Bennett says, “Youwant WITSEC. Tell us whatyoudid. Or we’ll throw you out right now and you can answer to your bratva for everything you’ve shared.”
Tarasov stares at the far wall, past the gleaming instruments of torture.
Bennett says to Richardson, “He’s wasting our time.”
Tarasov’s eyes lose focus. He swallows hard. And then he whispers, “I ordered him to do it.”
“What child?” Bennett demands immediately.
“Katie Lynch.”
Of course I’m not surprised by the fact, but I’m astonished Tarasov is finally owning up to it. My arms tighten across my belly like I’ve taken a punch to my gut. Blood rushes in my ears like a shadowed river. Cole’s fingers spread across the back of my neck, comforting me, anchoring me.
Bennett pushes: “When? Why?”
Tarasov murmurs to the killing tools, “Years ago. Because I wanted her father to know Tarasovs never back down.” But then he adds: “It did not work. The fucking girl loved it. She begged for more. Her family shipped her off to Ireland so she could not embarrass them at home.”
My vision floods with crimson. I clutch the edge of the counter until my knuckles pop. My jaw locks as I try to keep from howling.
Cole tugs my headset free. “Destroythat lying motherfucker,” he orders into the mic.
Bennett sweeps to the far side of the room. When he comes back, he’s gripping a pair of pliers. Tarasov cringes, shrinking into his chair, but he still loses the nail of his unbroken thumb. Bennett waves his bloody prize in front of the pakhan’s milk-white face and says, “Last chance. Give us enough for WITSEC.No Pyotr. No lies. No editorials. Or you’re out on the street, minus the rest of your nails.”
Richardson stays very still, smart enough not to upset the balance. Tarasov whines like an animal caught in a trap.
Snorting in disgust, Bennett captures Tarasov’s left hand. He goes for the broken thumb.
Tarasov howls, “No! Wait! Please!” And when Bennett doesn’t give up, the Russian shouts: “The Tarasov bratva runs Crash in Baltimore.”
Bennett freezes.
Tarasov says, “Under my command, the Tarasov bratva runs Crash in Baltimore. We sell from Patterson Park to West Baltimore. Our corner boys target the schools.”
Bennett and Richardson know exactly what to do. Bennett burrows deep, excavating precise dollar amounts. Richardson soothes, layering on whiskey and velvet. They both have the same message: They need more—data, details, specifics. More. More. More. They always need more.
That massive barrier finally breached—Crash—Tarasov abandons all restraint. He’s given up too much now to ever be safe in Baltimore again. His only hope is the purifying fire of confession. He needs to bare his soul. He needs to pray for the dubious protection of the law.
Beside me, Cole works with the precision of a machine. The recordings he prepares are longer now, several minutes of confession bundled into each packet. He does one for drug trade and another for prostitution. He grits his teeth as he pulls together a stomach-churning account of the bratva’s human trafficking.
“No, no, no,” Tarasov snaps at Bennett in the boardroom. “Womenare housed in the old asylum. Boys and girls stay in a rowhouse on Butchers Hill. One room. One bed. That way they start training fast. They learn together.”
“Goddamn him to fucking hell,” Cole mutters. Setting aside the camera footage, he opens a window on his computer and starts to type at breakneck speed. I recognize the steady rhythm of intense coding, the short, sharp lines and the rapid returns.
In less than a minute, Cole says, “The rest of this goes out live.”
He angles his monitor toward me. The camera feed displays like a live-action television show, its black-and-white footage dulling the effect of the blood on Tarasov’s face. The pakhan’s mangled hands are out of the picture, blocked by a frame that bears both the FBI and Homeland Security logos.
Cole says, “This motherfucker is never getting out of DC alive. Where are we with distribution?”
I update my screen. With my attention torn between Tarasov’s sickening admissions and my sending out updates to Ariadne’s Daughters, I haven’t had time to monitor how far our message has gone.
But all our preparation is paying off. Social media is on fire with the story. Videos are showing up on SparkChat, on CampFire, anywhere users can post and comment.
I send my team the live feed Cole created. They react faster than I ever imagined they could, channeling the data to an even broader network than the one we painstakingly planned.
Cole watches the spread multiply like a blizzard of individual snowflakes. “You’ve built a fucking miracle,” he says. Before I can answer, he reaches for his mobile.
“Megan,” he says, still eyeing the screen. “Are you seeing this?” She must be, because he doesn’t have to explain. “Give us two more hours,” he says. “And then have the breakdown team ready to go.”
