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Luka had stood at attention. “Da, Otets,” he’d answered.
“Show him what we do,” Damir had growled.
Luka had fought to control his shaking hands as he stepped closer to the captive and knelt down next to him. The man had been nonsensically babbling and hyperventilating. He’d looked right at Luka’s face and asked for forgiveness. Luka had silently taken out his blade. He’d remembered everything he was taught. With a quick glance at Damir for assurance, Luka had pressed the blade to the man’s cheek and dragged the sharp edge downward. He’d sliced open the man’s flesh with a plume of crimson dripping into the dirt. It hadn’t been a mortal wounding, but it would definitely leave a mark.
“Excellent, Luka. And why did you make this particular cut?” Damir had prompted.
“You said he’s an informant. Well, I wanted to make sure I left a scar, so that every time he looks in the mirror he remembers the cost of his actions. The next time he wants to share our secrets with the authorities, he’ll think twice,” Luka had explained dutifully.
“I’ll never do it again. I swear,” the man had blubbered.
“No. I don’t think you will,” Damir had said.
With that, he’d strolled up to Luka and handed him a shiny new pistol from inside his coat. Luka had stared at it with awe, feeling the cold metal in his hands.
“Congratulations, son. You’ve graduated from blades to bullets,” Damir had said, with as much pride as Luka had ever heard.
The pair of them had spent months practicing shooting out in the desert before Luka was gifted the next level up: a silencer. He’d flourished as an enforcer. Soon, he was even able to work alongside his father, almost as an equal.
Now, Luka stood before his own trainees, who looked pale green in his night-vision scope. The two young men were each grasping one arm of a scrappy, panicked captive as he kicked and fought them. There was no need for a blindfold. It was pitch black outside. Luka and his trainees could see perfectly well with their goggles, but the captive was kept in the dark.
Luka directed the men to drag their target into the farmhouse. They threw him down on a rickety old folding chair surrounded by old hay and filth. The man was looking around in complete confusion.
“Where am I? Who the hell are you people?” he hurled.
“We’ll be asking the questions tonight,” Luka said. “What is your name?”
“Fuck off,” the man spat.
“Ugly name,” Luka commented.
He gestured to one of the trainees, who promptly wrenched the man’s arms behind his back and pressed a knee between his shoulders, forcing the man down on his stomach. The other trainee leaned down next to him and hissed, “Try again. What is your name?”
“Cory Chastain,” the guy grunted, his face just inches above the grimy floor.
“Not a very Russian-sounding name. Who do you work for?” Luka pressed.
“Nobody. I’m unemployed.”
“And yet you were caught trying to sneak your way into the Shining Star casino after being rejected repeatedly at the door. You were so desperate to get inside: why?”
“I don’t know, to play the slots,” he lied.
“With no cash?” Luka pushed him.
“Somebody must have taken my money.”
Luka nodded to the other trainee, who smacked the back of the man’s head, knocking his nose into the ground. “You may want to start telling the truth,” Luka advised.
The captive glared up at him with a bloody nose. “I was there to… to meet women.”
Luka raised an eyebrow. He instantly thought of Kira. “What kind of women? Customers? Employees?”
“Employees,” the man admitted.
“Right. And why is that?” Luka went on. “Can’t talk to a girl unless she’s contractually obligated to put up with you?”
“Just following orders,” the captive sighed.
