Page 51 of The Butcher

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just started here?—”

I pulled out my pistol and shot him in the head. The sound of the blast was deafening in the enclosed space, even with the silencer on.

One of the other guys gave out an uncontrollable shout.

The other—the one who’d pissed himself—had wet eyes.

I turned to the next one. “Your turn.” I aimed the gun at him.

This one didn’t play games. “Godric.” His eyes were down because he couldn’t look at me, couldn’t face down the barrel pointed at his head.

“Good,” I said. “Where can I find him?”

“I—I don’t know. I really don’t know. You can ask the boss?—”

“Who’s the boss?”

“The man I work for…his name is Peter.”

“Peter what?”

“Peter Astinoff.”

I kept my gun on him. “Call him.”

He hesitated, like he couldn’t believe the request. “I—I don’t have his number.” He looked at his dead comrade. “He hired me?—”

I pulled the trigger, and he fell out of the chair.

“Please don’t kill me.” The man with the wet pants immediately started to beg for his life, trembling so hard in his chair that the tapping of the legs against the concrete was audible.

“Get me Peter, and you won’t have to die in your own piss.”

“I don’t have his number, but I can get you to him.”

“How?” I continued to hold the gun to his face.

“I think I know where he lives.”

“You think?”

“He was having a party and wanted us to bring the girls…for entertainment.”

I kept the gun trained on him, but for once, I was intrigued by this information. “Address?”

“I don’t—don’t know the address, but—but I remember how to get there.” He could barely talk, afraid his brains were about to get blown across the floor. “It’s the 4th arrondissement. I can take you there now.”

I finally lowered the gun and nodded to one of my guys to cut him free.

When his wrists were unbound, he closed his eyes and released a heavy breath.

“Change your pants,” I barked. “My car isn’t going to smell like piss.”

We drove across town to the 4th arrondissement, the roads empty at this hour. My witness was in a different car, a gun held to his temple. With the window cracked, I smoked a cigar, passing the old buildings and seeing Notre-Dame come into view, the cranes still in place because the renovation would take years.

Fleur texted me.You awake?

I’d been simmering in the back seat, burning underneath my clothes. The women I’d liberated were being taken to a safe house by the guys. After they showered and changed their clothes, they would be given money and papers to head on their way or be reunited with the families from which they were stolen. Most of the girls weren’t even legal adults yet. I wanted to ignore Fleur’s message and let her think I was asleep because I was in a pissed-off mood, but I respected her too much to let her message go unanswered.Working.

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