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“How should I know?” I lie. “I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Cujo hits me again, closed fist this time. If I thought the slap hurt, it was a fucking kiss on the cheek compared to his punch. A fist with the size and mass of a chunk of cement comes crashing into my mouth, my lip splitting instantly against the knuckles, my mouth filling with blood.
Little black dots fall across my vision like snow. My head lolls forward.
Cujo slaps me again, brisk and sharp, on the swollen side of my face.
“Wake up,” he grunts.
The room comes clear again in painful focus. My blood is on the tiles in bright spatters. I spit a little more, surprised how much comes out of my mouth. I tongue the left side of my teeth. One of the lower molars is loose.
“You’re worth every penny, aren’t you, big boy?” I mutter.
I swear Cujo smiles just a little. He enjoys his work.
Zakharov takes his phone out of his pocket, thrusting it at me.
“Call Adrik,” he orders. “Tell him to meet you here.”
I give a low laugh that sprays more blood across my lap.
“Adrik wouldn’t answer my call, let alone come here to save me. I burned down his lab, stole his product, and I’ve been doing my damndest to run his business into the ground. You’re doing him a favor beating the shit out of me.”
Another look passes between Zakharov and Cujo, as Zakharov tries to ascertain the validity of what I’m saying.
He’s been in Moscow for months, digging for the details of what happened to his son. I can see the tension in his face, the built-up frustration of dead end after dead end. He can’t guess why Zigor was killed—the truth is too bizarre. All his rage is pointed at Adrik, but Adrik is surrounded by the Wolfpack at all times, and now Yuri Koslov and his men as well.
Zakharov crouches in front of me, looking intently into my face. His breath is unpleasantly warm and intimate.
“I had a deal with Krystiyan Kovalenko. He knew the locations of Adrik’s next three shipments. Tell me where Adrik will be, and I’ll let you live.”
I know where the shipments are going. In fact, the next one arrives tomorrow night.
I could tell Zakharov where to find Adrik. I could even draw him a map.
“I’ll make you a better deal,” I say, squinting at Zakharov as my left eye begins to swell shut. “You tell me how old that suit is, and I’ll tell you where you can buy a new one.”
Zakharov’s upper lip draws up, showing long, gray teeth.
“Very amusing,” he says. “Let’s see how long you keep laughing.”
He stands.
Cujo hauls me to my feet by my hair, driving his fist into my stomach. I double over, retching. When I try to draw breath it’s impossible, he’s pummeled the air out of me, and the muscles are too torn to breathe in. My mouth is open, eyes bulging, no air coming in for an agonizing amount of time. Until finally, with a horrid gasp, and a pain like a knife in my ribs, my lungs slowly inflate.
“Where’s the next shipment?” Zakharov demands.
I hold up a finger, still trying to breathe.
Cujo slaps me again, knocking me back down to the floor.
I cough, shaking my head at Cujo.
“Not as good, big boy. I’ve been slapped by cheerleaders harder than that.”
Cujo seizes the front of my shirt, lifting me up and flinging me into the open refrigerator. The shelves collapse around me, sending containers of product tumbling down on my head, glass jars shattering on the tiles.
Blood runs down into my eye from a cut on my scalp. I blink it away, slipping my hand in my pocket, gripping the handle of my knife.
