Page 111 of Arranged Control
“That’s not good,” Alina whispers, staring at the car. It stands out in the otherwise blighted street. “The front door’s open.”
She’s right. There’s only a sliver showing the interior, like someone tried to close it but didn’t get it all the way. Security bars cover the windows and the mortar’s beginning to crumble between the stones. I doubt anyone lives here. Or at least, not often.
“Don’t move. I’ll find him.” I push the door open, but she grabs my wrist.
“Wait.” Fear makes her mouth tremble. “I don’t know if you should go out there.”
I lean back and kiss her. “I have to find Taras.”
“I know. But if she’s inside, I don’t want to lose you too.”
“You won’t. I’m ready for this.”
She chews her lip, clearly struggling with this choice, but finally reluctantly nods. “I’ll keep the doors locked.”
“No matter what, don’t open them for anyone but me.”
I slip out into the night. There’s no noise from the house. No lights shine through the windows either, though they look like they were covered over with cardboard or paper from the inside. I hurry across the street. There aren’t any lights in this whole neighborhood. Everything’s pitch black as clouds roll across the moon. I keep my gun out and listen beside the door.
Still nothing. Total silence. Until?—
A groan. It’s soft. From somewhere deep in the house. But it’s definitely a person, and they sound like they’re in pain.
I rip the door open and step inside.
Nothing. It’s dark too. I take a small flashlight from my back pocket and flip it on. The beam shows water-stained and moldy walls. The ceiling is sagging in a few places. But the floors are clean. There’s no debris, no trash, not even any spiderwebs.
I clear the first couple of rooms. There’s no furniture and no sign anyone’s been here. But it also doesn’t look like it’s been abandoned. There’s no dust on the windowsill.
The kitchen is the same. Empty, but not filthy. Like it’s been maintained by someone else. I pause, listening, and there it is again.
A soft groan, and it’s coming from upstairs.
I creep toward the steps, heart racing. There’s no doubt in my mind that this house was meant for Molchanie. Whether she’s been staying here or not, I can’t begin to guess. But so much makes sense.
Ruslan’s been bankrolling her. He’s been hiding her too. All the dead have been Irish. No Russians have been hurt. At least not to this point. She’s been purposefully leaving Ruslan’s people alone, maybe because he’s been giving her help.
I pick up my pace. I hate that Alina’s alone in the car. Molchanie could be out there watching. I reach the top landing and pause, listening carefully, and move my flashlight beam across the floor.
A pool of blood glistens ten feet away.
I stare for a moment. There’s a lot of blood. More blood than one person would make. The groan comes again from the doorway ahead. Whoever it is, they’re alive, but they’re definitely hurt.
I approach, listening for any footsteps, and throw myself into the doorway, flashlight and gun raised to clear the room.
Corpses. Bodies. Humans lying sliced to ribbons. It’s a gory mess. The room looks like it was slept in. There’s a mattress against the wall and a makeshift dresser beside it. A corpse lies slumped to my left, the throat ripped open. Another corpse is beside him, a gun on the floor between them. Both men look like they were attacked from behind. A third man’s dead a fewfeet away, stabbed through the chest and neck, his mouth caught open in a silent scream.
“Are you… back, you… fucking bitch?”
I swing the gun to the last body. Taras is slumped against the mattress. His breath is shallow. There’s a red stain on his chest, and blood is foaming at his lips. He’s squinting and tries to shade his eyes with one hand.
I lower the beam. “How bad?” I ask, kneeling down beside him.
“Seamus?” He stares at me in confusion. “What are you doing here?”
“How bad are you hurt?”
“Bitch… stabbed me… she killed my men…”
