Page 44 of Devil's Retribution
“Hitters, clearly. The question is, from who?” They had known where to go, and how to get past security. I doubted that they had been actually sent after Tolya, more likely, the one who had stabbed him had panicked when confronted.
Did they come for me? Who sent them? And why?
Two possibilities ran through my mind as we followed the small crowd down to the basement. I hadn’t been expecting to interrogate anyone tonight, but I had to know what was going on.
My first thoughts were that Igor was behind this half assed assassination attempt. But it was a bit too brazen to be his style, he was a show-off, and arrogant as hell, but he wasn’t stupid. He would have sent hitters who were experienced enough not to panic.
I had other rivals, and some of them were green—full of bravado, but not much else.
And then there was Charles Graves.
But again, Graves had been smart about the hitter he had chosen to murder my brother. A sniper capable of making a nigh impossible shot and then slipping away undetected. So what was this bullshit?
I took the stairs, wanting to burn off some adrenaline. Tolya clunked doggedly along behind me. “Who the fuck could have sent those assholes?” he panted, holding his torn shirt closed with one hand.
“That is what I intend to find out,” I growled. I was clutching the other knife in my hand. I didn’t even remember picking it up or holstering my pistol either. I was so full of adrenaline that my hand shook a little.
“Damned plastic knives,” he muttered, and coughed. “No wonder you wanted us wearing these vests at work.”
“It’s a new world, my friend. Metal detectors and pat downs can only do so much.” My mind was racing. What was the point of such a clumsy attempt?
Testing our defenses? I grunted with irritation as we reached the basement level. “These are not men of the Bratva,” I guessed immediately. “Someone hired outsiders, so he wouldn’t lose sworn men in this little exercise.”
“That’d sure explain why we didn’t recognize them. And it will make it harder to trace their employer.” Tolya followed me through the door, coughing again.
I stopped and turned back to him. “Are you certain you’re all right, Tolya?”
“I probably cracked a rib,” he grumbled. “That vest stopped the knife, but it felt like a bad punch in the gut.”
“If it keeps bothering you, go to Doc and get an x-ray.” I continued on, down a corridor that was all polished concrete. The interrogation room was behind the gray metal door at the end. I didn’t have use for it much, but Tolya made sure it was kept stocked and ready. “I’m honestly surprised they didn’t run up and try to use those knives on me. Did they say anything to you?”
“He asked where my boss was and the other told me to go fuck myself.” He paused as he trailed me down the hall. “Kazakhs, I think, from the accents.”
“Kazakh mercenaries.” There were plenty back home and in Europe, but not here usually. We had dealt with them before, mostly for minor errands back in Russia. They had certain advantages, they were numerous, cheap, generally military-trained, spoke Russian well, and were often quite competent—which confused me more. “What did they do with the other one?”
Anatoly checked on his radio. “Doc’s looking him over. That bullet just took off his ear, but the impact to the side of his head probably bounced his brain around. He was still breathing when they dragged him off, but probably not much longer.”
This is a complete shitshow. What was the point of this? “I’ll see what I can get out of the other.” We reached the door and I knocked on it twice, two of my men opened it, and we stepped inside.
The interrogation room was menacingly austere, concrete walls and ceiling, a tile floor with a drain in the center, and bare lightbulbs glaring down at the steel furniture bolted to the floor. An array of medical implements and weapons was set up on a table to my right. At the center of the room was the surviving merc, strapped down and panting nervously.
“Search him,” I ordered. My men obliged, starting to cut away his clothes and look for clues, other weapons, identifying tattoos, his wallet, to see if we could figure out who he was and who sent him. Tolya sat down in a chair beside the tool table, grumbling under his breath about his shirt.
I walked over to our captive’s head and stared down at him.
The man glared up at me, sweating. I leaned down and stared into his muddy gray eyes. “Understand that what happens now is entirely up to you. If you cooperate, you have a chance to get out of here alive. If you give me any shit whatsoever, I start taking off pieces of you.”
He went pale. “Fuck you,” he mumbled.
I smirked. “Your bravado won’t last long, my friend. Your partner is already dead, and believe me, between the two of you, he is the lucky one.”
He grinned, wide and humorless. “You do what you want. I was headed for Black Dolphin anyway.”
I stared at him. Black Dolphin was the worst prison still operating in Russia—Putin’s private hellhole for those who offended him most, along with serial killers, child molesters… “So you’re a real piece of shit, is what you’re saying.”
He scoffed and tried to spit at me, I smacked him on the bruised side of the head and the gob flew in the wrong direction. He coughed and stared up at me, some of his nervousness showing.
“Got something, boss,” one of my guys said. I looked up and saw he had cut the man’s shirt open and was staring at something on his chest.