The second costs him the kneecap.
He folds forward in the chair, both hands clutching at his leg, sweat breaking across his face so fast it almost looks like fever.
I wait.
Mikhail stands near the door with the burner phone in one hand, watching without expression. Two of my men remain behind the chair, not touching the boy unless I tell them to. The office smells like cold metal, blood, and fear. The broken window lets river air push through the room in little vicious bursts.
When the screaming weakens enough for words, I crouch in front of him.
“Now,” I say, “we try honesty again.”
He shakes his head frantically. “I told you what I know. I swear to God?—”
I press two fingers into the shattered kneecap.
He nearly vomits.
“Do not bring God into a conversation you’re losing this badly.”
He gasps and grabs at the arms of the chair. Tears have started now.
“What was in Bay Fourteen?”
He shakes his head hard, eyes squeezed shut. “I told you, I don’t know.”
I put two fingers against the broken knee and press.
He chokes on the scream.
“You knew enough to open the right container. Ask yourself if you want to keep pretending.”
“Records,” he gasps. “Drives, papers, old records, that’s all I know.”
“Who told you to take them?”
He hesitates.
Mikhail steps forward and sets the pliers on the desk beside me.
The man hears the metal hit wood and starts shaking harder.
“Yegor,” he blurts out. “Yegor Melnik.”
That gets my attention.
“Who does Yegor work for?”
“I don’t know.”
I pick up the pliers.
“I swear,” he says quickly. “I don’t know who pays him now. He just said the old man wanted his papers back.”
I stop.
The room goes quiet.
Mikhail looks at me. I look at him. Neither of us says anything for a second.
