Page 34 of The Pakhan’s Heir

Rikki smiles and cracks his knuckles. He walks right up to him and punches him hard across the jaw. Blood and sweat fly off in the direction his head jerks. Rikki gives him a couple more hard punches until I tell him to stop. He stops, taking a half-step back. My brother glares at him with a sort of fury in his eyes. The monster in him is awake. If I let him, he’ll beat him to death and hardly break a sweat.

“So, I guess this is your first interrogation,” I say to the poor bastard as he spits blood on the floor. “The way this goes is simple. I ask you a question and you answer it. Truthfully. Every question you decide not to answer, we get to take turns taking it out on your hide.” I glance back at Rikki, who still has that hungry look in his eye. “My brother hits hard, but he can hit harder, and you don’t even want to know what I’ll do to you if you get me pissed enough.”

“You’re not… going to break me…” he says. “You have to let me go. I can’t… you can’t hold me here…”

“Let you…?” I almost laugh at that. “You really think we’re going to let you go? Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?”

He looks up at me again. “You… You’re Alexandr Molotov.”

That sends a chill of confirmation up my spine. “Look at that. You do know me. And if you know who I am, then I’ve gotta assume that you know who my brothers and I represent. That means you have to have some understanding of the shitstorm you just bought yourself. ”

He just stares with his shaky good eye. The stench of fear on him is as thick as pea soup.

“In case you were hit a little too hard in the head,” I growl at him, “let me remind you that this is not a negotiation. We will not bargain with you. We will not call anyone for ransom or get anyone else involved to speak up for what’s left of your pathetic little life. We will beat and torture you until you answer our questions—all of our questions—to our satisfaction.”

I stand up and take off my jacket, tossing it across the room. “Now I know I said that I’d like to keep this short and sweet, but between you and me, friend, I’ve got nothing but time on my hands. We can all take turns beating the shit out of you if you feel like you need to make this harder for yourself.”

He sniffles, peering up at me from behind a rapidly swelling forehead. “I… I didn’t take anything.” His words are sounding garbled and wet. He spits again. “I’m not going to tell anyone⁠—”

“Hmm.” I glance back at Rikki and Gedeon. “Did that sound like a name to you?”

“It most certainly did not,” Gedeon says. Rikki just stares, the amber lighting making his eyes look black with rage.

“That is a shame because I thought you understood the rules.” I smile at him, then I take a few steps to the side. “Rikki, if you could jog his memory for me? That would be great.”

“Gladly,” my brother growls. He hits him again and again, punching his face until the sound turns wet and crunchy. Our guest finally starts screaming. “Okay! Okay! I’ll talk! Fuck!”

Rikki stops and walks behind me. Gedeon tosses him a rag to wipe his knuckles.

I watch as this man spits again and a couple of teeth fly out of his mouth and into the dirt. One side of his face looks crushed, the cheekbone caving in on itself. He’s breathing hard. Loud, tortured gasps fill the air.

“I’m waiting,” I say.

He takes another second, then, “My name is Omar. Omar Sta-Stasinsky. I’m Irkutsk. A… a six. Um… uh…”

I cross my arms as he tries to work the words out of his broken jaw.

“A shesh… Uh, ugh, Sheshyorky.”

I hear Rikki snicker behind me. I look “Omar” over. Nearly bare arms save a couple of tattoos. A faded bird on his shoulder and what looks like a playing card on his forearm. “You’re a six. So you say.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Where’s your ink?” I ask him in Russian.

He stares at me, his mouth moving noiselessly. I slap him.

“Your ink,” I say in English. “Where. Is. Your. Ink?”

“I, uh, I don’t… I’m new.”

Both Gedeon and Rikki laugh out loud. “You hear that?” I say. “He said he’s new. He’s so new that he doesn’t even speak Russian. He doesn’t have any Russian ink. And he’s supposed to be Irkutsk. Slavik’s men are slipping if they’re letting little shits like him in.”

Omar’s face goes pale and the red and purple bruises stand out around his eye and around his mouth. “He… He was the one who sent me,” he says. “Sl-Slavik. He just told me to find out… find out what was in the warehouse. He, he never told me… I mean, he never said⁠—”

I pull my gun out of the holster and shoot him in the head. His head jerks back as a single smoking hole appears in the center of his head, then he slumps forward.

“You didn’t have to kill him so soon,” said Rikki. “I was just getting warmed up.”

I holster my gun and shrug. “Lying piece of dogshit. Staring us right in the face and he can’t even tell us who really sent him.” Rikki walks up beside me, looking at Omar’s dead body.

“What if Slavik really sent him?”