15
JAMES
* * *
“What did I miss?” Danny asks as he enters, eyeing the backs of the two men in the chairs before me. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s surprised they’re still in one piece. Or alive, even. “Not much, apparently,” he muses. “Still no words?”
“They’re Russian.” I drag a chair over and sit on it back to front, resting my forearms on the backrest.
“How’d you know?”
“Well.” I reach behind me and slide a gold letter opener off Danny’s desk, twirling it in my hand while admiring it. “When I stick this in one of their legs . . .” I flip the solid gold piece of stationery, catch it by the handle, and plunge it into one of the men’s knees.
“Blyad,” the man barks.
“That happens.” I twist and turn the blade, and the Russian starts to dribble and mumble. Then I yank it out. “Translated: whore. Or fuck. Whichever you prefer.”
“That’s my pops’s letter opener,” Danny says, collecting his own chair and joining me.
I look at the blood tricking over the gold. “Sorry.” I press the length onto the Russian’s bloodied jeans and drag it slowly, wiping it clean. Both sides. He hisses, jolting in his chair, his hands fighting with the cable ties. I place the letter opener back on the desk.
“It wasn’t a dig.” Danny claims it and does his own inspection, smiling fondly at it. “I was just saying, it was my father’s.” He tosses it, catches, stands for that extra bit of power, and sinks it into the other guy’s thigh.
“Pizda!”
“What does that mean?”
“Pussy. Cunt. Vagina. Take your pick.”
He pouts as he sits again, reaching for the handle and ramming it down some more until it hits the wooden seat of the chair. More dribbling. More hissing. “Is that a new rug?” Danny asks, looking at our feet to the oriental piece of rich reds and golds that’s rolled out beneath our prey.
“Easier to replace than the whole carpet,” Goldie says from the couch, not glancing up from her phone.
Brad chuckles, heading for the Scotch. “Drink, anyone?”
“Here.” Danny raises his hand, as do I. “May as well get comfortable. It could be a long afternoon.”
The unmistakable widening of the Russian’s eyes makes me smile. “Know any translators?” I ask, accepting the crystal cut tumbler that’s half full.
“Yes, actually. I just had one call me.”
I look across to him as he necks half of his drink. “Which one?”
“Our friend Volodya.” Danny waves his glass at the two men. “He didn’t mention you two, though. So I’m thinking—”
“Sandy,” I muse.
“Either or, bad news for these guys. Do you think they can understand?”
“No idea.”
“I think so,” Otto muses, tossing a burner phone on the desk. “They seem to be able to text in English.”
“Oh good.” Danny smiles brightly at the men. Bright but dark. “As I was saying, bad news for you two. You see, I did a deal with Volodya a few years ago, but he got a bit pissed up on power. Decided I should die. And Sandy? He sent some Russian whore into James’s”—Danny points his glass at me—“girlfriend’s hospital room to kill her.” He reaches for the blade and yanks it out, then cranes his head, looking at the rug being pounded by a steady flow of blood. “Shit, I think that hit an artery. That seriously limits the time we have to torture information out of you.”
“Torture,” I whisper. “Not how I’d like to spend my last half hour.” I put my hand out to Danny, and he graciously surrenders the letter opener. “I don’t think they’re going to talk.” I stand and move in behind the Russians, holding my hand out to Otto. He drops a pair of pliers in my hand.
“Ouch,” Danny says, as I pry open one of their mouths as he jerks and squirms, doing everything he can to hamper my intention.
Too bad for him, I’ve done this countless times. I clamp down the pliers on the end of his tongue and yank it out, resting the tip of the letter opener somewhere in the center of the slippery organ. His mate in the other chair looks on, horrified, bleeding out all over the rug. Danny stands and pulls the belt from his trousers, folding it in half and taking a seat again, threading the leather through his fingers. “If I wrap this belt around your thigh, you might live. If you talk now, your mate might live.”
“Okay, okay!”
“Ah!” Danny chimes. “It speaks.”
“Hallelujah,” Brad mutters, perching on the desk behind Danny. “Get on with it, I have a club to run.”
“You have to promise us protection,” the one able to speak says, his accent thick but his English perfect, as his mate tries his best to shake his head, objecting. So we have a squealer and a loyal advocate. I chose the right man’s tongue.
“I don’t have to promise you anything,” Danny grates. “If the information you provide is any good, I might consider it.” He flicks his eyes to me. Danny knows these two men aren’t walking out of here alive. Even if they lead us directly to our prey.
“Volodya and Sandy work together,” he spits urgently. “They head up the gun side of the business. The Polish deal with the women. The Irish in drugs. It’s been peaceful. The only issue was The Enigma.”
I look at Danny incredulously. So it really is one big happy family?
“Oh, I’ve heard of him,” Danny says, getting up and going to pour more Scotch. “Another one, James?”
“Hands are kind of full at the moment.” I give the Russian’s tongue a little yank, pushing the blade in a fraction, not piercing his flesh, but as close as I can get before drawing blood. “You don’t know who The Enigmas is?” I ask.
“I think he’s above their pay grade,” Danny says, joining Brad on the edge of the desk.
“The Bear,” I say. “What do you know?”
“Nothing.”
For fuck’s sake, someone has to know who the fuck he is. “So how the fuck does anyone do business if they don’t know who they’re dealing with?”
“He emails. Only ever emails.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Danny snaps, slamming his glass down on the desk and lunging forward, ramming the letter opener through the tongue I’m still holding. The scream is blood-curdling. It also gets the other Russian talking again, although what the fuck he’s saying is a mystery. I expect he’s praying. He should be. I release the clamp and move over to his dribbling, whining form.
I hold the pliers in front of him.
“He emails the three at the top,” he blurts. “Only ever them.”
Well, that’s not true. He also emails Green.
“The Ox leads the Russians. Volodya and Sandy answer to him. Then there’s us below them.”
“Oh,” I muse, moving around the front of him and taking Danny’s chair. I circle the pliers for him to continue.
“The Shark. Polish.”
“Deals in women,” I say, and he nods. “And below The Shark?”