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The bar is deserted. The dull thump of a bass speaker shakes the ceiling. What sort of dimwit posts a guard on the door but then plays his music too loud to hear what's happening? I thought I might be underestimating the guy, but I don't think that's possible.
We head upstairs, and Morgana nods at a door. "In there. But his girls will be here, his junkie friends, who knows? You'll be outnumbered."
"It won't matter."
I put my gun away and rap my knuckles on the door. A rail-thin girl opens it a couple of inches on the chain. She has a yellowish bruise on her cheekbone.
"I'm here to speak to Hektor. About Morgana."
The girl turns away. "It's a man wanting to talk to Hektor. He has a red-haired girl with him. He says her name is Morgana?"
"Did Bruno collect that slut already?" a voice shouts, and someone turns the music down. "For fuck's sake. I told him to get someone to take his guard post! Let him in."
It's a studio apartment. A handful of sick-looking girls line the walls, passing blunts and crack pipes around. In the middle, three men sit on a corner couch, their boots on the coffee table. I see a dusty-looking mirror and some razor blades beside them.
Cokeheads spend as much money as they make. Only undisciplined losers get into that shit, which figures. Do these fuckers think they can come to New York City and start their own little vice kingdom without paying dues?
"Which one of you is Hektor?" I say.
The man in the middle frowns. He's younger than me, but he's been in the wars. A ragged scar rings his neck—someone clearly tried to do the world a favor and slit his throat. Well, his luck just ran out.
"What's it to you?" Hektor asks, getting to his feet. "And what thefuck," he spits, jabbing his finger at Morgana, "areyouplaying at? Didn't I make myself clear this morning? Where is Bruno?"
"Dead behind the dumpster outside," I say. "Go take a look."
Hektor moves to the window, looking into the street below.
"Oh shit," one of the goons says. "Hektor, don't fuck with him. That's Vladimir—"
I throw Morgana behind me and draw my pistol, shooting Hektor neatly through his eye. He sways and falls, but I'm already firing at one of his goons as he stands. He takes two in the chest and spins, falling face-first into the coffee table and smashing it to smithereens.
The junkie girls are whimpering on the floor. I saw the third guy in my peripheral—he's now low on the other side of the couch, so I duck and shift alongside it.
Morgana is on the ground, lying on her front. She catches my eye, her expression glacial.
Fuck me.This woman hates my guts. Papa will be delighted.
I press my pistol to the back of the couch.
"Do you wanna live,tovarishch?" I shout.
"Da," a voice replies. “Da, Vladimir Sergeyevich Kislev,sdavat’sya. I surrender."
I pinpoint his location from his voice and adjust my aim. The bullet passes through the couch and pierces the man's throat. He gurgles as he collapses beside his dead friend, and I administer the coup de grâce with the last bullet in the chamber.
Apart from the girls' sobs, all is quiet. Morgana glares at me as she sits up.
"You need to let these girls go."
"Fine." I holster my weapon and reach for my wallet. Morgana's eyes widen as I hand her a thick sheaf of bills. "Share this out amongst them. I'll keep watch and shift Bruno into the dumpster."
6
Morgana
Isend the girls out with full pockets. Some may make it out of this life, but most will smoke and snort the money away and be back at square one.
Bruno's body has gone, but I don't look inside the dumpster. I don't need to see that again.
