Mission Critical

Court shook his head. “Nobody’s coming for you, except to retrieve your body when the smell gives it away.”

Belyakov’s eyes snapped back to Court. “I can make you a very rich—”

Court cut him off. “Asshole, you know how many dead bodies have said that to me ten seconds before they became dead bodies?”

The Russian had no response to this other than a look of dread.

“Now,” Court continued, “as things stand, you are dead. I have no intention of letting you walk out of here with your life.”

“What have I done to you?”

“I’m a psychopathic killer, Vlad. I don’t need a reason to stick this knife in your neck. I am, however, open to negotiation. I only need a little information from you and, if you give it to me, I won’t kill you. If you delay in giving it to me, then I’ll hurt you.” Court leaned forward. “You do believe I am capable of hurting you, do you not?”

Belyakov nodded slightly. “I saw what you did back there. I know you are capable of anything.”

“Good. Now. First question. Where is Zoya?”

“Who?” Belyakov asked, giving a reasonable performance.

“And we started off so well,” Court said. He lifted the knife, slid it up the inner thigh of the horrified man, and placed it with the tip on Belyakov’s genitals. “Here’s where the hurting will start.”

“Nyet! Please!”

“Zakharov’s daughter. You told Cassidy he took her. Where did he take her?”

Belyakov’s eyes remained locked on the steel blade between his legs. “I . . . I don’t know what he’s doing. Where he’s gone. He doesn’t tell me things.”

“You might be filthy rich, but that lie just cost you one of your most prized jewels.”

Court made as to thrust the blade into Belyakov, but the Russian screamed. “Nyet! No! No! Okay!”

The knife was retracted a few inches. “You have five seconds.”

“Look, sir. Whoever you are working for, I can, I can buy you off that job and—”

Court pushed the knife forward, into the crotch of Belyakov’s trousers, and then he made a quick cut through the fabric. Belyakov’s manhood, covered by black silk boxers, fell out of the hole. He’d not been cut, and neither had his boxers, but now he was even more exposed to the knife.

Court looked down, then back up at Belyakov. “I really don’t wanna see your junk, dude. I don’t wanna cut it off, either. That’s nasty for a bunch of reasons. Just tell me where Zakharov is, and you spare us both a really lousy afternoon.”

“I don’t know where he is, I swear it.”

Court sighed, then shrugged. “Here we go.” The knife tip pressed against Belyakov’s balls.

“But I know who he’s with!”

Again, the knife was retracted a few inches. “Who?”

“Artyom Primakov.”

“Means nothing to me.”

“Goes by the name Roger Fox. He looks and talks like a proper Englishman, but he’s from the Bratva. He’s a Vor. He and Feo are working together. Outside London right now, I do know that much.”

“That’s not going to help me—”

“Two hours ago Fox called me and told me one of his helicopters is grounded for repairs. He asked to use one of mine based in London at Battersea Heliport. I am sure they are in the air by now, but I can give you the tail number. Maybe you can find it.”

Court just looked at him with eyes filled with malevolence. This wasn’t enough.

Belyakov recognized this, then said, “I can contact someone, find out where the helicopter is now. It’s run by a corporation in Wales; they’ll be able to track it.”

Court nodded slowly. “That would be nice, Vlad. I appreciate it. You just bought your nutsack another ten seconds. Now, who were those gunmen back there at the club? Why did they try to kill you?”

“They were Solntsevskaya assassins. They weren’t there to kill me. I haven’t crossed the Bratva. They were there to kill Cassidy for losing a list with their names and account information on it. But those gunmen are just poorly trained animals; they would have killed everything on that street to get to Cassidy.”

Court said, “Zakharov . . . is he the mastermind?”

“What? What does that mean?”

“He’s working with London organized crime to promote Kremlin interests?”

Belyakov’s face gave nothing away. “That’s absurd. Where did you hear—”

“Chernny Volk. Is Feodor Zakharov the Black Wolf?”

Belyakov gazed down again at the knife, a look of utter defeat on his face. Eventually he said, “Da.”

Court responded with, “I need to know what he looks like now.”

Belyakov shook his head. “He doesn’t allow himself to be photographed. You’ll find him in person before you find a picture of him.”

This wasn’t what Court wanted to hear, but still he untied Belyakov’s hands and handed him a burner phone. He ordered the Russian to find the location of the loaned-out helicopter. It took him less than ten minutes to do so. Immediately Court retied the bindings.

“It flew to Edinburgh. Just arrived.”

“Why would Zakharov be going to Scotland?”

“I . . . I have no idea. He owns businesses . . . Perhaps he—”

“Under what name?”

“Name?”

“He doesn’t walk around doing business in London calling himself General Feodor Zakharov. What’s his alias?”

Belyakov looked even more defeated now. “I . . . I don’t know.” He didn’t even try to sell this lie to the man with the knife.

“Bullshit. Sorry, Ivan, after all that info, you’re still gonna lose a nut.” The knife went down between the Russian’s legs; Court pulled the tip of the blade up and slit the boxers wide open. He pressed in farther, then flicked the tip of the blade up an inch.

Belyakov screamed.

Court didn’t think he’d done much more than break the skin with the knife, but he also didn’t want to look at the man’s exposed balls to check.

Belyakov was totally his now. The man shouted, “Mars! David Mars!”

“David Mars,” Court repeated. His name was on the list from Cassidy’s vault. He asked, “And what is he planning, Vlad?”