Page 82 of Savage Warrior

The Crimson Club looks pretty much like every other such establishment the world over. The entrance is illuminated in blood-red neon, the sign flashing with an uneven rhythm suggesting the bulbs need changing. The door was at one time painted red but has now faded to more of a dingy brown. There are no windows, nothing to hint at hospitality apart from the description of wares pinned to a notice board outside.

Lap dancing.

Striptease.

Massage and ‘special services by request’.

“Nice,” Ethan observes. He raises his fist to bang on the door.

It’s answered by a skinny weasel of an individual who scowls at us around the edge of the door. “We’re shut,” he tells us, and attempts to slam it in our faces.

“Not anymore.” I lift my foot and put my boot to the timber. It shatters, sending the weasel flying.

We all pile into the narrow hallway.

“What the fuck…?” Weasel rubs his shoulder as he scowls up at us.

I suspect it may be dislocated. I can but hope.

“Where’s Zora?” I demand, remembering the name Arina mentioned when she gave me her account of what had happened to her here.

“In the back. Busy.” Weasel scrambles to his feet. “I said we’re shut and—”

“Shut the fuck up.” I take stock of him, in particular the deep scar marring his left cheek.

Ethan’s gaze meets mine. He nods.

“You were at the Kovalyov apartment,” I observe.

“Who says?” He tips up his chin. “I go to lots of places.”

“There was a witness. You abducted a child.”

“What witness? There were no one there. What child? And what business is it of yours?” Not quite a confession, but near enough.

I grab him by the throat. “You’re going to die in the next few minutes. The only question is, will it be quick and clean or… messy?”

His response is unintelligible, mainly due to my grip on his windpipe. I relax my hand to let him speak.

“I weren’t me. I never went nowhere. I just—”

I’ve heard enough crap. I squeeze again, lifting him right off his scrawny feet this time. He flails in my grip, gasping like a landed trout. I wait until his face has turned an interesting shade of puce, then I drop him. He collapses at my feet.

“So, care to tell me what happened at the Kovalyov apartment?” I ask him, reasonably pleasantly, in the circumstances.

There’s a lot of spluttering and wheezing before he manages to produce anything vaguely comprehensible, along the lines of being told what to do and acting under orders.

“Whose orders?” I demand.

He shakes his head and tries to crawl away, only to meet with Tony’s boot in his scrawny ribs.

“I’m talking to you,” I snarl. “Fucking answer me.”

He rolls on the floor, coughing and wheezing. At last, he manages to croak out a few words. “Fedor Morozov,” he groans. “The Vulture.”

I look to my companions, but no one else recognises the name either.

“I’ll check with Casey. And Jack.” Ethan fires off a couple of texts while I return to the matter in hand.

---