by Lake, Keri
“You’re saying someone else is responsible for the murder of my family?” It didn’t make sense. For months, I’d been under the assumption that Tesarik had ordered the hit, for the guns we’d stolen from him only a couple weeks prior to the attack.
“That’s what I’m saying. The other two men who broke into your house were believed to be hitmen, hired by the owner of Seventh Circle Productions.”
Before I bothered to ask why they hadn’t killed me that night, the reason popped in my mind like a jack-in-the-box of bad memories.
“They weren’t looking for the guns.” Roman’s words echoed the memories running through my head, when I’d confessed to the murderers that I’d stolen them. “I imagine that must’ve been the gravy, something of a jackpot they’d scored—a hit and a bounty all in one night.”
“My brother was murdered for hacking torture porn?” Frustration tightened my jaw and gave a stiff clip to the question.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but yes.”
“Who is he? Who’s the owner of Seventh Circle?” I asked, a renewed spark of anger burning in my veins.
“No one knows. He goes by the name of Pasák. In my language, it means Pimp.”
“He’s Slovak?”
“It would seem.”
My mind scrambled to put pieces together, specifically how in the hell Tesarik was connected to the men of the Seven Mile Crew and Pasák. “This file you mentioned. Where is it?”
“It’s believed to be in Pasák’s possession.”
“And why does Tesarik want me to retrieve it?”
“Tesarik believes you’re dead. At the moment, you’re a clean slate with him.”
“So, why am I here?”
“Your release was arranged by my client, who wishes to remain anonymous.” He took another puff of his cigar.
“Not Tesarik.”
The scar on Roman’s face stretched with a hint of a smile. “Not Tesarik. For the sake of confusion, though, we’ll call him Mister X.” His eyes narrowed on mine, and for the first time in the last ten minutes, he shifted in his seat. “I’ve been Tesarik’s hitman and advisor for years and I’ve never taken on an outside contract. However, this is a personal matter for me. My client is believed to be the one responsible for stealing the eight-point-five million from DigiLab.”
“Did he?” I still didn’t understand how I played any part in that.
Roman’s tongue swept over his lips as he put out his cigar in the ashtray beside him. “Whether he did, or not, is none of my concern. The men who murdered your family are the ones looking for him. The two of you share a mutual enemy, which is why he sought your release.”
“How do you plan to keep this from Tesarik?” I glanced back at the guard by the door. “Aren’t you afraid freight train over there will rat you out?”
Roman lifted his gaze toward the man, and both of them chuckled. “I killed the man Tesarik hired to murder his wife a few years back. Imrich would sooner swallow a cup of rusted nails than side with Tesarik.”
Back stiff against the wall, the man lifted his chin as if proud.
Swinging my attention back, I stared hard at Roman, trying to decide how much of the shit he spoke was truth. “Let me make sure I’m straight on this. Your client, Mister X, wants me to steal a file from some torture porn ringleader named Pasák.”
“That’s correct.” Roman eased back into his leather chair. “Stolen from your brother, the night your family was murdered.”
“My brother?” What'd sounded like a bullshit gig suddenly got interesting. How the hell had Reed gotten caught up in such a shit-storm? “What makes you so sure there’s a file? What the hell's in it?”
“The file contains very sensitive information, including the otherwise unknown contact for my client. It also contains the only known copy of a video recorded nearly five years ago. The video appeared on Wonderland’s website before your brother crashed it. It, and a number of files, had been downloaded prior to the hack by a username of Friendly Fire, which I’ve determined belonged to your brother. This particular video contains some fairly incriminating information about Mister X, and Pasák has threatened to expose it, if the money that was stolen isn’t returned.”
“How do you even know the video exists? How do you know this Pasák isn’t bluffing?”
“Because he described some of the acts in the video, in detail. Considering most of the men who carried out the acts are now dead, it’s a little suspicious.”
“You just said the video had been posted on the website. Maybe he saw it there. Who uploaded it?”
“Wonderland is a file sharing site. It was believed to have been uploaded by a member of the Seven Mile Crew who recently met his untimely demise. Oddly enough, the only IP address listed in the downloads was traced back to your brother.”
Jesus Christ. What the hell had Reed gotten himself into? “How long before Pasák exposes it?”
“He didn’t say. It’s an idle threat at the moment as they’re not even sure my client is alive, though they’re fairly convinced he’s stolen the money.”
“Why me? You’ve got connections. Hitmen.” I jerked my head toward Imrich like he was one of them. “Why don’t you kill Pasák?”
“I mentioned, I’m retired. I’m not exactly a … what’s the American term … spring chicken these days. Trust me, you weren’t my first choice. You were chosen by my client. Handpicked.”
Handpicked? “This makes no sense.”
“Mister X has a certain appreciation for those who’ve suffered great injustices.” His chest puffed up, and he blew out a sharp breath. “From your files, I’ve come to learn that you’re a bit reckless—whether from ignorance or illness, I haven’t determined, but you seem unafraid to take risks. Most men wouldn’t take on this job. I’m not going to lie, Mr. Hawkins. There is no guarantee you’ll live to retrieve that file.”
“So I’m supposed to … what? Sign up to be a porn star for their production company?”
His brow lifted. “Clever. But no. There’s an auction coming up. The sale of an American woman who’s thought to have been kidnapped by Pasák’s men.”
“He runs some fucked-up website and a trafficking ring on the side?”
“The auctions are broadcast on the website, and Pasák is rumored to be attending this particular auction. As you have quite a knack for entering places you shouldn’t, stealing things you shouldn’t, you’re to find out where the auction is expected to take place and retrieve the file from Pasák.”
“When’s the auction?”
“Five weeks from today. Two other girls are being held, also. Trained.”
“Trained for what?”
“Slavery. Torture. Whatever the hell the men who purchase them want. They’re put through grueling sensory deprivation exercises. Drugged, beaten, and broken. At the moment, it’s unclear where they’re being held, or where the auction is supposed to take place. You’re to find out.”
The chain bit into my wrists as I curled my hands into fists. “And just how the fuck am I supposed to find this auction, if you don’t even know who Pasák is?”
“Each of the members of this Seventh Circle have a tattoo. A circle with a seven. Like the one on your forearm.”
I frowned, recalling the tattoo that’d been inked on me about a month ago while still inside the salt mines. At the time, I wasn’t given explanation or reason. I figured it to be some sort of branding by Tesarik, a mark to say that I was destined for death. Or torture. I hadn’t seen it on any of the other prisoners, so I assumed I’d been sorted out for something, and therefore I’d made a point to keep it hidden as much as possible. “You’ve been planning this for quite some time.”
He nodded and rose up from his chair, coming to a stand in front of his desk. “Many of the videos uploaded to Wonderland are filmed here in Detroit. The tattoo is their calling card. A ticket to view whatever they want, whenever they want. Many of the gang members, who are also part of the club,
wear the tattoo. It’s your ticket into the auction. It acts as a silent means of communicating to one another. One flash of the tattoo, and anyone who’s familiar with Seventh Circle knows what it means. In this way, they’ve not been caught.”
“And you rotten pricks tattooed the shit on my arm.”
“You begin asking questions without it, and you’ll be dead within days.”
“And this file? I’m supposed to … what? Rifle through the fucker’s kitchen drawers and find it? He could have a million files.”
Without a trace of amusement on his face, he said, “Once you’ve tracked down Pasák, you’re to retrieve the file by any means necessary.”
I'd had a feeling there'd be more to the job than a simple swipe of a file. “We’re not just talking about theft.” With a shake of my head, my mind rejected every bit of the conversation up until that point. “I’m no fucking gopher boy for you and your goddamn mafia cunts. I don’t do interrogations, or assassinations.”
“You did at one time. Working for the Bojanski brothers. Collections department?”
Damn. What the hell kind of history did the guy have on me to know I’d worked for Bojanskis at one time? They were two Polish brothers known for their ruthless methods of conducting business, and with connections that ensured they got shit done, nobody fucked with them.
I’d gotten my start early on, making deliveries for them as a teenager, until Dax and I had landed a job, roughing up some of the assholes who’d skipped out on payments they owed the brothers for loans. Dax had lived on the streets for a while, had become pretty skilled as a fighter, and I'd gotten pretty good with a gun. Frank Bojanski introduced me to Wally, one of his uncles who'd worked as an enforcer for the brothers for years, and he taught me about trace evidence, and the difference between shooting to wound and shooting to kill. Between Dax’s fists and my black steel hunting blade, Black Betty, I rarely had to pull my piece, but it happened every so often.
“I haven’t done that shit in a long time. I’m retired.”
“Then, you have no interest in avenging the murders of your family?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“They’re associated with Pasák, and it was Pasák who ordered the murder of your family, which makes you the perfect man for this job. It’s personal for you. That, and everyone thinks you’re dead.”
“How do you know so much about the murder? Someone actually report what happened, or was it all swept under the rug?” Anger burned inside my veins at the thought of that. I hadn’t watched television in months. Had no idea what'd become of the house, or my grandmother and brother’s remains.
“Your grandmother’s house was burned down that night. I’m afraid there was nothing left but ashes and cinderblocks. As for how I became privy? There isn’t much I don’t know about you, Mr. Hawkins.” Roman tipped his head. “Your own father was killed in prison, after a botched robbery that resulted in the shooting of a police officer. You’re into extreme urban exploration and ridiculous stunts that could easily have killed you themselves.” He huffed. “You’re also a thief, and by my employer’s records, responsible for intercepting a large shipment of firearms …”
“That were already stolen. Besides, the twat you hired for the job couldn’t steal a fucking bag of peanuts from a flight attendant. I’m surprised he got as far as he did.”
“Regardless. You’ve also been responsible for drug deals, stripping cars, and scrapping abandoned buildings.”
“Congratulations. You know how to Google.” I shifted my jaw, staying quiet as he rattled off a lifetime of criminal activity that began at the ripe age of twelve, when I stole a pack of smokes for my mom from the corner drugstore. I was a criminal, hustling to get my shit together and go legit someday. Hard to do with a record like mine, but I’d had a business plan and some cash set aside, until the night everything had come crashing down.
“Unfortunately, criminal records don’t exactly make impressive curricula vitae.”
“What are you, a fucking priest looking for confession? Yeah, I did some shit.”
“Who were you working for when you stole the guns from Tesarik? Bojanskis?”
“No one.”
“No one,” he echoed. “This crime was committed for the …”
“Sheer entertainment. A way to pacify a bipolar street kid who had nothing better to do.” I sneered at his impassive stare.
“A modern-day Robin Hood.”
I was the farthest thing from Robin Hood. At least he gave back to the poor. I hocked the shit I’d stolen, for drugs or cash.
“Earlier, you said that Tesarik thinks I’m dead. Why would he think that? Because the guards roughed me up?”
“Because I was put in charge of your execution.” Roman raised a brow and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, you can appreciate the conflict of interest. I did say this was personal.”
“I do this, and you’ll just let me go after. Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
I shook my head. “Fuck this. I’m not playing whatever game this is.”
“Would you like me to secure the photographs of your brother’s burned carcass? Perhaps you’d like to see the damage a set of knuckledusters can inflict on the flesh.”
Rage burned in my veins at the memory of my brother’s final moments. “What do you know of that?”
“You’d be surprised what foolish men brag about.”
He held up a key and twisted around toward his desk, from where he nabbed a bottled water and another object that had my mouth watering . Real food. He set them both on the floor by my feet, before reaching behind my back and unlocking the cuffs.
He finally handed me the water and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich, and hell if my stomach didn’t growl the moment it hit my itching palms. The smell of savory meats bled through the packaging. One sandwich wouldn’t fill me up, but it was better than what I'd been running on.
Roman returned to his seat and he leaned forward, watching as I tore into the food.
A lion couldn’t have opened that sub faster than I did, and I bit down, damn near rolling my eyes like a man possessed at the Italian flavors of mortadella, provolone, and soppressata. Not even the overpowering salt that still coated my tongue kept me from relishing the taste. Goddamn, I hadn’t eaten real food in nearly a year, only a stew like substance that I'd had to look away from to scoff it down.
“So,” Roman said, breaking into my moment. “You’ll do the job, or Imrich here will escort your ass back to the mines.”
My jaw shifted as I stared back. I trusted no one. It’d kept me alive when I should’ve been dead a number of times over. I finished off the sandwich, shoving the last bite into my mouth, eyes still locked on him.
As if sensing my contemplation, he asked, “Why should you trust me?” He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “You can’t. But you don’t have a choice.”
“What makes you think you can trust me?”
The smile on his face crinkled his scars. “Ah, Mr. Hawkins. One thing you and I have in common is a fire in our souls that burns for revenge. You can’t escape it. It’s what has kept you alive for the last eleven months.”
“What do you get out of this?”
“The same as you. Freedom from the nightmares that have kept me awake at night.” His impassive stare told me he didn’t plan to explain any more than that. “You’ll be given a significant advance on your payment and fully prepped for the job.”
“Payment?”
“One million dollars to retrieve the file. Should you kill Pasák in the process, you’ll receive double.”
Two million dollars to kill the bastard supposedly responsible for my family’s murder?
Fuck yes, I’d do it.
“How will you know when I’ve killed him?”
His cheek twitched, but he didn’t smile. “I’ll know.”
5
Jase
I smoothed my hand over the black leather jacket that’d been l
aid out for me on the bed, alongside dark jeans, a watch, a black T-shirt , a sleeveless black hoodie, similar to the one I used to wear, and new black boots.
Beside the bed sat a medium-sized carryon suitcase.
Roman stood behind me, puffing his cigar, beside a petite woman, with jet black hair and round brown eyes, like something out of a European modeling agency. “My client asked that you be fully outfitted prior to your release so there’s no time wasted,” he said. “I trust the sizes are correct?”
“Yes,” I answered. “How did you know?”
“Ania used to be a seamstress, before I hired her as my assistant.” With a slight twist, he looked down at the woman who stood about a half-foot shorter than him. “She’s very skilled at estimating a man’s size.”
At that, the woman leered, her gaze falling to somewhere in the zip code of my crotch.
“You’ll have the opportunity to shower. All toiletries are available in the adjoining bathroom.” Another puff on his cigar, and his brow kicked up. “Ania can assist with that, as well, if you’d like.”
I frowned, trying to figure out if I’d just read him right. “You want me to fuck her?”
Blush tinged her cheeks to a shade of humiliation.
“I want you to get any possible distractions out of your system now.”
I rubbed my jaw, taking in her tight body, large tits and small waist. Those long black locks of hers had me licking my lips, as I imagined gripping tight to them.
A flash of my brother’s torn-up face, coated in blood, hit my skull like a warning to abort mission.
To focus.
“I’m good.” In truth, I liked the chase. I’d never been one to gobble up pussy handed out too freely. I preferred feisty women, ones who made me work for my meal.
A flicker of her eyebrows told me she’d taken the rejection to heart. Too bad. I didn’t have time to get my dick stroked. Not when the men who'd murdered my family still walked free.
“As you wish.” Roman’s detached expression made me wonder if he’d ever fucked her himself, otherwise it’d make for a bad case of blue-balls, having her ass following behind a man like a lost puppy. “We’ll finish your preparations after you’ve showered.”
