Page 130 of Violent Possession

The first advantage is his: he manages to punch me in the chin so hard I feel my jaw dislocate. It reverberates through my entire head. The taste of iron and saliva is instant, but also familiar. I return the favor by breaking his nose with my forehead—the sound is delicious, the kind that makes me smile even on the ground, even though I’m the punching bag this time.

Now the blood is his, more than mine. He recoils, but never loses focus. This is the kind of killer who would rather die than give up the mission. He knows he’s at a disadvantage, and he keeps fighting like there’s a reason to keep breathing. When I grab the collar of his jacket and twist my arm, hoping to be able to choke him, he sinks his chin into his chest and swallows his own scream, biting his lip until it becomes a line. At this point, I respect the son of a bitch as much as I hate him.

The bionic arm finally finds a foothold; I grab his collarbone and pull with all my might.

The tissue tears, the bone gives way. He screams, now without a filter, and hits me with his elbow in the kidneys, but the movement comes out crooked: the power is gone along with his shattered nose. He tries to grab the gun, I twist the angle of the arm I control—the final impact comes as a short, brutal crack—and the pistol slips from his hands, scraping on the asphalt before disappearing out of my reach.

Blood changes me; I become less human, less rational. I push him, hit his head on the asphalt with the force of someone who doesn’t care about consequences. For a second, he disappears, his eyes turning white.

I take the opportunity and step on the arm that is still his—my whole heel goes in with the weight of my body. My own momentum comes with it: the leather of my boot tears his skin, the bone cracks with a loud, dry sound, like wood breaking. Hishand loses all function; his fingers become limp, useless. The scream mixes pain and surprise, and something like a sob sinks into his chest before fading away.

I could end it there. But I don’t. I need answers. I know he still has something to say.

“Who do you work for?” I say, leaning closer with my foot still buried in his arm. “Talk or I’ll break your legs too.”

“I just do what I’m told, I don’t know anything. Just orders!”

I step again. He screams.

“So give me a fucking name,” I say, unintentionally splattering the blood from my own face on him. “Who?Alexei?”

“No! T-The cousin!”

The blood runs down my face, forming a puddle next to the curb. I no longer feel the pain; just the urgency to make sense of what I just heard. Why did Seraphim send me here?

“And whose information did you just hand over?” I ask, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place. The man hesitates, the fear of the right answer fighting against the fear of what I might do.

I don’t give him a chance to choose. I step one more time.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“Alexei!” he screams. “Alexei’s! V-Vasily said that Ivan needed help to... to watch him.”

And only then do I understand. A dog that barks too much. The beggar’s phrase. Seraphim’s message. His message wasn’t for me. Not entirely. I accused him of seeing Alexei as an enemy, and now he’s talking to the man who is watching me through the fucking bracelet. This is Seraphim telling Alexei:I am not your enemy. And here is the proof.

He has no loyalty to Vasily.

I drag the wretched rat with me as I approach his car, opening the driver’s door and pulling the keys from the ignition.

“Man, I won’t tell anyone,” he whines. “What do you need—money? We can split it—hey!”

His wrist is a knot of crushed bones, so he offers no resistance when I stick a hand in his coat pocket. I feel a wad of bills and, deeper, the rectangular coolness of a cell phone.

I take it—it’s an old burner, a flip-phone, the kind of thing you use for a single call before throwing it in the river. The contact list has a single contact, saved as “V”.

“Mr. Vasily pays well, we can—“ he keeps trying. I put the phone back in his pocket.

“My boss will like to see this,” I say with a smile, and he grimaces.

“Hold on, man... wait—no?—“

I shove him into the trunk of his own car. I leave him locked in there, with both arms useless, and get into the driver’s seat.

I start the car. The engine roars.

I know where to go. I saw it on Alexei’s terminal earlier. His meeting, at the fancy restaurant. The Krestoran.

I smile at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I’m a mess, but Alexei won’t care.