A rural area of the Pevlova Oblast, several hours east of the Leningrad Oblast, in Russia

June 2017

The countryside is a lush oil painting come to life, too beautiful to be real. A warm breeze ruffles the oak leaves, and the sunlight filters through the dense tree canopy, bathing the ground in syrupy golden light. The soft moss swallows the sound of footsteps.

Not everyone can appreciate the day’s beauty, however.

The cargo has been unloaded. The cargo is crying. It doesn’t matter. The area is thickly wooded, and there are no other houses for miles. No one to hear their screams, their pleas. They’re about to be hustled into the basement of a crumbling farmhouse, to await the auction tomorrow night.

Cataha has been waiting for the cargo for an hour. Impatience chews at him as he walks over to the miserable, weeping crowd of women, huddled together on the weed-choked driveway.

A man with yellow teeth and breath that stinks of onions grins and waves at the cargo. “They’re ready for your inspection, Mr. – sorry – Cataha.”

Cataha gives the man, Ygor, a look that threatens death if he makes that mistake again. The man knows his real name from past dealings with him, but nobody speaks his real name here. He has chosen a new name – the Russian word for Satan – to separate himself from his past with one clean and vicious slice.

“Mr. who?” His hand drifts to the Stechkin automatic pistol he has holstered on his right hip.

“Sorry, sir.” Ygor swallows hard and looks at the ground.

Once upon a time, Cataha would have killed the man for such a slip-up. Slashed his throat right there, as an example to the others. He doesn’t need weak, stupid dullards working for him. Now, with his forces and finances severely depleted, he is forced to tolerate fools. But not forever. And he has a very long memory.

He turns to survey the delivery, and his anger recedes a little. A cruel smile curls his lips.

Twenty women.

Beautiful. Young. Terrified.

The heavenly trifecta.

There are four men guarding them, including Ygor, and one man stationed a mile down the weed-choked dirt side-road. He would like to have triple that number, but he simply couldn’t afford it.

He used to swim in a sea of rubles, sable and pussy. His mansion could swallow a small town. Now he’s living under a fake name, in hiding, cutting corners everywhere. Hatred gnaws at his gut, and he imagines his enemies strapped down on a table in a room full of sharp instruments. Just like the old days.

The sale of this shipment will help him get back on his feet again. And the inspection is his favorite part. The sheer terror that twists their faces, the beautiful symphony of their sobs…it sends a rush of blood to the groin.

Their hands are tied behind their backs, and their feet are shackled together so they can only shuffle, not run. Their clothing is stained, and they reek of fear and sweat and urine.

That’s all right. They’ll be bathed and stripped for the auction tomorrow night. Then they’ll each have their hands attached to cuffs on chains that dangle from the ceiling, and their shiny, clean bodies will be pawed and prodded by the horde of prospective buyers.

He’d love to sample the merchandise, but they’re worth more unsullied. Much more. And he needs the funds.

He can play with them a little, though. As long as their hymens are intact, they still command a virgin price. Tonight will be delightful.

He walks up and down the rows of women, his gaze cold, fingering the small whip he carries on a hook on the left side of his belt. They see the whip and cry harder. That’s the point.

He strides up to one of the prettiest ones. She has thick, shiny hair the color of sun-ripened wheat, hanging halfway down her back. Full hips. Her eyes are a pale blue. Her pink lips are plump. He wants to bite them until they bleed. He wants to splatter her pale flesh with cuts and bruises. He wants to feel the snap of bone beneath his fist.

He slaps her on the side of the head. Best to establish his authority right away.

“Get on your knees, whore.”

She glares at him sullenly. He hits her harder, and she staggers but still refuses to kneel for him.

He sees no fear in her gaze. Only contempt. That infuriates him.

Once everyone knew his name, and trembled when they heard it. Now this stupid peasant slut thinks she can defy him and continue to breathe.

“You want to play this game, bitch?” he roars at her.

Without warning, he reaches between her legs and squeezes hard. She screams in pain and staggers back, bumping into one of the other girls.

He moves forward and keeps squeezing, and grabs her by the hair so she can’t get away from him. She is frantic, writhing, as he crushes her sex with a vise-like grip. His men rush over to watch, their eyes alight.

“Did your parents keep you pure?” he demands.

She keeps squirming, tears of pain welling in her eyes, but refuses to speak.

He already knows the answer, because these women were referred to him by a doctor on his payroll.

The women are young, disease-free virgins, from very poor families. That is important, because they will be ignored when they report their daughters missing.

The women came to a town where they believed they’d be working at a factory. They all had to submit to a medical exam when they arrived. Then all the women recommended by the doctor – the prettiest ones, who still had their hymens – were shuffled off to a separate dormitory. Last night, they were rounded up at gunpoint and hustled into a truck. The uglier women had no idea how lucky they were.

He glances at the other women, who are cringing and crying. This blonde bitch is setting a bad example. He can’t let them get the idea that they can defy him. He needs them terrified. Compliant.

It’s worth sacrificing one to frighten the others into submission. It will make the others more appealing to the buyers.

And it will be so much fun.

He twists his hand in her hair until she screams in pain, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “You know what happens to women who try to give me crap? Let me show you, while your friends watch. I know you’re a virgin. And your first fuck is going to be your last, because right after I take you, I’m going to end you.” He starts to drag her away from the group so he can throw her down on the ground and stab her tender hymen with his dick.

And still she refuses to beg, or even speak. She’ll be begging soon enough, when he knocks her teeth down her throat and she’s choking on her own blood. He’s stiff just picturing it.

Today is a good day.

Except it isn’t.

One of his men is on his walkie talkie, and his expression is panicked. He must be talking to the lookout.

“What is it?” Cataha yells angrily.

“The police are coming!” the man shouts back.

All four of them run for their truck, leaving him behind with the women.

“What the fuck?” he roars.

Fury chokes him. Not again. Not again!

The local cops have all been bribed. This must be Politsiya. Federal police. How? How do they keep finding his operation?

It’s that journalist, the one who writes for Reforma. Somehow, the wretched bastard keeps tipping off the police. Cataha has been shut down repeatedly this year. Brothels raided, women rescued and blabbing, his men arrested. Every time he starts to get ahead, he’s knocked back down again.

Screaming with rage, he pulls out his gun and points it at the defiant blonde whore’s stomach. Just as he pulls the trigger, someone strikes him on the head from behind with what feels like a rock, so hard that he jerks the gun and misses the spine and vital organs, just catching the side of the blonde’s midriff. The rest of the bullets spray uselessly into the grass.

The blonde goes down with a cry of pain, doubling over and wailing.

The woman behind him bashes him twice more with the rock, shrieking like an Amazon. His head is exploding with pain and the pistol falls from his hand into the dirt. He falls to his knees and scrabbles after it, and the vile bitch kicks it hard, sending it flying into the underbrush. She’s as strong as hell. Stupid peasant bitch. Then she kicks him in the head with all her might, and he vomits into the dirt.

Her hands were free, her feet were free…

So his useless men did such a shit job tying up the women that at least one of them was able to get free to grab that rock. He needs his fucking gun! He would have mowed down every last one of those bitches and made sure they didn’t talk, but now he’ll be lucky if he escapes with his freedom.

When he finds his men, he will open them up with a dull knife and unspool their intestines inch by inch.

He can hear sirens now.

He wants to kill every single woman there, but he has no time for revenge. He doesn’t even have time to go after the pistol. He runs for his car, vomiting uncontrollably, blood streaming down the back of his head.

He flees, knowing that the disrespectful bitch he shot probably won’t even die. The thought infuriates him. He hopes that someday he’ll be able to track her down and finish the job.

But now, even as he’s tearing down the road, tires spewing up clouds of dirt, he’s planning how to deal with that journalist. He’s just lost a huge amount of money, and the good will of his prospective buyers. He can’t risk pulling together another shipment until he knows he’s plugged the leaks.

Cataha will live up to his name. He’ll drag that reporter straight to hell.