Bennett circles behind him. “We call it plausible deniability, asshole.”
“Plau—”
Bennett grabs the back of Tarasov’s head and slams the pakhan’s face into the table.
The shitehawk’s nose is shattered. He howls. Blood streams down his face.
Bennett returns to his side of the table. “Our paperwork is a hell of a lot simpler when there aren’t any witnesses.”
With blood dripping from his chin, Tarasov says, “My lawyers will destroy you for this.”
“Lawyers?” Richardson asks, as if she’s never heard the word.
“You have deprived me of counsel. You have detained me for more than three days. No judge in the country will allow any charges against me to stand.”
“We’ll take our chances,” Bennett says with a vicious grin. “Welcome to your very own black site, you motherfucking piece of shit. You’re the only prisoner. And we have all the time in the world to convince you to talk. So, let’s start over. Why don’t you tell me about Crash?”
Tarasov only misses one beat. “How many times must I say it? I do not know this Crash.”
Bennett grasps Tarasov’s left thumb, yanking it up and away from his shackled wrist. The saddle joint dislocates with an audible pop.
The pakhan’s scream is sharper than any man’s should be. I’m reminded of Pyotr’s eerie giggle as he pushed his way into my body. The crotch of Nikolai’s trousers darkens with piss.
“Crash,” Bennett says.
Tarasov rocks in his chair. His arm is rigid. His thumb hangs at a horrifying angle. He glances at the table beyond Bennett, with all its metal tools.
And for the first time in days, he begins to bargain.
“The government pays you what?” he asks Bennett. “One hundred thou a year? I can give you more than that. Just say I faked a heart attack. While you tried to keep me alive, I stole the key to my cuffs. Here. I will give the money now. Transfer from my bank to yours. One million dollars, and I am free.”
I clutch Cole’s arm.
“One million,” Bennett says, as if he’s seriously considering the option. “Each.” He juts his chin toward Richardson.
“Yes! Yes! One million each!”
At first Bennett looks like he’s weighing the offer, but then he shakes his head. “There’ll be too many questions. We’ll end up in our own black site, trying to explain.”
“Twomillion each,” Tarasov says.
“Five,” Bennett counters. “Each.”
Tarasov looks like he wants to argue. But he wants freedom more. “Five each,” he says. Then, before Bennett can push for more: “You have your phone? Type this in.”
Bennett does, quickly accessing a numbered Cayman Islands account.
“Sweet Jesus,” I breathe. “The shitehawk’s actually doing it.”
Tarasov hisses in pain as the money is transferred. The instant both transactions are complete, Cole attacks his keyboard. Tarasov’s offshore account lights up the computer monitor.
“How much is left?” I ask.
“Seven mill and change.” Cole draws it down to zero.
I speak through my headset. “Bennett. Tell him it’s not enough.”
Like I’m watching a television show, Bennett says, “It’s not enough.”
