Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
But I suspect she’ll willingly wrap her pretty legs around my hips and moan as I sink deep inside her.
I’m buzzing with lewd thoughts as I move deeper into the apartment. The cheap old wood creaks under my footsteps but I don’t hear anything stir. The living area’s messy and cramped with old furniture around a decent television mounted to the wall. The kitchen’s surprisingly neat, if a little tight. I pick up a tin of what looks like Russian cookies and peek inside.
Coffee grounds. I sniff and toss them aside. Cheap coffee grounds.
This is usually the part where I start searching the place, but I don’t have the time or the inclination. Instead, I angle toward the back hall, bypass the bathroom and head for the closed bedroom door.
Fucker’s snoring. Loudly too.
I push open the door and sneak inside.
The bedroom’s got a dresser to the left with photographs of dour-looking old men and women. Probably his family back in Russia if I had to guess. I creep to the bed as the big sleeping man snorts, rolls onto his side, and smacks his lips.
Hairy bastard. He could use a trim. I smile to myself and flick a knife from my back pocket, running the sharpened blade against my thumb.
“Wake up, Peter.”
The big man snorts and mutters. I rip his sheets off and suppress a groan.
He’s butt ass naked, like a bear with alopecia. His dick sags over ugly balls. I consider slicing them off, just to get the party started, but instead lean over the bed and grab him by the hair.
“I said, wake the fuck up.”
He grunts and jerks awake. His eyes shoot open and he roars in shock, but I expected this. I push the blade of the knife to his cheek and slice, ending with the sharp edge to the soft part of his throat.
Blood bubbles from the cut skin.
He babbles something in Russian, eyes wild and wide in the darkness, his right hand reaching for the nightstand.
“English, Peter.”
He gathers himself. To his credit, he’s struggling against his fear. It's not easy to get woken up in the middle of the night to a knife-wielding crazy man by the side of your bed.
“Who… are you? What… are you doing here?”
“My name’s Liam. I’m here to ask you some questions.”
He grunts, gaze darting around. “Liam. Whelan?”
“That’s right.” I climb onto the bed and put a knee into his gut. He groans as I lean on him, the blade still at his throat. “Hands by your side, please.”
He pulls them back. “You know who I am?”
“Peter Reshnikov. What do they call you in your family? Peter the Butcher?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Then you know exactly how this is going to go.” I press the knife tighter. “You’re going to answer my questions. If you do a good job, I might settle for maiming instead of killing. Your bosses will be upset, but at least I won’t have to deal with your body. But, if you’re a pain in my ass—“ I let his imagination do the work. He’s a clever, violent man, and he knows exactly what’ll happen.
His breathing quickens. “What do you want?”
“Kieren Foley. Do you know that name?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s dating my boss’s daughter.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Honestly?” Peter’s nose wrinkles. “Not my kind of man.”
“Why not?”
“Too soft. Too confident. A man like that, who talks a lot, he quickly learns what is good to say and what isn’t.”
“Punchable face?”
“Yes. Very punchable.”
I lean more weight into my knee. Peter grunts in response. “What did he take from his employer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Peter, come on now, play along. Don’t make this messy.”
“I don’t know! They don’t tell me that kind of thing.”
“You run security for the old man, don’t you?”
“Da, yes, Boris Baranov is my employer.”
“Then surely you’ve heard something. Come on, big guy. Give me something.”
Sweat dribbles down his forehead. I hate this part, where the panic starts to kick in. He’s trying to think of some way out of this situation. Maybe he’s thinking he can fight, maybe if he moves fast enough, he might even win. The element of surprise and all that.
I whip the knife away from his neck and jab it down hard into his right eye.
Peter screams. He flails knocking me sideways as his hands come up to the blade. He bucks like a dying hog, and honestly, it’s impressive, if a little bit much. Blood and eye juice covers my hand. I wipe it off on his comforter and slip another knife from my belt. When he begins to calm, I grab him by the hair and drag him onto the floor, leaving a nasty trail on the sheets.
“Deep breath, big guy, this is going to hurt.” I grab the hilt of the knife.
“No, wait, no, please—“
I rip it out.