Page 13 of Any Means Necessary

Coward.

I enter the building through the back door, avoiding the crowds of drunk partiers raving in the nightclub. Pulse is one of the top nightclubs in New York, owned by Felix Rivera. Our arrangement is mutually beneficial; I keep his reckless sons from being arrested and ending up in the tabloids for their drunken, drug-fuelled rampages, and he gives me free rein over his clubs and their discreet backrooms.

“Our man of the hour,” I say, stepping into the storage room. The pulsing sounds of the busy nightclub quiet as I close the door behind me and flip the lock. The beautiful silence that falls over the room speaks to the quality of the soundproofing that’s gone into this building. Something I plan to take full advantage of. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I’m gonna pay it back, I swear. I have a big payday coming, you’ll get your money,” Kellen grovels, pulling at the restraints keeping him secured to the chair. His eyes are just as wild in person as they were in the photo, the overhead light casting dramatic shadows over his ugly features.

“I’m not some bookie, Kellen,” I say. “I am a debt collector, just not the kind you’re used to. You took something I’m looking for. A girl.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take any girls.”

“Even if I didn’t have video evidence proving otherwise, you’re a terrible liar. For someone who gambles so much, you really need to work on your poker face.”

“I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”

“Should I refresh your memory?” I hold up the picture. “You took little Charlotte while she was getting ice cream with her nanny.”

“Fuck you, I’m not saying anything.”

“If she’s not your big payday, that means you took her for another reason. For yourself. Do you like little girls, Kellen? Is that it? Couldn’t resist her pink bow and sparkly sneakers?” I lace my taunting with malice and disgust. “Maybe I should rid the world of a sick bastard who gets off on snatching little girls from the street.”

“No, hey, I’m not into that!”

“Why did you take her?” His silence stretches until I lose my patience.

With a sigh, I take a step back and nod to Roscoe. He knows what to do, his fist landing a powerful hit to Kellan’s temple, the force of it teetering the chair. I’m not going to lie, Kellen’s cry of pain is satisfying. The second punch splits his lip nicely. If Roscoe wasn’t holding back, our guest would be spitting out a few teeth right now. But Kellen is soft. I can already see he’s ready to fold, two punches are all it takes for him to crumble. Roscoe can see it too, but he gears up to take another hit for good measure.

“She fit the list,” Kellen grits out between clenched teeth. “White girl between the age of seven and nine, black hair, green eyes.” I nod to Roscoe and he steps back, lowering his fist. Stepping closer, I tower over my captive.

“Who’s list?” I ask, running a steady hand over my beard. My stare drills into him, but he struggles to glare with his battered eye already beginning to swell. He presses his lips together like that’ll keep me from getting my answers. I let out a heavy breath of disappointment. “You know I’m going to get the answer, Kellan. It’s just a matter of whether or not you get to walk out of here once I do. Don’t make me deal with killing you and just tell me who has the girl.”

“She—” he stammers. “She’s already gone.” My expression darkens.

“Who has her?” Repeating the question, my voice cuts with the fury pushing against my control. The mask is slipping, and if Kellen doesn’t give me a fucking name, he’s going to feel my full wrath.

“It was just a job, good money. They gave me a list.” The excuses are flooding from Kellen’s mouth, his self-preservation kicking in. Fucking finally. “I got debts.” His head falls forward in defeat. Roscoe walks behind him, grabbing a fistful of greasy hair, and yanks Kellen’s head up to look at me.

“Your debts just got worse. You took from the wrong family, and now you owe reparations.” My tone is ice cold. “A name. Who has the girl?” When he doesn’t answer me, I nod to Roscoe who brings a knife up to his throat.

“The Russians,” he chokes out, “Anton Kozlov.” I recognize the name. Bratva. The Russians are huge on the alcohol and sex trades. As head of the Russian Mafia, it’s Viktor Mikhailov’s territory. I’ve built a tenuous working relationship with Mikhailov over the years. This isn’t the best news, but definitely something I can work with.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it Kellen?” Nodding to Roscoe, he reaches for the black bag—the bag that comes into play when a job requires some fucker to pay for their sins.

“I gave you the name,” Kellen stammers, tugging against his restraints. “So you’ll let me go now, right? You got what you wanted.”

“Not quite.” Those two words cut him off at the knees. “It’s time you pay your debts.”

“I don’t have any money to give you.”

“Oh, I know you don’t,” I reply evenly. “So we’ll be taking something else.”

Roscoe steps forward, the light glinting off the shiny metal hedge clippers in his hand. Kellen’s eyes latch onto the tool of torture, bugging almost out of his head. Something inside him snaps, like a rat caught in a trap. His body heaves and wrenches against his binds, the chair rocking beneath him.

“Wait, I’ll get you money! If you just give me some time, I can get you whatever you want,” he sputters, seizing when Roscoe’s approach doesn’t falter.

There’s no delaying his punishment, my mind is made up. He’ll get what he deserves, my justice carried out by Roscoe without so much as a blink.

“Trusting you would make me an idiot. You’re not leaving until you pay in full.”

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