Page 115 of Dirty Game
“She’s one woman,” he says, voice a blunt instrument. “The kid is your blood.”
I don’t look away from the screen. “I know.”
He gets in front of me, blocking my view, forcing my eyes up to his.
The cut across his cheek is almost healed, a ragged pink line against the stubble. “You’re thinking too loud, brother. This is a fucking distraction. Mikhail wants us off balance.”
He’s right. But he’s also wrong.
Cyrus is in the corner, tablet balanced on one knee, skimming the video frame by frame.
His glasses are on, which means he’s doing the fine work, not the break-and-enter shit.
He doesn’t say a word, just taps the screen, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow, cataloging every detail.
The guy could probably tell you the room’s humidity from a three-second clip.
The video stutters, then loops back.
There’s a thud, and one of the men grabs Rosalynn by the jaw, forcing her to look at the camera.
She doesn’t flinch. Just says, in a voice that’s barely there, “I’m sorry, Varrick.”
It cuts worse than the threats.
Korrin snorts. “Jesus. She’s got you soft.”
I ignore him. Let the screen go black. The darkness is easier.
My phone buzzes, three rapid-fire pings. New message. Video file.
I open it.
Rosalynn, same room, but her head’s up this time. One of the men stands behind her, hands on her shoulders. The butterfly knife gleams in the light.
Mikhail’s voice, “The King still refuses to bend. So we start small. A single digit.”
A hammer comes down fast. You’d think they’d go for the pinky, something expendable, but they break the index.
She doesn’t scream. She just bites down and stares at the lens, sweat running down her face. When it’s done, she spits blood at the camera.
She says, “Don’t come. Protect Dante.”
The video ends.
I feel Korrin’s eyes on me, waiting to see if I’ll crack.
Cyrus clears his throat, a sound as precise as a surgeon’s cut. “Location is somewhere industrial, north end. Concrete walls, sound echoes, no windows. Likely a warehouse, possibly one of the old canneries.”
“Can you get a fix?” I ask, my voice so flat it sounds like a threat.
He nods. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll have coordinates.”
Korrin’s pacing again, fingers drumming on the hilt of his blade. “You’re not seriously thinking of trading the weapons for her.”
“No,” I say.
“Good,” he spits. “Because you can’t negotiate with these fuckers. You show weakness, they bleed you out.”
