Page 83 of Savage Warrior

“Where did you take Natalija Kovalyova?” I snarl, once again shaking Weasel warmly by the throat.

“Here,” he squeaks. “We brought her here.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. Minsk…”

“Where in Minsk?”

“She was probably sold by now. I don’t know who—”

I hurl him across the corridor. He slithers down the opposite wall, leaving a trail of blood on the plasterwork, to land in a motionless heap.

Tony crouches to check him. “Dead,” he announces, standing and wiping his hands on his jeans.

At that moment, the door at the end of the corridor opens. A startled, wide-eyed girl of around eighteen gapes at us. When Tony makes a move towards her, she cowers against the wall.

“Please, do not hurt me. I didn’t see anything, I swear…”

“What’s your name?” I ask her. Surely this can’t be the infamous Zora.

“Tatiana,” she whimpers.

“What do you do here, Tatiana?” I ask.

“Waitress,” she replies. “I wait on tables, fetch drinks.”

“Anything else?”

“S-sometimes,” she tells me. “If the men want…”

Another prostitute, barely more than a child herself.

“You need to get out of here, Tatiana,” I say. I deliberately gentle my tone. “The door’s that way.”

“I cannot. I…”

I tip her face up to meet my gaze. “Tatiana. Run.”

She takes no more convincing. She nods sharply and sets off in the direction of the door we kicked in.

“You should have asked her where Zora is,” Ethan remarks as the girl disappears from sight. “Now we’ll have to find her ourselves.”

We make our way down the corridor, checking each door. There are three, one leading to a storeroom, another to a toilet, and the third, the one the girl emerged from, leads into a sort of dressing room. There are a dozen or so chairs arranged around the edges, each facing a mirror on the wall. A counter runs around the perimeter littered with items of makeup, hairbrushes, combs, tissues, and other such paraphernalia.

“I guess this is where the girls get ready for work,” Aaron observes, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Over here.”

I lead the way through the only other door, and we find ourselves in the bar. It’s empty and in darkness, so we continue on through. As we approach the far end, voices echo from somewhere in the back.

“Listen. There’s somebody through there.”

The rest nod. We move forward quietly, taking in what we can.

The voices are female, one woman doing most of the talking. She has a strident tone and is berating someone for apparently being clumsy and slow. Another, quieter voice tries to respond but is cut short by a resounding slap. There’s weeping, then the bossy one starts again.

“Tonight is a party. It will be busy, and I expect you all to do your part. Anyone who les me down will regret it. If you don’t work, if my customers are not happy, you don’t eat, and no one gets paid.”

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