He turned back to Katya’s guesthouse.
Inside was a crime scene.
Two bodies in the hall—the first two he’d dropped. One breathing, barely, jaw askew. The other still. Pav nudged him with his boot. No response. Past them, the one he’d shot in the neck lay in the kitchen doorway, blood pulsing slower now from the neck wound, spreading dark across the boards.
And the fifth?
Alive.
He was crumpled against the wall, conscious, his hand clamped to his throat where the stock had crushed into him. His eyes tracked Pav with the raw, animal awareness of someone who knew exactly what he was.
Good. A live one.
Pav stepped over the man without looking down and headed to the bedroom.
The room still held her, her scent in the air. The faint crease in the sheets where her body had been. He stopped beside the bed and put his hand down.
The fabric was still warm. For one second he let himself feel it.
Harper.
His shoulders sagged. Minutes ago she’d been in his arms.
And now?
He straightened and dressed quickly, not looking at her dress draped over the patched easy chair. Looking cost time. He swallowed against the thickness in his throat.
There was work to do.
Back in the hall, the man was still slumped against the wall. Still breathing. Pav crouched in front of him. Close. Weapon across his knees.
“Where are they taking the women?”
The man spat a shard of tooth onto the floor. Blood ran in rivulets down his chin. “Don’t know.”
His eyes were wide, his breathing fast and shallow—his body flooding with cortisol, pupils dilated.
Lying.
Pav took his hand and held it as if he was going to offer comfort, then he pressed into the first joint of the index finger. Just enough. The man screamed but Pav waited it out. Pain was ugly, but other options took time he didn’t have.
“Where?” Pav asked.
The answer came in a rush. Too fast. Direction. Street name. Something rehearsed. The man’s eyes flicked left.
Fabrication.
Pav reached for the next finger. “Try again.”
The man’s eyes bulged, panic breaking through whatever loyalty he thought he had. “Fallback site.” His voice rasped. “Southeast. Old customs depot near the border road. That’s where they said to bring them.”
“Distance?”
“Forty kilometers. Maybe less.”
“Again.”
The man repeated it. Slower this time, from memory, not invention.
