Page 13 of Stalk Me

“Just surprised you’re coming. You haven’t done hands-on work in months.”

“Perhaps I miss the simpler days.” I turn down a dark side street. “Besides, someone needs to ensure you don’t get too creative. We still need him able to talk.”

Erik’s low chuckle holds no humor. “When have I ever gone too far?”

“Belgrade, 2015.”

“He deserved it.”

“The cleanup took weeks.”

We arrive at the warehouse, its steel doors reflecting the streetlights. Two of our men stand guard, nodding as we approach. Petrov kneels on the concrete floor, sporting a split lip.

Erik cracks his knuckles. “After you, brother.”

I remove my jacket, carefully folding it over a nearby chair. “Let’s remind everyone why stealing from the Ivanovs is unwise.”

I circle Petrov like a wolf sizing up wounded prey. His whimpers echo off concrete walls as blood drips from his split lip onto the warehouse floor. Such a mess. I hate mess.

“You know why you’re here.” I loosen my tie, rolling up my sleeves with precise movements. “The question is, who helped you?”

“Please, Mr. Ivanov...” His voice breaks. “It was a mistake.”

Erik’s boot connects with Petrov’s ribs. The crack is satisfying, like the snap of kindling. I watch the man curl into himself, appreciating my brother’s efficiency.

“A quarter million in weapons isn’t a mistake.” I grab Petrov’s hair, yanking his head back to meet my eyes. “It’s suicide.”

Tears streak down his face. “I can pay it back. My sister, she’s sick?—”

“Should have come to me.” I release him with disgust. “Instead, you betrayed my trust.”

Erik hands me brass knuckles without a word. The metal feels cool against my skin, familiar like an old friend. I flex my fingers, watching fear bloom in Petrov’s eyes.

“Your sister will receive excellent care.” I smile, and Petrov begins to shake. “Consider it my final act of generosity.”

The first punch splits his cheek open. The second shatters his orbital bone. By the third, Erik has to hold him upright.

“Names,” I demand, wiping blood from the brass. “Or we visit your sister next.”

Petrov breaks, spilling everything between sobs. Ukrainian buyers. Inside help from our dock manager. It’s a neat little operation—if you don’t account for my cameras catching everything.

I step back, straightening my cuffs. “Erik.”

My brother’s eyes meet mine, dark with anticipation.

“Make it slow. I want footage sent to everyone who thought they could steal from us.”

“Duration?” Erik asks, already removing his jacket.

“Until he stops screaming.” I retrieve my suit jacket, brushing off invisible dust. “Then dump him where his buyers will find him.”

Petrov’s pleas follow me out of the warehouse. By the time I reach my car, they’ve turned to screams. Erik was always talented at his work.

I rest against my Bentley, lighting a cigar as another scream pierces the night air. The warehouse walls do little to mufflePetrov’s agony. Erik’s talent for inflicting pain surpasses even my own considerable skills.

A particularly sharp cry makes me pause mid-inhale. My brother learned things in Spetsnaz that would make hardened criminals blanch. Where I employ calculated violence to achieve specific ends, Erik understands pain on an almost artistic level. Each cut, break, and burn is orchestrated for maximum effect.

The screaming shifts pitch—Erik must have found a new pressure point. Despite my own comfort with violence, I’ve never managed to extract those specific tones of suffering from a victim. It’s like listening to a virtuoso at work.

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