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“I need accommodations,” I say.
Sergey raises an eyebrow. “For?”
I answer with a tip of my head towards the trunk of the car. “For a guest.”
He nods in understanding, opens the passenger door and gets inside, laying his rifle across his lap. He points to the furthest tower on Vadim’s compound. “That way.”
The car grinds its way towards the building Sergey pointed out.
“Attending to old business?” He asks with the side of his lips curled in a knowing grin.
“Old business,” I say with a nod.
We reach the front of the far tower. Sergey gets out and heads for the door while I open the trunk of the car. Pyotr Ivanov’s eyes are open and he looks at me with a weak gaze. The blood from his leg has soaked through the towel and stained the inside of the trunk.
I hope Vadim doesn’t mind.
When I lean down to grab Pyotr he attempts to fight me off, but I punch him, keeping him dazed but conscious as I throw him over my shoulder. When I close the trunk of the car, I see Sergey coming down the sidewalk with a long rectangular cart.
How thoughtful.
I lay Pyotr’s body on it and roll him down the path Sergey leads me. The door to a shipping dock opens as we approach.
“You’re no stranger to entertaining the occasional guest,” I say.
Sergey laughs and shakes his head as he watches me pass inside and motions to a hall on the left. “Rooms are that way,” he says.
I steady the cart and head the way Sergey pointed out.
“Viktor!” Sergey calls out.
I turn to him.
He raises his eyebrows and gives me a look of warning. “Clean up after yourself,” he says before walking out and lowering the door.
I note an incinerator at the start of the hall and turn it on, leaving the door open, part to make sure it’s ready for me to dispose of Pyotr’s body, and part for the heat of the flames.
Fuck it is cold in here.
Pyotr moans as I roll the cart further down the hall and wheel him into the last cell. The blood from his leg is dribbling down the side of the cart and his skin is ghostly pale. The man lying below me slowly dying is responsible for a lot of innocent people’s lives. I don’t feel a shred of pity for him.
I park the cart in the cell's corner and lock it in place. Pyotr lifts his arms, but they drop to his sides.
“There’s no more fight left in you,” I say. “You should make your peace now.”
I turn to a rack standing at the opposite wall and browse the tools resting on it. Corkscrews, knives, an ice pick, various clamps, belts, ropes. There’s a St. Andrew’s cross standing to the side of the rack. The edges of the room drop and lead to a drainage gutter. There are several overhead showers and a hose.
The Mikhailov Bratva has perfected the art of hygienic body disposal.
I grab a thin pick, reminding myself I want Pyotr Ivanov to die slowly before walking back to him. He’s receiving mafia protection, and it’s from the same group who had my parents murdered.
I hover over Pyotr’s body, watching him mumbling. The heat from the incinerator is reaching the cell. It warms the room somewhat, but it’s still uncomfortably cool.
I rest the end of the pick on Pyotr’s chest. “Who responsible for my father’s death?” I ask gently.
Pyotr’s mumbling stops and he looks in my direction. I know he heard me.
I grab Pyotr’s bleeding leg and squeeze. Pyotr lets out a piercing scream.
