Page 66 of Vasily the Hammer

She mouths,“Of Vasily,”before speaking out loud, “A cousin. Sorry. A couple steps removed. But there’s a family picture out in the hallway that I’m in. I can show you for proof. I thought I’d take you out of the house for a bit. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been cooped up since your injury.”

I shouldn’t trust her. Not only because it’s so convenient that she shows up now but also because I shouldn’t trust anyone. I can’t help but think that her saying I’ve been cooped up is clear indication that she is a friend of Vasily’s despite the low odds that one of my family members would also be his friend.

That doesn’t mean she’s trustworthy either, though. That could just mean that she’s about to kidnap me all over again with that concealed gun.

But then her eyes go back to Artom, who’s finished up breakfast but pulled out his tablet to play hopefully educational games. I seethe way her eyes soften and her nose twitches. She rests her hand over her breast as she mouths either,“Vasily’s hurt,”or,“Vasily’s heart,”and either way?

It’s a gut punch.

Chapter 22

Vasily

We were doinga service to Angelo Fiorini— and Benedetti— when we kept our hands off him during our interrogation. He was returned home in one piece. We are not doing a service to John “JD” Dillis or Ian Maguire.

I’m pretty sure Mr. Maguire is already dead.

JD groans as I sock him in the stomach with knuckles already cracked open from the bones I’ve slammed them into. When I step out of the way so Bernie can punch him too, he groans again.

Yeah, Blazing Hell and I have butted heads our fair share in the past. They sided with the IRA in the events leading up to Artyom’s death, and they very narrowly escaped their own extermination during that, but this is settling a fair amount of our beef. Bernie ispissed.

“You come into my town,” he snarls, “onto my turf, down my streets, and you join up with the IRA and fuck shit up for my club without even ahi, how are you?I don’t know what you boys in San Antonio think manners are, but that’s not how we do shit in Flagstaff!”

JD starts to answer, probably with some bullshit, and Bernie socks him hard in the cheek. A tooth goes flying out with a spray of blood and spit, and then he hocks up two more teeth on the floor below him.

About two feet below him. We trussed him up in a meat locker. Meat hooks are great. Especially with the way he swings and spins around like a pinata.

“I was told we was good,” he cries out. “I swear it, man. And the IRA and us in San Antonio, we’re cool. It’s the ‘spics we fighting there.”

I punch him again, this time hard enough he vomits. I don’t need words like that getting tossed around here. TheCalaverasaren’t active in Flagstaff anymore, and we absorbed their turf and some of their men. Dollar for dollar, I prefer them to any of the borderline white supremacists— or actual white supremacists— in the MC or the IRA.

“Where’s my sister?” I yell at him.

“Man, I don’t know your sister, you stupid bitch!” he shrieks at me, and Bernie literally grabs him by the hips and spins him hard enough the dude looks like he’s the lady on a figure skating team.

But I’m tired of this. So goddamn tired. We left him hanging here while we worked Maguire for hours, and no matter what we pulled from him, he swore he had nothing to do with Kseniya and Alex’s disappearances. We’ve reclaimed most of our lost goods. We’ll be able to go back into production in the next week. We’veeven gotten another shipment coming from that seller with the tracker because he was so pleased at how quickly we recovered his crate.

But no Kseniya. No Alex. It’s impossible they’re unrelated, but I’m running out of leads. If nothing comes from this, the only thing left is the traffic cam footage Janson is currently sifting through.

Bernie grabs the guy, who now has a wet spot on the front of his jeans, but the chill of the meat freezer keeps the stench of fresh urine from reaching our nostrils. “You telling us you just showed up here, jumped in the IRA’s van, fucked a bunch of shit up, and felt right with that?”

“I don’t know,” he sobs. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I just did what I was told.”

“Who told you?”

“It was... fuck, it was a Russian dude. But he knew you, man. He gave me your name and everything, said you and the IRA was having issues with the-the-the Mexicans,” he stutters, staring at with me with his one good eye— not sure what happened to the other one, but it’s gotta be rolling around here somewhere— and finishes with, “It was orders!”

“It wasn’t my orders, and it wasn’t your prez’s orders either. You fucked up, son. Now tell us who the Russian guy was.”

The man groans from deep within his body, like his soul is attempting to depart. The way blood comes up when he coughs has me thinking that soul’s gonna depart anyway, it’s just a matter of time. “His name... his name was... fuck. Denis? Daniel? Dickbreath? Shit.”

Shit.With a resigned sigh, I ask, “Dima?”

The guy’s eye lights up. “That’s it! That was it? This is all his fault.”

“Yep. Sure fucking seems that way.” And now that I know he’s probably the guy who kidnapped my sister, it’s not even going to be a fast death for Dima. It’s going to be slow and painful.

JD’s death is a rapid one, a bullet from my gun right into his brain matter. Not that it ever did much for the guy.

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