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The only constant is that he never stays.
Lorcan
“Let’s play a game.”
Viktor Bratnov starts to hyperventilate the moment the words leave my lips.
I stare down at the puddle caused by the leaky pipe in the ceiling. Drip, drip, dripping on the concrete. I always give my captives a little breather after I spout something vague. That little stretch of silence gives their imagination time to go wild. Because sometimes, fantasy can be even worse than reality.
Those sometimes are never with me.
A heavy sigh comes from my lungs, then I stand up and close the distance between me and my toolbox. I don’t need to look at Viktor to know his eyes are following me around the damp, dark room like a hawk. Because watching is all that he can do, considering I’ve tied him to one of the stone pillars that keep the Quinn Ventures building standing.
I bide my time, running my fingers over each tool, plucking some from the box and holding them up to the dim glow from the small lamp in the corner.
When I hold up the pliers, a very satisfying shriek escapes him.
“Pliers it is,” I drawl.
“No,” he gargles, choking on the puddle of blood swamping the back of his throat. Then he barks something in Russian.
“I haven’t got that far onDuolingo, I’m afraid,” I muse, polishing the blade of my pliers with the rag I took out of his mouth a few moments earlier. “I’ll explain the rules of the game, although even a lobotomized loaf like you will get the gist pretty quickly.”
More gargling, more writhing his back against the curve of the pillar.
Ah, the soundtrack of the Tunnels. A complex network of large, cavernous rooms underneath the city, where skyscrapers lay their foundations and the council has their sewage system. My grandfather made a deal with the mayor at the time, and the Quinn’s were given the sole key to the network. Buried well below the streets of the city and surrounded in meters-thick concrete, it’s the perfect place to conduct the more…violentside of the business.
The Tunnels have been losing their charm lately. Perhaps because I’m down here fourteen hours a day at the moment, either extracting information from anyone remotely connected to the Bratnovs, or using them as a punching bag.
It’s getting tiresome. The perils of war, I suppose.
But there’s nothing boring about having Viktor Bratnov, Igor Bratnov’s youngest son, in my captivity. No, the excitement brews below the surface of my skin, and I have to breathe slow and steady to stop my hands trembling with the excitement.
This is it.
War is coming to an end.
“The game is called Give or Take. Igiveyou the chance to answer a question truthfully, and if you don’t, Itakesomething from you.” I snip the pliers for emphasis.
My routine is so well practiced that it feels like I’ve been running a one-man play on Broadway for years. I close the gap between us and crouch down, ready for Act Two.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, Viktor,” I mutter in his bloodied ear. I hope my face shows the concern I’m trying to convey, instead of just looking constipated. “So, I’ll give you one freebie question, okay? A test run. Nod if you understand.”
Under the mop of damp blond hair, he gives me a small dip of his head. The satisfaction I feel is almost overwhelming. Viktor and I aren’t so different, you know. We were both born with a surname that gave us total power, without ever having to do anything to earn it. When our families still had their pacts, we’d cross paths a few times a year. I’d see his yacht on the Med in the summers, hear his rugged laugh on the other side of the wall in Panama’s most esteemed whorehouse.
The only difference between us now is that I have no choice but to step up to the plate. “First question,” I growl. “Where is your father hiding?”
Viktor gurgles, stretching his lips to reveal the gummy gap where I knocked out three of his teeth a few hours earlier. He closes his swollen eyes, stiffens his back, and then stares at me with the composure of a man that has trained for moments like this his whole life. His lips curl backward and then he spits just left of my Gucci loafer. “Fuck yourself,” he hisses. Without giving it a second thought, I slam his head back against the concrete pillar. There’s a sharp intake of breath and then a sickening crack before his head rolls around his neck.
I slap his bloodied cheek and mutter, “For fucks sake.”
“He’s out cold.”
I turn to see Antoin at the doorway, sleeves of his shirt rolled up and hands in his suit pockets. “No shit, Sherlock,” I grumble back.
“Maybe we should send in the medic. We really need him alive. He’s the only direct link to Bratnov we have right now.”
My gaze locks on Antoin’s. “No medic,” I snarl, stalking past him and out into the dimly lit corridor. “He’ll be fine in a bit.”
