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Just like I wanted.

I use his momentum against him, curling my hands around his, snapping both of his thumbs and yanking down. The fucker flops to his ass, writhing, a wheezing squeal of pain barely clearing his swollen throat. Or maybe he cannot make a sound because of the pain?

Crouching, his broken thumbs still in my grasp, I lean in close. “Do you speak Russian? English?”

“F-fuck you, bitch!” he chokes out in broken English.

“English then.”

Ciro sniffs, looming over us like an omen of death, only his grin visible through the shadows.

The man shudders as he looks up, immediately looking back down, shaken.

“And more scared of him than me. Foolish. Tell me…where are you from? Who are you?”

“My nem eez…fuck you!”

I let out a sigh, smiling and nodding. Right before I jam my hand into his crotch, gripping him by the balls and pressing my dagger against his bulge. He sits up straight, whimpering.

“Listen closely to me. I will castrate you if you do not tell me,” I whisper, my voice hollow and frigid. “Where?”

“M-Morocco.”

“Anything else?”

“They will kill!” he forces out, anger and fear filling his face.

“So will he.” I retort, standing. Waving a hand in dismissal, I walk away. Behind me, I hear the snap of his neck.

“He might have said more.”

“Doesn’t matter. We have a location. That means our fears might be true. We will find someone higher up and interrogate them next. Make sure it is the Mocro.” But I really just want to get home.

We stop the car around the corner, approaching on foot. When we reach the house, I realize just how wrong everything really is. The guard station up front is empty. The gate hangs open.

Ciro readies his weapon, taking a tactical stance and nodding. With a slight shake of my head, I signal him forward, to go in first. It’s the smart thing to do. He is stronger, and I am a better shot.

Inside, the grounds are a mess.

Fires burn here and there, cars smoldering.

No sign of a single Volk.

We creep through the smoke and fog of the early morning, silently scanning the outer buildings. Nothing. Even when we head up the main drive, there’s very little going on. The barracks seem to be vacant. No one’s on the premises.

So we circle inward, toward the main house. Where things are much, much worse. The whole place is trashed, windows broken, bullet holes and grenade blasts.

Then I see bodies. Piles of them. The invaders. Our men.

“They had a standoff here,” Ciro whispers, his eyes tight, focused. He is like ice. And I am grateful. I need him to be my rock.

“We need to get inside,” I start, but a clatter stops us in our tracks. Ciro flicks his fingers to the left and rushes for cover.

Right as a half dozen men in dark coats come around the corner, muttering in low voices. What I can make out is not Russian. Each of them carries a bag or a pile of junk, poking through the wreckage as they walk.

I charge without hesitation.

“Hey!” One of the men looks up in time to take my knife in his throat.