Page 89 of Filthy Little Fix
"Right," he says and nods. "I can work with that." He looks back down at his papers, as if the matter is closed. "If he's still alive, we'll find him. We always do."
If.
Before I can respond, there's a knock on the door. I tense up, slipping back into a leadership role as Luca's voice sounds out.
"Excuse me."
He opens the door slowly. The only thing that might betray his recent injury is a slightly stiff arm.
"Speak," I say. I take a drag to cleanse myself of this nauseating conversation and Dmitry's all-too-knowing understanding.
"Mrs. Coleman doesn't know anything," he says, bluntly. Sal's wife. "The kids are scared. We're not getting anything from them."
I sigh. Dmitry notices the tension returning to every muscle in my body and hurries to ask before I do, "And Sal?"
"We're turning everything upside down, but we've found nothing. IT also says his online activity is clean."
No lead from the family. No digital trail. Just another dead end.
I slam my fist against the wall. The vibration freezes Luca on alert; I feel Dmitry prepare to stand up.
I'm not one inch closer to finding Nyx.
I look at the screens, at the papers, at the faces of my brother and my soldier, and all I see are dead ends. I can't breathe in here anymore.
"Donya..." Dmitry starts, but I raise a hand to silence him.
Without another word, I leave.
NINETEEN
LEO
Being kidnapped isn'tas fun the second time.
Externally, it doesn't make much difference. A warehouse with a gray, stained floor, with dried blood in the corners and an ugly layer of dust. A place that's huge and claustrophobic at the same time. Big, muscular men guarding the doors. Distant, on the other side of the wall. Silence, with the lights out, and a prolonged solitude designed to dissociate you from reality and lower your resistance before a real interrogation begins.
The reduction of sensory stimuli affects the limbic system. The prefrontal cortex is inhibited. Heart rate, blood pressure, and glucose levels rise. This technique has been used before. The CIA, the KGB, criminals of any size who have seen an action movie. Not in that order. It's scientifically based.
The problem is that my hippocampus has been atrophied by years of excess cortisol. The adrenaline doesn't come. This doesn't work on me.
It is, at most, tedious.
I don't know how much time passes. I don't know where I am. Sometimes, I hear distant conversations from guards whothink they're speaking quietly. They appear in a crescendo and disappear in a decrescendo.
I cling to that. Clues that tell me what's happening beyond the obvious—Sal willingly opened the doors for the Malakovs. Sal, the little chicken who faints if Dante breathes a little louder than normal. I need to deliver the results of those analyses; I promised Svetlana I'd deliver them on the same day. Butisit the same day? I don't know how long I was out, and I don't know how long I've been here, listening to guards complain about abusive hours and a nervous boss. Hours, for sure. Days? I don't know.
"...he hung him on a meat hook," says a passing voice from a nearby corridor. "Viktor Orlov."
"I don't believe it," says another voice.
"I saw the pictures. The boss is pissed..."
A familiar name.Viktor Orlov. One of the Malakovs' chief accountants, a cousin of one of the big bosses. I've strengthened encryption for him in the past.
They're scattered comments. They talk a lot about Viktor. Hung like butchered meat. They talk about the stock market. Assets. A fire somewhere. Things seem ugly out there.
But, as always, my body only reacts toonename.
