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The warehouse smells like rust and old blood, the kind that never quite washes out of concrete. Dim lights buzz overhead, casting long shadows across the row of kneeling men. Three of them. Sweat beads on their foreheads despite the chill seeping through the metal walls.
Their leader, some cocky mid-level dealer who rebuffed every warning my men gave him, kneels in the center, zip-tied, mouth already split and bleeding from the welcome I gave him earlier.
I don’t raise my voice. I never have to.
“You sold product on my streets,” I say, circling them slowly, boots echoing. “You paid no tax, asked no permission, and you thought I wouldn’t notice?”
The leader tries to speak. I don’t let him. My boot connects with his ribs. The loud crack is satisfying. He folds, gasping.
I crouch in front of him, forearms resting on my thighs, voice low enough that only he hears. “You had one job. Stay out of my way. You chose wrong.”
He looks up, eyes glassy with pain and the dawning realization that there’s no clever exit from this room.
I stand. Nod once to Viktor.
A shot rings out, a single round through the back of the skull. The body slumps forward. The other two flinch, but they don’t dare move. I gesture to the two men waiting in the shadows.
“Stake,” I say.
They drag the corpse to the center of the lot behind the warehouse. I take the butcher knife handed to me and take satisfaction in severing his head from the rest of his body.
The metal pole is already driven into the ground. It takes them less than ten minutes to finish the job. When they’re done, the head sits high on the spike, eyes still open, mouth slack in surprise. The floodlights catch the blood dripping down the metal in slow, dark rivulets.
A message doesn’t need words when the visual is this clear.
I wipe my hands on a rag Viktor hands me. “Finish the rest.”
Then I walk back to my black SUV, slide into the driver’s seat, and pull out my phone. Scroll to the private number saved under “Finder.” It rings twice.
“Mr. Popov,” the investigator answers, voice careful.
“Progress?”
A pause. “Still nothing solid. Hotel footage is useless, she kept her face turned or shadowed the whole time. No social-media hits matching the description and approximate age, yet.”
My jaw tightens. I stare out the tinted window at the dark stretch of industrial road rolling past.
“Double,” I say.
“Sir?”
“I’ll double your pay. Whatever it takes, find her.”
Another beat of silence. “Understood. I’ll need—”
“Everything you need. You have it. Just get me a name.”
I end the call before he can respond.
The phone stays in my hand, screen dark. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes for a second. Reaching for her shawl that I’ve been carrying around with me, I bring it to my nose, getting my daily hit of her—citrus, and something uniquely her.
I open my eyes again. The city lights streak past in gold and red smears.
I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what strings I have to pull. I will find her.
And when I do, she’s never slipping away again.
Chapter Six
