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“Two walls down and a portion of the last shipment has been damaged, but we’ll survive. Nothing too extensive.”
“I’ll be there in two minutes.”
I race through the streets, blaring on my horn to get a couple of slow drivers out of my lane. I can see Dima’s truck parked haphazardly across the entrance when I arrive. I screech to a stop right behind him and charge into the warehouse.
A handful of my men are scattered in front of the doors. They step aside quickly to let me pass. “Dima’s in the back, sir,” one of them informs me. “With the rat.”
The damage becomes obvious when I walk inside. Smoke and ash fills my lungs along with the metallic odor of scorched metal. There’s a chaotic energy in the air that crackles like static.
I’m on my way to the other side, where I can just about make out Dima nestled amongst the shadows, when I notice a forlorn foot sticking out from between two shipping pallets. I walk over and crouch down for a closer look.
This must be themudakwho lit himself on fire with his own weapon. Burns ripple down the sides of his face and his arm is melted like a candle, but I’d wager that it was the gunshot to the temple that ended him. His dark blue eyes stare lifelessly at the cracked ceiling above us.
He can’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years old.
“Motherfucker,” I growl under my breath. Only a soulless snake would send a boy to do a man’s job.
I leave the body and stride grimly over to the end of the warehouse where Dima is surrounded by a few of my more seniorvors.
There’s another boy tied to a chair in front of them. His watery eyes dart around the space with obvious panic. There’s no gag in his mouth, but he’s biting on his bottom lip as though to keep his tongue from falling out.
“Does he have a mark on him?” I ask as Dima turns to me.
“Nope. None of ‘em do. Plausible deniability for our old friend Benedict.”
“Of course not.” I grab one of the rickety chairs from the corner, drag it in front of the kid, and take a seat on it backwards. “You. Start talking.”
The boy’s eyes bulge with terror. “I…I don’t know… I don’t know anything! This…just…this is all a mis…m-mistake…”
Fucking hell. I stand corrected: don’t send anidiotboy to do a man’s job. I glance toward Dima, who saunters forward with a half-broken bottle from one of the Molotovs dangling in his fingers. “You’re telling me that you and your friends made these yourself?”
The boy licks his chapped lips and nods.
Dima and I exchange glances. “Okay.” I keep it conversational. Calm. “Tell me how you made these.”
The kid is sweating buckets now. The ammonia stench in the air tells me that he’s pissed himself, too.
“I…I… M-my friend did… He’s the expert.”
“Are you talking about your dead friend?” I ask. “Or your soon-to-be dead friend?”
“P-please,” he begs. His voice cracks with the whine. “Let me go.”
“Let’s start over.” I clap a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, but I don’t do anything else to scare him. “I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. If you answer honestly, then we won’t have a problem. If you choose not to answer, or if you choose to lie to me…well, then—problem. Understood?”
“Y-y-yes, sir,” he stammers.
I nod. “Smart boy. We’ll start with an easy question. What’s your name?”
The boy just blinks at me. Dima clears his throat impatiently and that seems to snap him out of it. “Petyr Dobrev,” he croaks.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Bullshit. But I’ll let it pass.” I point over my shoulder at the corpse I left behind. “Your friend, the one with the bullet in his head—how do you know him?”
“H-h-h-he’s m-my…b-b-brother.” He’s sobbing so hard, he can barely get the words out.
