Chương 16 - Interrogation in the Dark
The cellar beneath the Foundry smelled of damp limestone, aged wine, and copper.
The waiter was tied to an iron chair bolted into the concrete floor. His face was already bloody, his lip split and his left eye swollen shut, courtesy of Mikhail’s initial questioning.
Soren stood in the shadows, slowly removing his tuxedo jacket and tossing it onto an empty wooden cask. He rolled his sleeves past his forearms, revealing the violent tapestry of black-ink tattoos and combat scars.
Blythe stood by the door, watching. Her heart was beating fast, but she felt no urge to flee. The adrenaline had burned away the panic, leaving behind a cold, sharp lucidity.
“Talk,” Soren said. He didn't raise his voice. He sounded like a judge handing down an inevitable sentence.
The waiter spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete. He was younger than he had appeared upstairs, perhaps twenty-four, with cold blue eyes and a Slavic accent that was thick with defiance.
“I answer to Kozlov,” the boy sneered. “You think you rule this city, Vanek? Kozlov has been back for three weeks. He’s inside your accounts. He’s inside your docks. And he’s going to hang you from the Brooklyn Bridge just like he hung your father.”
A heavy silence descended upon the cellar.
Mikhail stepped forward with a pair of steel pliers, but Soren held up a hand, stopping him.
Soren looked over his shoulder at Blythe.
“You’re the medical expert, Blythe,” Soren said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “What happens when succinylcholine enters the bloodstream without a ventilator nearby?”
Blythe stepped forward into the dim light. She looked down at the assassin.
“First, the small muscles in the face and fingers begin to twitch involuntarily,” Blythe explained, her voice steady and instructional. “Within thirty seconds, the intercostal muscles in the rib cage paralyze. Then the diaphragm locks. You remain fully conscious, fully aware, feeling your lungs burn as your brain starves of oxygen. It takes roughly seven minutes for cardiac arrest to follow brain death. It’s an agonizing way to die.”
The assassin swallowed hard, his bravado cracking for a fraction of a second as he looked at her.
“Fascinating,” Soren murmured. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial containing the poisoned champagne that Mikhail had recovered from the floor above. He uncorked it with his thumb. “Let’s see if your clinical diagnosis holds true.”
“Wait!” the boy gasped, thrashing against the ropes as Soren stepped closer. “Wait! It wasn't Carmine! It was Moreau! Lucian Moreau gave the authorization code!”
Blythe stiffened.
Lucian Moreau was Soren’s chief financial advisor—the man who controlled the syndicate’s offshore routing and private security logistics.
Soren stopped two inches from the boy’s face. He didn't pour the poison. He handed the vial to Mikhail.
“Where is Kozlov?” Soren asked.
“He’s at the rail yard in Secaucus,” the boy wheezed, sweat dripping down his temple. “A shipment arrived from Odessa this afternoon. Heavy ordnance. Anti-tank munitions. He’s preparing to level the TriBeCa compound tonight while you’re stuck here at the summit.”
Soren stood upright. He didn't thank the boy. He didn't offer mercy.
“Mikhail,” Soren commanded, walking toward the stairs. “Put a bullet behind his ear, burn the body in the furnace, and have the convoy ready in three minutes. We are going back to Manhattan.”
Blythe turned to follow Soren, her high heels clicking on the damp stone. She didn't look back when the suppressed pop of Mikhail’s pistol echoed behind them.
May you like
She had crossed the threshold. There was no going back to the triage ward.
***
