony of his crying mixed with the unnatural creaks and pops coming from his body. Finally, his screaming faded into the silence of unconsciousness. I nodded at Timur who immediately carried a chair to my location. I sat, making a production of toggling the remote so that any slight movement would begin Igor’s introduction to the treatment Oleg had just received.
“We meet again,” I greeted calmly.
“There is no need for this. Even if I had not been contracted, someone would have taken the job—” Igor immediately jumped to trying to reason with me. I was long past that point.
“But someone didn't. You did. I just need to know the name of that contractor,” I cut in.
His mouth tightened. “You know that I cannot.”
I set the rollers on their lowest setting, knowing the gradual pull would loosen his tongue as it loosened his body.
His stubborn quiet gave way to soft whimpers then hasty, mumbled pleas. The strain of the procedure was evident from the purple blooming under his skin as his muscles stretched and tendons tore. He bit back a scream as I asked again, “Who contracted you?”
His mouth tightened as he diverted his gaze. Oh. That's how he wanted to play this? I relaxed into the chair and nudged the control. He tried to stay unaffected.
He failed.
“Fuckingmudak,” Igor wept as his knees dislocated.
My finger stopped, moved again, this time on the other side. The pull woke Oleg abruptly.
“Please, please—” he began.
“I'm tired of all this damn whining,” I announced, accelerating the rollers.
Oleg's disintegration was rapid but brutal. It wasn't the dislocated shoulders, knees, and ankles, the strained muscles, the tendons and hamstrings pulled past what their maker had intended. Nah, it was the agonizingly slow separation of his spinal cord. This time, I wasn't even sure he was dead when his eyes closed. I did know that he'd never move voluntarily again. I looked at Igor. He gulped, tried to put on a game face.
“Fine, I did it. But you are conceited, no? So sure this is about you, about the blessing of your Russian heritage. But thatmelkaya suchkahad problems before you. She has enemies, enemies who want to finish a job that was unfortunately not?—”
“Unfortunately, huh?” I asked before chuckling softly. “Remember that. But let's say it was enemies from her past. Her enemies don't get to hire Russian intelligence like you. Who were they working with?”
His eyes widened.Bingo. He thought he'd fed me just enough; he wasn't prepared to answer the real question.
“I am a man with a price. Anyone could pay it. What makes you think there is someone else?” he evaded.
But the fear in his eyes betrayed him.
I pushed the button and listened to cartilage and tissue tear. Blood sprayed the plastic-covered walls and floors that held his tortured screams.
I stopped before his limbs were torn completely off, smiling at his ragged breathing.
