Page 190 of Toxic Temptation
“Y-yes, of course,” she stutters. “Let me show you to his office.”
“Perfect,” I say, holstering my weapon. “I knew I could count on you.”
She leads us through a maze of corridors lined with unmarked doors. Some have windows. Some don’t.
I don’t like to think too hard about what happens behind the ones that don’t.
The hallway seems to stretch forever, sterile white walls closing in around us. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils, mixing with something else. Something metallic.
Blood.
“What’s the game plan?” Pavel asks under his breath.
“I find out who’s been fucking with my operation. Then I make sure it never happens again.”
The receptionist stops at a door at the end and knocks. I push past her before she can announce us and shove it open.
Dr. Benjamin Lambert looks exactly like what he is: a small, miserable man cosplaying as an important one. He’s five-foot-six on a good day, with beady eyes set too close together and the kind of wispy, carefully maintained beard that screams of overcompensation. Rolex watch, Burberry suit, Hermès tie, Loro Piana shoes?—
All paid for with stolen organs.
“Mr. Krayev!” He forces a disturbed smile. “What a pleasant?—”
I punch him in the face.
The satisfying crunch of cartilage breaking fills the room. Lambert crashes backward into his desk, papers scattering. Blood streams from his nose, staining his expensive shirt.
“Jesus Christ, Kovan.” Osip takes a step forward, then stops. Even he knows better than to interfere when I’m like this.
“What the fuck?!” Lambert presses his hand to his nose, coming away with crimson fingers. “You broke it!”
“I’ll break a lot more if you don’t start talking.” I grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall. His feet start pedaling in the air. “Pull up our files. Now.”
“You already have?—”
“You know, that’s what I thought, too.” I squeeze harder, enjoying the sight of his face turning tomato red. “Except my files have holes in them. Big ones.”
“There are no holes—please— I can’t breathe?—”
For the time being, he’s of more use to me alive than dead. That’s the only reason I release him.
He gasps as he collapses to his knees, sucking air like a drowning man, and whimpers as he rubs at the red marks left by my hands.
I nudge him with the tip of my shoe. “Try again, motherfucker. I’m not in the mood for games.”
“I swear, you already have everything?—”
I walk to the medical supply cabinet in the corner and rip the door open. Inside, surgical instruments gleam under the fluorescent lights. I select a scalpel and turn it over in my hand, testing the weight.
“Maybe my fist wasn’t persuasive enough,” I muse. “Maybe this will be more effective.”
Lambert tries to run. Osip catches him before he makes it three steps, wrapping him up and slamming him back onto the desk.
“Hold him down,” I order.
Pavel grabs Lambert’s left arm. Osip takes the right. They press him face-first against the wooden surface while I approach with the scalpel.
“How deep do you think I can cut before I hit bone?” I trace the flat of the blade along his cheek without breaking skin. “Give me your professional opinion, Doctor.”
