“Then that’s their problem. Not ours.”
“Two minutes,” Cain tells us.
I double-check my weapons, popping open the clip before snapping it back in. The safety clicks off, and my hand rests on the door handle. The plan is to pull up, round up the Russians, and figure out which one would be most likely to talk. If things go well, I’ll have more to give Dante and Sienna later. If not…well, that’s what the guns are for.
“Ready?” Cain glances at me before the tires squeal to a stop just outside the garage entrance. It’s a shabby, run-down shit show. The building itself looks as if it's about to crumble to the ground. Rust covers the open garage doors, with more along the various pipes and scaffolding hanging from the ceiling. The cement floor is stained—with oil or blood, I can’t tell.
We rip the doors open, charging out, guns up. Two men are working out front, one beneath a raised vehicle and the other by a toolbox. The second is older, probably in his early sixties or so. The one beneath the car is younger, around Cain’s age. As soon as they see us, their hands go up. The man beneath the car slowly slides out, shouting something in Russian.
“Wait, wait! Don’t shoot!” The younger one switches to English, realizing we don’t understand a word he says in Russian.
“On your fucking knees,” Cain growls, prowling closer.
They oblige, dropping to their knees. We watch as the older one struggles, using the cart holding the toolbox to lower himself to the ground.
“Bind them,” I snap. Archer and Declan move with us, handcuffing their wrists behind their backs. “Which one of you wants to talk?”
The Russians glance at each other. It gives me more time to study them. The younger one looks fairly new, probably just initiated and given absolutely no responsibility. The older one looks as if he’s seen a few years under the Pakhan’s rule. Maybe he’d been honorably retired, sent here to keep an eye on the younger one. If anyone was most likely to talk—it would be a toss-up between the two. But the old man was weaker. I can see it in his eyes.
“Him.”
Cain drags the old man forward. The younger one struggles, shouting more in Russian until Declan backhands him with the barrel of his gun. That shuts him up, but his eyes blaze with anger. Good. I want him angry. It makes this more fun.
I crouch in front of the old man. His name tag reads Andrei. “Do you know who I am?”
Andrei’s eyes narrow before he nods. But he doesn’t speak.
“Say it,” I snarl, pressing the barrel beneath his jaw.
“You are Scarano,” he says in broken English.
“Killian,” the younger one spits. I glance at him, reading the name on his mechanic’s suit, though it’s smudged with oil and grime.
“Very good, Ivan. So, if you know who I am, you must know why we’re here.” Slowly, I circle the old man, my gun trailing across his shoulders before it presses against the back of his head. “Talk, and you don’t die.”
“Talk, and we die anyway,” Ivan growls. “You think the Pakhan would let us live after this?”
To his credit, the old man doesn’t even flinch. Andrei’s back is straight, his eyes locked on our car in front of him. I crouch in front of him again, forcing him to look at me.
“You could live, Andrei. So could your partner over there. All you have to do is tell me why the Pakhan wanted to blow up our club.” We already have a few guesses as to the motivation behind the attack. But we need confirmation. A clear declaration of war. Proof.
Andrei’s lips thin, refusing to say a word. I sigh, straightening. “As you wish.”
I take my time, wandering over to the toolbox. Wrenches, scissors, pliers, and more are scattered throughout the plastic container. I pick up the pliers, turning them over in my hand before returning to Andrei. Stepping up behind him, I let him feel the long edges of the tool against his fingers. He tenses, but still says nothing.
“Look,” I tell him honestly, “I really don’t want to hurt you. You’re basically a unicorn in our world. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to stay alive this long. But, I have a job to do, which is to find out what the Pakhan wants.” The pliers clamp down on the first joint of his pointer finger. “So tell me.”
Andrei doesn’t even hesitate. He shakes his head, lips thinning until they’re merely a line across his face.
“Have it your way.” I twist. To his credit, Andrei bites back a scream as his bone breaks. I let go, letting him slouch forward, his thin shoulders hunched. “Come on, old man. I don’t have all day, and you only have nine fingers left. Just spit it out.”
“He can’t!” Ivan struggles forward. Declan puts him back down with a swift kick in the diaphragm.
“I’m not going to ask again, old man. Give me what I want,” I hiss, twisting again. Andrei screams this time, the sound echoing around the garage. I wait for him to stop impatiently.
He takes a shaky breath, turning to look at me over his shoulder. “They have big plans for you.” His accent is thick, rough. “Not just for the Scarano. Not just for the Rosania. But for every crime family in the city.”
I hesitate. He knows he’s a dead man either way. The Russians cannot learn that we questioned their men. Just as they couldn’t know that we’d captured one of them. If they really do have plans, then it would be best if the Pakhan thinks we don’t know about them.