Page 51 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Dimitri

Torturing a man for information is nothing like bicycling.

After shaking out my hand from the jarring impact of knuckles against bone, I crack my neck to release the tension from my right shoulder and turn back to Viktor Volkevich, who is slumped in the chair.

Bright red falls one droplet at a time from his nose onto his chest, getting lost in matted hair and older, dried blood.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He and I have only been at this for two hours, but it is rather cold in this meat locker. Fluids dry and freeze quicker—that is why it is a favored, if somewhat stereotypical, place for interrogations such as this. That and the drain conveniently built into the floor.

My breath puffs out in front of my mouth, almost making me smile. I have missed the cold. Winter in New Jersey just is not as bitter or as long as it is in Russia, and the summers here are much too hot. I feel very energized.

I can taste victory.

In the end, getting Viktor to the butcher shop was a relatively simple matter.

I disposed of his driver, donned my disguise, and picked him up at the usual time in the usual place outside the casino.

He got right into the car with his guards—men who are now dead, though they are still sluggishly bleeding out on the floor at our feet.

Viktor flinched when I sliced their throats, but has given their bodies little attention since.

Ever the cold, aloof Pakhan , believing his life means so much more than the men who keep it safe.

“This guy’s a real piece of fuckin’ work. The more Wes finds on his cell, the more I want to get in there and knock a few teeth loose myself,” James growls, low and dangerous.

“Drugs, prostitution, gun running… there aren’t many illegal pots Viktor isn’t sticking his finger in,” Wesley adds. “There’s stuff on here about a shipment, too. Encoded. Probably human trafficking, if I had a guess.”

They are both angry and ready to punish him for his crimes, but James will not leave his lookout post to join me in here, and Wesley will continue searching Viktor’s devices for information.

We each have our roles.

Mine is delivering retribution using my fists and inspiring fear.

For a man who has ostensibly ordered his men to do much, much worse, Viktor Volkevich is surprisingly weak-willed when it comes to pain.

He was sobbing before I even began—all I did was slice his Achilles tendons so he could not run.

He is a coward. A coward who preys on those less powerful.

A coward who now stinks of fear and piss.

We need that password, but Viktor knows that he will only live long enough to give it to me, and he is stalling.

But he will not last much longer. In fact, he will give me what I want after just a few more hits, and then I will end this.

I have done this enough times to know when every man will break, though it has been many years since I have been forced to use this particular skill.

What is it the Americans say? It is a thing you never forget, like bicycling? Another senseless idiom. Torturing a man for information is nothing like bicycling.

I examine the knuckles of my right hand.

They are bruised and have some small cuts, since I never wear brass knuckles for interrogations—I need information, and men with no teeth find it difficult to enunciate—but overall are faring far better than Viktor’s face.

I survey the damage to his cosmetically enhanced features as I sink into a low crouch to be in his line of sight.

His nose is not just broken; it is crushed.

His orbital bone is cracked in three places, his lip is split, and several of his teeth are loose.

Blood spills from his nose and his mouth.

Several fingers are broken and missing fingernails.

Burn marks litter his bare chest, though his skin has taken on a pallid tone from the cold.

Yes, he will break soon. He really is nothing like the men of his title in Russia. I have been through worse myself.

“Please,” he moans, barely lifting his head. One of his eyes has begun to swell shut. “No more.”

“The password,” I remind him of what will make the pain stop.

He spits blood, aiming for the floor but only managing to spill it into his own lap. “Let me go and I will tell you.”

I scratch at the stubble on my jaw, regarding him.

The silence stretches for long enough that he chances a look up, almost childlike with hope that I might believe his lie.

The expression freezes on his face as I wander back towards the stainless-steel rolling table, where my instruments sit in small pools of blood.

“No!” he hisses.

I lift the pliers from the table.

“No! No more!”

“The password.”

“It is of no use to you! Just some documents.”

Ever since we began, and I asked for the password, he has been trying to convince me that I do not want it. Even if I knew nothing else, this would convince me that I do. “The password,” I repeat calmly.

“Why?” he wails. “Why? It is nothing. Nothing!”

I cross my arms. As the interrogator, it is never a good idea to answer any questions. Information passes only one way; it is not an exchange. I must maintain the upper hand .

“There are no stupid Pakhans ,” I begin, knowing that he will fill in the rest of the phrase.

Only smart Pakhans and dead men. “You are a dead man, Viktor. No one will rescue you. No one knows you are here, and your men are dead. How quickly and painfully you die is the only thing within your power. I can make it last for days. I can draw out your agony until you remember nothing but pain. Or, I can put a bullet in your brain and end your sorry life quickly. Either way, you will die.”

Hopelessness twists his features, deepening the lines between his brows and making him appear much older. “There are many others… They will avenge me,” he whispers, his teeth stained with red. It is not the first time he has made this threat, but he no longer believes in its power.

“And we will kill them, too. No one will ever find your body.”

When a tear slips from beneath his closed eyelid, freezing on its path downward, I know I have succeeded. One final threat should do it. I had better make it a good one.

“Give me the password, or I will skin you. Starting with your cock.”

He flinches, trying to draw his thighs together to protect his tiny prick. “Moscow1980, one word, capital M, with an exclamation mark at the end.”

The Moscow Olympics? Interesting. Easy enough for a man of his age to remember, I suppose. I do not bother asking if Wesley heard, and a second later, he proves my confidence in him is well earned, as always.

“Checking… Yes. I’m in!”

Relief and triumph surge in my veins, making my hands shake.

“Not so stupid, in the end,” I approve. I replace the pliers on the table and select one of my favored knives.

Even with cold blood moving more slowly, it does not take long for a person to bleed out.

We should have plenty of time to dispose of the body before day breaks.

“At least tell me who sent you,” he wheezes, eyeing the knife with a glint of resignation and determination in his eye. He will not fight me, but he will meet his end with a modicum of dignity. “I thought at first Gorchev or perhaps Wozniak, but you are no bratok .”

I spin the knife in my grip, watching him watch the blade flash in the eerie blue-toned fluorescent lights. On a whim, I lie, “Kyle.”

All at once, his entire demeanor shifts. Rage boils in his expression. “What?” he hisses, pulling against his ties. “He is alive?! That little… I gave him everything ! This is how he repays me? I should have known that son of a whore would betray me like this!”

“Guess we know Kyle was acting outside the family business. Sounds like they don’t even know he’s alive, much less what he took from them. Good one, Big D.”

He continues to thrash against his bonds, switching to Russian to curse Kyle and his entire line. Then he begins cursing me, struggling so viciously that his chair nearly tips.

“Whoa,” Wesley’s voice is so soft I must strain to hear him over the stream of Russian threats. “There’s… a lot on here. I’m going to… erm, need some time to sort it all out.” Wesley is not unshakable, but I have not heard his voice this strained and distinctly uncomfortable in some time.

“What is it? Anything we might still need him alive for?”

He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his tone has hardened to something nearly unrecognizable. “No, it’s…” his voice breaks, and he clears it again. “Little girls. I… this is horrifying. Let’s just say that he deserves the most painful death in your repertoire, Dimitri.”

Just as well. I am done asking questions, particularly as Viktor has begun the bartering phase. “Whatever he is paying you, it is nothing compared to what I will pay you. Tell me where he is, tell me where my drive is, help me kill that—”

Generally, I prefer more of a fight, but even under these less-than-satisfying circumstances, there is no greater rush of power than holding another man’s life in your hands and deciding to take it.

It is sick, perhaps, and made even worse by a lack of remorse.

I do not know if James and Wesley experience the same, or if it is just me. It is not something we discuss.

His hate-filled speech dissolves into screams as I slide the knife into his shoulder in just the spot that severs the carotid artery.

Because I am a man of my word, it is the quick death I promised in exchange for the information, though I no longer believe he deserves it.

I am splattered with red by the unavoidable spray, and Viktor is unconscious in five seconds, asleep as his life’s blood runs a staining river down his chest, to the floor, and creeps towards the drain.

Once he is dead, I feel nothing. The act of killing him arouses nothing more than the satisfaction of successfully completing our mission. He was Bratva scum. And one day, if I am killed similarly, my killer should feel no remorse because I am not better than him—just much harder to kill.

By the time I have finished cleaning his blood down the drain and rinsing away the bleach, much of the adrenaline has worn off, allowing every painful sensation in my body to return.

My right hand aches fiercely, a dull throb that I cannot shake away, and the area on my abdomen where one of Viktor’s guards got in a good hit before I slit his throat is sore and bruised.

I wash away the bloodstains on my bare skin as best I can in the large sink just outside the meat freezer, then discard my clothing in favor of something clean from the go-bag in my trunk for the drive home.

Wesley returned to the house to start processing the USB on his larger computer ages ago, and James is disposing of the pieces of the body, so I will be driving myself.

My mind is elsewhere for the entire ride, filled with blood and nauseating concerns that have nothing to do with the life I took tonight.

It is done.

Kyle may be alive, but he was not working with his uncle, so there is no reason to believe that the remaining Volkeviches know anything about Nicole. We have unlocked the USB. It is only a matter of time before we will unravel its mysteries, and once we do, she can…

What? Leave?

No.

She speaks of her job with longing. She tries to hide her boredom from me. She enjoys the pleasure I give and take, but it is not enough. She needs more.

I wish I could think of a way to be enough. To make her want to stay. I would give her anything—everything—except the only thing she wants.

Freedom.

What if this is our last night?

When I arrive home, I move silently through the house to the backyard. It is very late, and all the lights are out in the pool house. Nicole must be sleeping—that is good. She sleeps deeply, and I need to shower and clean up the wounds on my hand before she sees me.

I stalk towards the building, feeling wild. Unhinged. My heart beats harder and faster the closer I get, and I want nothing more than to wake her. Take her. Pour myself into her.

Fuck . And she would let me. My generous, passionate, beautiful med . She would open her arms and her legs and let me take whatever I wanted from her.

I need that. I need her. Too much.

By now, I know how her strength matches my own and how her body opens and fits me so perfectly.

Even as out of control as I currently feel, I know that I will not hurt her.

But that does not mean she deserves… whatever I want to unleash on her.

And if I see her lying in my bed, I may not be able to stop myself.

My control hangs by the thinnest thread.

I should return to the house, sleep in my old room. She should not see me like this, or I will scare her.

But I need her. Need her to soften and soothe the hard edges of my terrible, monstrous mind, so full of rage and destruction and triumph.

It is ironic, perhaps, that a man like me—who prides and defines himself by his strength—is too weak to do what I should.

I go to the pool house, pulled to her like a rope is tied around my middle.

Hovering at the end of the bed, I watch her sleep. I listen to her even, unworried breaths. My desire builds with each rise and fall of her chest.

I am sick for this. Sick for wanting her now, this way.

It takes enormous effort to drag my eyes away, but eventually I manage, closing myself in the bathroom and retrieving the well-used first aid kit from the drawer in the vanity.