Page 58 of Silent Schemes

The complex is called the Howard Arms, but the only thing armed here are the dealers and the rats.

I pull into the lot, kill the headlights.

There’s a crescent moon, but it doesn’t reach the pavement.

I open the trunk.

Petrov is in there, bound with shipping twine, mouth filled with an old gym sock.

His eyes bulge like boiled eggs, and his face is so purple he looks like he’s been dead for hours.

I haul him out, let him thud onto the pavement.

Slapping him a few times, he sputters, his eyes opening wide as he takes us in.

Sienna follows, her heels striking sparks off the cracked cement.

She’s wearing a black slip dress and Jimmy Choos still spotted with dried blood from the last outing.

Her expression is blank, maybe a little bored.

We drag Petrov up three flights of piss-stained stairs, down a corridor that smells like diapers.

He’s crying under the gag, but it’s not even worth acknowledging.

Unit 316 is held together by police tape and a single rusty hinge.

I boot it open, and we’re inside.

There’s nothing left of the interior.

Walls caved in, carpet stripped out, the fridge full of syringes instead of food.

It’s my favorite torture room.

I tie Petrov to the kitchen radiator.

The metal is cold, rough, and the more he struggles, the tighter it bites.

Sienna paces the floor, testing the boards with her toe.

She finds a loose one and pries it up, revealing a nest of used needles.

She laughs, low and wicked, then kicks the plank back into place.

Petrov’s eyes dart between us, wild, begging for mercy.

I crouch next to him, pliers in hand.

He moans, shakes his head while snot runs down his face.

I take out the gag, slow and gentle. “You know why you’re here?”

He sputters. “Please, Mr. Bane, I?—”

I jam the pliers into his mouth, grip the first molar.

“Last week,” I say, “you sold a batch to the kids at Hasting Elementary. Three overdosed. Two died.”