Page 102 of Kept in the Dark

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 thedamage 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 stupidPakhans,” I begin, knowing that he will fill in the rest of the phrase.Only smartPakhansand 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.