Not my fucking business. I wasn’t paid to care. I was paid to kill.
He was in the living room, back to me, drink in hand, eyes half-watching a game show. Something cheap and loud.
He had that cop sixth sense, though. Maybe it was the creak of the floorboard. Maybe just instinct.
He started to turn.
Too late.
I closed the distance in one step and slammed the butt of the gun into the side of his head. His body folded like the strings had been cut, the beer bottle slipping from his hand and rollingacross the floor as he crumpled. He didn’t even have time to scream.
I caught him before he hit the ground wrong, lowered him down, and checked his pulse. Still there. Good.
I left him slumped in front of the TV, the flickering light washing over his unconscious face while the host on screen kept shouting about prizes. I tied him up right there—wrists, ankles, methodical knots I’d tied a hundred times before.
Pakhan hadn’t asked for a body.
He’d asked for a message.
While he slept, I moved through the apartment.
The office came first. A narrow room with a cheap desk and too many pictures pinned to the walls. Kids. Boys and girls. Different ages. Different years. Some smiling. Some not. Missing-person faces. The kind you stop seeing after a while because there are too many of them.
I frowned.
What were you digging into, Alexey?
A thick, worn folder sat on the desk. I flipped it open and skimmed through it, pages sliding under my thumb. Tables filled with names, locations, ages, and dates blurred together. There were printed articles clipped and stapled in, scattered receipts, and handwritten notes squeezed into the margins.
Interesting.
I took the folder with me into the living room and dropped onto the couch like I owned the place, the folder resting on my knee. I didn’t read it properly—just enough to know it wasn’t nothing.
A groan cut through the noise of the TV.
He was waking up.
I looked up as his eyes fluttered open, confusion swimming there before recognition hit and everything went rigid with fear.
“Rise and shine,” I said in a flat, deadpan drawl, like someone mimicking a cheerful wake-up call at a morgue. “We’ve got so much not to talk about.”
He swallowed hard, tried to move, failed. His voice came out rough. “I was too close, wasn’t I?” he said. “I just wanted to find them.”
I stood, walked over, crouched in front of him.
“Sorry,” I said, not meaning it. “Wrong man for a heart-to-heart.”
Then I taped his mouth shut before he could say another word.
“Nothing personal,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “But it’s going to feel like it is.”
The tape would muffle, but not enough. I scanned the room and spotted the record player, a crate of albums beside it.
I wandered over, thumbing through the sleeves while he lay there watching me, eyes wide, breathing sharp and panicked. “Look at you,” I said mildly. “Didn’t take you for a vinyl guy.”
I held one up. “Beethoven? Nah, too heavy.” Another. “ABBA? You romantic bastard.”He groaned. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just... surprised.”
In the end, I picked an AC/DC album. Loud. Relentless. Perfect. Iturned the dial up.“Better,” I said. “Let’s begin.”
